Husband For Real

“There’s a snag,” said James in a tone that quickened her pulse. “Now I’ve seen you again it doesn’t feel like a long time ago.”

“Nevertheless,” Rose said woodenly, “it is.” It was impossible to behave or sound natural when the mere touch of James Sinclair’s hand on hers was rousing feelings she had never experienced in the most passionate of lovemaking with anyone else. And James knew it, she realized, as she met the blaze of triumph in his eyes.

“Rose.” He smiled slowly, and brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Surely a kiss goodbye is permissible in the circumstances?” He drew her resisting body into his arms and kissed her, taking his time over it, the shape and taste and touch of his lips so frighteningly familiar she had no defense against the hot, consuming pleasure of the kiss.

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years of living in Brazil, but on her husband’s later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antique shops.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN a crimson envelope arrived among the morning post she was amused at first. But her smile faded when she took out an unsigned Valentine card painted with a single red rose. Frowning, she examined the typed envelope, but the postmark was so illegible it gave no clue to the sender’s identity.

Rose stood lost in thought for a moment or two, then took her usual stack of mail into the small office at the back of the bookshop and propped the card up conspicuously as something to joke about. Which it had to be. She dismissed it with a shrug, switched on lights, computer and point of sale, chose some Schubert for background music and unlocked the door, ready for the first customers of the day.

As usual these were mostly mothers straight from the school run, needing books for their young. For the first half-hour Rose was kept busy looking out the required titles, or ordering them for delivery next day, at the same time exchanging conversation and offering opinions on the newest craze in children’s stories or the latest paperback fiction. Interest in her customers, coupled with pleasant personal service, which came easy to Rose, were a necessary asset for a privately owned bookshop, even if in Chastlecombe only the supermarket and the various newsagents offered anything by way of competition.

When Rose’s friend arrived for her part-time stint at the shop she crowed with laughter when she spotted the card.

‘Lucky old you! I’m envious, boss. My beloved isn’t the sentimental kind.’ Bel Cummings’s eyes sparkled as she made the fresh pot of coffee they tried to share before she started. ‘I suppose it’s from Anthony. Though I would have expected something more impressive—’

‘In the unimaginable event of his sending me one at all at his age,’ Rose finished for her.

Bel smiled in full agreement. ‘So who’s the secret lover, then?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Then it must be Anthony,’ said her friend, disappointed. ‘Get the thumbscrews out and make him confess over dinner. You are seeing him this weekend?’

‘Yes, but tonight for a change. He’s tied up with Marcus tomorrow.’ Rose finished her coffee quickly. ‘Right. I’d better get on with this lot before the day’s book consignment arrives.’

After Bel went off to greet a customer Rose began to sort out bills and invoices from the usual heap of junk-mail, feeling out of sorts as she worked. And, though the anonymous card was mostly to blame, some of her mood was reluctance to break her routine. She preferred Friday nights on her own. After an hour or so’s paperwork she liked to linger in the bath, eat something easy on a tray in front of her television and get to bed early with one of the latest additions to stock. But this weekend Anthony’s teenage son would be home alone. Marcus had stayed in Chastlecombe with his mother after the divorce. And because Liz Garrett was spending this weekend away, her ex-husband, determined to keep his son happy at all costs, would devote Saturday as well as his usual Sunday to him.

Rose liked Marcus well enough, and from the little she knew of him didn’t think he actively resented her. It surprised her that a young teenager preferred his father’s company to going out with friends, but she was perfectly happy for Anthony to spend Saturday night with his son. Tonight, too, if she were honest. Her week had been gratifyingly busy, and by the time she finished work she wouldn’t feel like dressing up and dining out. Her original offer of supper for two upstairs in her flat—a first in their relationship—had been turned down in favour of a table at Chastlecombe’s most fashionable restaurant.