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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips
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to be identified as the author of this work.
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © December 2013
ISBN: 9780007536375
Version 2014-09-30
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
âA suite if you have it, but Iâll take anything.â
Tom Henley wrestled his credit card from his wallet. He might have had his plans thwarted by the bonkers British weather, which for some insane reason had decided to dump a shedload of snow over the entire country in late December, putting it bang on track for the first white Christmas in years, but that didnât mean he had to take it lying down.
âOdds on for a white Christmas,â the receptionist said, giving him a wink.
He stared at her beaming smile across the marble counter.
âAnd that would be a good thing becauseâ¦?â
When youâd spent Christmas in Barbados every year for pretty much your entire life, snow was not something to be excited about. On the contrary, it was a complication. Christmas to him meant sunshine and white sandy beaches and swimming in the calm Caribbean sea. And family of course. Letâs not forget that. This year, family responsibility would feature more than ever before. He pressed his thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose. The day had been on a steady nosedive since heâd attempted check in at Gatwick five hours ago only to be told that the entire place was at a standstill because of âthe wrong sort of snow.â Faced with the prospect of sleeping rough in the airport concourse, there was no way he was about to see it as a great adventure. A quick change of plan and now he was checking into the Lavington Hotel, his place to stay of choice whenever he came to London. Crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas, marble floors and freshly brewed coffee. Just what he needed after hours of airport tannoys, irritable crowds and fast food outlets. The relaxed luxury and familiarity of the place soothed him.
Or would do, if everyone would stop with the excitement over the UKâs inability to cope with a bit of frozen water.
The receptionistâs smile faltered.
âItâs romantic, isnât it? Doesnât everyone always dream of a white Christmas? Itâs only a week away, Iâm sure weâll hang onto the snow long enough for that. And itâs really not that bad in London. The North has got the worst of it.â
Hang on to the snow? Oh just bloody great.
âI donât dream of a white Christmas,â he snapped. âIâve got commitments.â
âWork, is it?â Her tone had an edge of frost now that perfectly matched the weather.
âWork and family,â he snapped. The two things were going to be inseparable for him, more now than ever. âThe airport was at a standstill. It might not be too bad in London but apparently itâs the wrong sort of snow. Whatever the hell that means. And thereâs some kind of issue with fog and visibility. In twelve hours Iâm meant to be holding a glass of eggnog at the yearly family reunion and instead Iâm stuck here for the foreseeable.â
Not that he had any particular sense of excitement about going. Anything lost its charm when youâd done it twenty-eight times. But of course the Christmas trip had nothing to do with his own excitement or his idea of what might constitute R and R. It was about duty and responsibility; had been for years now. And in his world those were things that werenât to be messed with.