Pardon My Body

Dear Reader,

Harlequin is celebrating its sixtieth anniversary in 2009 with an entire year’s worth of special programs showcasing the talent and variety that have made us the world’s leading romance publisher.

With this collection of vintage novels, we are thrilled to be able to journey with you to the roots of our success: six books that hark back to the very earliest days of our history, when the fare was decidedly adventurous, often mysterious and full of passion—1950s-style!

It is such fun to be able to present these works with their original text and cover art, which we hope both current readers and collectors of popular fiction will find entertaining.

Thank you for helping us to achieve and celebrate this milestone!

Warmly,

Donna Hayes,

Publisher and CEO

To millions of readers around the world, Harlequin and romance fiction are synonymous. With a publishing record of 120 titles a month in 29 languages in 107 international markets on 6 continents, there is no question of Harlequin’s success.

But like all good stories, Harlequin’s has had some twists and turns.

In 1949, Harlequin was founded in Winnipeg, Canada. In the beginning, the company published a wide range of books—including the likes of Agatha Christie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, James Hadley Chase and Somerset Maugham—all for the low price of twenty-five cents.

By the mid 1950s, Richard Bonnycastle was in complete control of the company, and at the urging of his wife—and chief editor—began publishing the romances of British firm Mills & Boon. The books sold so well that Harlequin eventually bought Mills & Boon outright in 1971.

In 1970, Harlequin expanded its distribution into the U.S. and contracted its first American author so that it could offer the first truly American romances. By 1980, that concept became a full-fledged series called Harlequin Superromance, the first romance line to originate outside the U.K.

The 1980s saw continued growth into global markets as well as the purchase of American publisher, Silhouette Books. By 1992, Harlequin dominated the genre, and ten years later was publishing more than half of all romances released in North America.

Now in our sixtieth anniversary year, Harlequin remains true to its history of being the romance publisher, while constantly creating innovative ways to deliver variety in what women want to read. And as we forge ahead into other types of fiction and nonfiction, we are always mindful of the hallmark of our success over the past six decades—guaranteed entertainment!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Douglas Stallard Enefer (aka Dale Bogard and Paul Denver) was born on July 10, 1906, in England. He made a living writing novels and scripts for television—and sometimes a combination of the two, including The Avengers, a spin-off book, based on the popular television series of the same name, and several novelizations featuring popular TV detective Frank Cannon. Enefer died in 1987.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I WAS DRIVING MORE OR LESS automatically and it was a little time before I realized that I’d crossed the state line into Connecticut. That lush Luce landscape wouldn’t be denied recognition for long, though. A thin moon slanted its light through the foliage which partly overhung the parkway, momentarily lighting up a flat, still stream as the Buick sped by. Another quarter-mile and I turned into the cutoff which would take me to the Golden Peacock Inn.

I’d been there once before, with Lucy Marling, who is just about the best sob writer the town had seen in a decade—but tonight I was celebrating my emancipation from newspapers, and I figured that I’d do it alone and unaided. I wanted a quiet evening to sort myself out, not another interminable session of shop talk, too much bourbon and the final problem of sidestepping Lucy’s bedroom. Not that I hate women, but…hell, put it down to blue blood on the distaff side or something. Just an old gripy sourpuss, that’s me. Anything you say.

I eased a size eleven tan brogue off the accelerator to take the last bend before the inn, my mind pleasantly anticipating the peculiar and particular aromatic savour of the Peacock’s admirable cuisine. Maybe a bit of cold consommé, a steak with mushrooms on the side…

I didn’t get any farther because it was at this point that I saw her. She was lying in the center of the roadway and, as far as I could judge from behind my headlights, was wearing a raincoat. I had about twenty-five yards in which to stop and it was dead easy because I wasn’t clocking a mile above forty. The hydraulics clawed the Buick down to a walk and I was pulling into the grass verge before I got on to it that this might be the old stick-up—with a dummy sprawled on the road as sucker bait. My back hair began to stand on end and in another second I’d have been slamming the accelerator pedal like a pug in a panic—but it was at this precise moment that the lady moved.