First Time Lucky?
Natalie Anderson
MILLS & BOON
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About the Author
About NATALIE ANDERSON
Natalie adores a happy ending—which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now, because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice, and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.
If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook.com/authornataliea, on Twitter @authornataliea, or at her website, www.natalie-anderson.com
Praise for Natalie Anderson
‘This wonderful tale is a terrific mix
of spark, sizzle and passion.’
—RT Book Reviews on Ruthless Boss, Royal Mistress
‘Sizzling chemistry in the boardroom and
well-developed characters make this a winner.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress
‘You can always rely on Natalie Anderson
to deliver a fun and feel-good read …
The Millionaire’s Mistletoe Mistress is another fabulous read by this amazing rising star …!’ —PHS reviews on The Millionaire’s Mistletoe Mistress
Also by Natalie Anderson
Nice Girls Finish Last
Dating and Other Dangers
The End of Faking It
Walk on the Wild Side
Unbuttoned by Her Maverick Boss*
Caught on Camera with the CEO*
To Love, Honour and Disobey
*Part of the Hot Under the Collar duet
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
For the University of Canterbury’s Student Volunteer Army—thanks for showing, in the most fantastic way, that the brightest lights on Christchurch’s horizon not only have brains and beauty, but also the most tremendous hearts. You’ve been such heroes, and you’ve proved how positive our city’s future will be.
CHAPTER ONE
DR GABE Hollingsworth glowered at the bumper sticker on the car in front; the streamlined silver silhouettes reminded him that tomorrow was recruitment day. Half his team would be there to check out the possible additions to the posse of alluring females. But while the players saw the dancers as fresh game, Gabe reckoned the women were the hunters, not the hunted, with their sparkling eyes, suggestive poses and PhDs in serious flirting. They might officially ‘support’ the country’s greatest rugby club, but they’d high-kicked more than one man’s life right into touch. Including his. So he’d be light years away from the stadium at audition hour tomorrow.
He took the next left, while the silver-stickered car went straight on out of sight. Relieved, Gabe automatically glanced at the property on the edge of the park. He’d been curious so long it had become a habit. So he saw it immediately—the rough bit of board with ‘To Let’ and a mobile number scrawled on it that hadn’t been there this morning. Gabe pulled over and put a hand to his pocket, let it drop again without retrieving his phone. He was right outside—there’d be no harm in walking to the front door and making enquiries in person, would there?
Assuming he could find the front door.
A decrepit garage stood on the edge of the footpath while the rest of the front boundary was marked by ferocious planting. He walked the length of the two-metre-high prickly ‘hedge’ of trees so intertwined you couldn’t see through their thick evergreen foliage, then he peered behind the sign precariously tacked in front of the rusted letterbox. He saw hidden there what could be a narrow goat track between the branches—make that a single-file ant track. He winced as gnarled twigs scratched his bare arms. Pushing through, he figured it was an abandoned wreck of a house, probably in the midst of some development argument with greenies on one side wanting it to be absorbed into the park, while property tycoons fought on the other for consent to demolish it and put some apartment or office block in its prime central-city location. But the spiky green fortification intrigued him and the idea of having a central-city hideaway appealed given the fatal attraction nightmare his last fling had become. No chance of some unhinged ex-lover carrying out a home invasion here—a high-maintenance type like Diana would never risk her skin and nails to get through. Hell, he could barely get through. But he ignored the scratches and catches at his clothing and hair; the resistance made him all the more determined to see what was beyond. He snapped branches and stomped over the rough ground and suddenly was out in open space, blinking in the brightness of the summer evening.
He straightened, forgetting the zillion stinging scrapes on his skin as he stared. It wasn’t an abandoned wreck at all.
Roxie only had the downstairs bathroom to do and the place was clean, empty and ready for occupation. She picked up the spray bottle of foul-smelling chemical disinfectant and straightened her sore shoulders. She was determined to get it finished tonight because the optimist in her hoped people might call about renting the house tomorrow. Flicking on the hot tap, she stepped right into the shower cubicle. Getting wet didn’t matter because as soon as she was done she’d head to her studio, have a real shower and flop into bed. She hunched down to get into the corners, pointing the jet of water ahead, and furiously wiped the walls. She’d spent most of the day cleaning, had practised her routines as rest breaks to stop herself dwelling on how different the place looked without furniture. It would never be the same now, but would always be home—her heart. This place was all she had left.
She snorted at herself and went overboard with the spray to stave off the OTT melancholic thoughts. The shower was hardly dirty—hadn’t been used in months—but she wanted it immaculate, for prospective tenants to see the perfect condition so they’d feel obligated to maintain it just so. Because, much as she didn’t want them, she needed tenants. Money of course, so she could finally get on with the rest of her life.
Her eyes burned as she scrubbed. Not from tears—they’d long since dried up. No, it was the pungent fumes of the industrial-strength