Bad boys are her weakness...
Is he too magnetic to resist?
Storming into psychologist Holly Scott-Leigh’s life, bad boy billionaire Noah Moore is so hot he leaves Holly breathless with just a glance. He’s her potential client and she’s never crossed that line before. But delicious Noah tempts her to sin... This festive season, from his hip London loft to a luxurious Paris hotel, Noah will show Holly how good it feels to be on the naughty list!
CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia amongst a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a sure-fire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boons continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.
The Season to Sin
Clare Connelly
ISBN: 978-1-474-07150-5
THE SEASON TO SIN
© 2018 Clare Connelly
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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To the Romance Writers of Australia:
the best group of creative, talented and supportive
writers in the whole wide world.
I’m so glad to be a part of the tribe.
Contents
I DREAMED OF her again last night. Of how she’d been on that last morning, her pale face blotchy from tears, her eyes holding apologies and lies, begging me to forgive her.
How could I, though?
She was leaving me. Just like everyone else.
I dreamed of my foster mother Julianne, and the dream was so real that in it I was able to reach out and hug her, to fall into her hug, to smile at her. To pull back through time and space and change the way the day had actually unfolded—to undo the way I had shouted at her and shoved her when she’d tried to draw me close.
In my dream I didn’t swear at her.
In my dream I didn’t refuse to go near.
It was just a dream, though: