Praise for Susan Stephens
âStephensâ terrific story shows how love can be transforming. The marvellous hero looks beyond the surface and frees the heroine to open up about her biggest fears.â
âRT Book Reviews on Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim
âEffortless chemistry and vulnerable characters make this novel a pleasure to read.â
âRT Book Reviews on Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress
âThe hero literally and figuratively lives in the dark until the headstrong heroine forces him into the light to face his demons. This touching and emotional romance will have readers believing in happily ever after.â
âRT Book Reviews on The Ruthless Billionaireâs Mistress
âHilarious, romantic and irresistible, Housekeeper at his Beck and Call is another keeper by a writer who just keeps on getting better and better!â âwww.cataromance.com on Housekeeper at his Beck and Call
About Susan Stephens
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern⢠Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an afterdinner auction. One of the lots, âSpend a Day with an Author', had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susanâs husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends, and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside.
Visit Susanâs website: www.susanstephens.netâshe loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
âDAWN.and in front of us the idyllic English country scene. Smell that grass. Look at that thin stream of sunlight driving night-shadows down the velvet hillsââ
How long did he have to stay here?
With an exasperated roar, Heath flipped channels, silencing the farming programme. All heâd smelled so far was cow dung. And it was raining.
Resting his chin on one arm, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Lamborghini roared drowning out the bird-song. Perfect. He missed the concrete jungleâno smells, no mud, no cranky plumbing. Why Uncle Harry had left him a run-down country estate remained a mystery. Heath was allergic to the countryâto anything that didnât come with dot-com attached. His empire had been built in a bedroom. What did he need all this for?
And it was only after asking himself that question that he spotted the tent someone had erected on a mossy bank just inside the gates ⦠spotted the small pink feet sticking out of the entrance. Forget hating the place. He felt proprietorial suddenly. What would he do if someone pitched a tent outside the front door of his London home?
Stopping the car, he climbed out. Striding up to the tent, he unzipped it.
A yelp of surprise ripped through the steady drum of falling rain. Standing back, he folded his arms, waiting for developments. He didnât have long to wait. A strident pixie crawled out, screaming at him that it was the middle of the night as she sprang to her feet. Red hair flying, she stood like an irate stick insect telling him what she thought of him in language as colourful as the clothes she was frantically tugging onâa camouflage top, and shot-off purple leggings that displayed her tiny feet. One furious glance at his car and he was responsible for everything from frightening the local wildlife to global warming, apparently, until finally, having got over the shock of being so rudely awakened, she gulped, took a breath, and exclaimed, âHeath Stampâ¦â Clapping a hand to her chest, she stared at him as if she couldnât believe her eyes.
âBronte Foster-Jenkins,â he murmured, taking her in.
âIâve been expecting youââ
âSo I see,â he said, glancing at the tent.
Expecting Heath to arrive? Yes, but not her reaction to it. He wasnât supposed to arrive at dawn, either. Around midday, the postmistress in the village had suggested. Heath Stamp, hip, slick, rugged, tough, and even better looking than his most recent images in the press suggested. This was a vastly improved version of someone sheâd dreamed about for thirteen years, two months, six hours, andâ