USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE discovered she loved romantic fiction at about the same time she discovered boys and sheâs been admiring both ever since. With this in mind, her first brilliant career plan involved marrying Paul Newman. As she was thirteen, Paul was pushing fifty and there was the small matter of Joanne Woodward, that didnât quite pan out. Brilliant career plan B involved a job as a film reviewer for a national newspaper, but one wonderful husband, two beautiful sons and a lot of really bad B-movies later and she was ready for a new brilliant career planâso she branched out into the wonderful world of romance writing. Her first novel was published in 2007 and she hasnât looked back since. She lives in London but loves to travel, particularly in the US, where she does a Thelma and Louise road trip every year with her best mate (although they always leave out the driving-off-a-cliff bit). And sheâs having so much fun, sheâs almost not sorry that first brilliant career plan didnât work out.
Heidi loves to hear from readersâyou can e-mail her at [email protected], or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com
âYOU canât do this. What if you get caught? He could have you arrested.â
Daisy Dean paused in the process of scoping out her neighbourâs ludicrously high garden wall and slanted her best friend, Juno, a long-suffering look.
âHe wonât catch me,â Daisy replied in the same hushed tones. âIâm practically invisible with all this gear on.â
She looked down at the clothes sheâd borrowed from her fellow tenants at the Bedsit Co-op next door. Goodness, she looked like Tinkerbell the Terminator decked out in fourteen-year-old Calâs sagging black Leviâs, his tiny mother Jacieâs navy blue polo neck and Junoâs two-sizes-too-small bovver boots.
Sheâd never been this invisible in her entire life. The one thing Daisy had inherited from her reckless and irresponsible mother was Lily Deanâs in-your-face dress sense. Daisy didnât do monotonesâand she didnât believe in hiding her light under a bushel.
She frowned. Except when she was on a mission to find her landladyâs missing cat.
âStop worrying, Juno, and give me the beanie.â She held out her hand and stared back up at the wall, which seemed to have grown several feet since sheâd last looked at it. âYouâll have to give me a boost.â
Juno groaned, slapping the black woollen cap into Daisyâs outstretched palm. âThis better not make me an accessory after the fact or something.â She bent over and looped her fingers together in a sling.
âDonât be silly.â Daisy shoved her curls under the cap and tugged it over her ears. âItâs not a crime. Not really.â
âOf course itâs a crime.â Juno straightened from her crouch, her round, pretty face looking like the good fairy in a strop. âItâs called trespassing.â
âThese are extenuating circumstances,â Daisy whispered as a picture of their landlady Mrs Valdermeyerâs distraught face popped into her mind. âMr Pootles has been missing for well over a fortnight. And our antisocial new neighbourâs the only one within a mile radius who hasnât had the decency to search his back garden.â She propped her hands on her hips. âMr Pootles could be starving to death and itâs up to us to rescue him.â
âMaybe he looked and didnât find anything?â Juno said, her voice rising in desperation.
âI doubt that. Believe me, heâs not the type to lose sleep over a missing cat.â
âHow do you know? Youâve never even met the guy,â Juno murmured, wedging the tiniest slither of doubt into Daisyâs crusading zeal.
âThatâs only because heâs been avoiding us,â Daisy pointed out, the slither dissolving.
Their mysterious new neighbour had bought the doublefronted Georgian wreck three months ago, and had managed to gut it and rehab it in record time. But despite all Daisyâs overtures since heâd moved in two weeks agoâthe note sheâd posted through his door and the message sheâd relayed to his cleaning ladyâheâd made no attempt to greet his neighbours at Mrs Valdermeyerâs Bedsit Co-operative. Or join the search for the missing Mr Pootles.
In fact heâd been downright rude. When sheâd dropped off a plate of her special home-made brownies the day before in a last ditch attempt to get his attention, he hadnât even returned the plate, let alone thanked her for them. Clearly the man was too rich and self-centred to have any time for the likes of themâor their problems.
And then there were his dark, striking good looks to be considered. âAll you have to do is look at him,â Daisy continued, âto see heâs a you-know-what-hole with a capital A.â