It’s that time of year again!
And what better way to celebrate the love of the Season than a love story between a heroine who has been deeply hurt by the past and a hero who realises she’s the only present he wants under his Christmas tree? Throw a gorgeously endearing little boy and an endearing puppy into the mix, and you have the recipe for a perfect Christmas.
A Happy and Perfect Christmas to you all!
Carole Mortimer
CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978 and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Mills & Boon®. Carole has six sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’
On the Secretary’s Christmas List
Carole Mortimer
MILLS & BOON
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To everyone who loves Christmas—
and puppies—as much as I do!
Table of Contents
‘OUR appointment was for this afternoon, Roger. Not tomorrow, not next week, but today!’
Bree looked up in alarm the moment her employer entered her office, growling into his mobile phone. Wincing, she realised he had to be talking to his two o’clock appointment today, Roger Tyler, a rock star who had become a legend in his own lifetime.
‘I don’t give a—’
Jerome Jackson Beaumont broke off mid-sentence, checking himself as he realised Bree was an unwilling listener.
‘I don’t give a—a flying monkey what’s “come up”, Roger. You asked—no, begged me to do the photo shoot for your next album, so you either get yourself over here this afternoon or forget the whole damn thing!’ He listened to the other man’s response for about two seconds before interrupting him. ‘You have five minutes, Roger, to cancel your date this afternoon with whatever bimbo has caught your attention this time, before ringing me back to say you’ll be here at two this afternoon after all!’
He flipped the mobile phone across the desk to Bree who, after almost a year of practice, caught it neatly in the palm of her hand, checking that Jackson had indeed ended the call—something he had a habit of forgetting to do, often exposing the unfortunate caller to the expletive-filled aftermath, before giving him a reproving glance.
She remembered when she’d first met him. ‘Just call me Jackson,’ he had ordered Bree when she’d come to work for him a year ago. ‘Not Jerome, never, ever Beau or Mr Beaumont, but Jackson.’
‘I really wish you would let me deal with all the incoming calls.’ She had unfortunately missed this particular call because of a two-minute visit to the bathroom!
Jackson gave an unrepentant grin as he leaned against the side of her desk. ‘I can’t imagine why!’
And really neither could Bree; this man seemed to be able to insult people, be rude to them, even totally ignore them and still they came back for more!
Because he was Jerome Jackson Beaumont, world-renowned photographer, whose work hung on the walls of royal palaces as well as in galleries all over the world. What was a little rudeness, the odd insult, a snub or two, when in the end you could own an original Jerome Jackson Beaumont?
The way he looked didn’t do him any harm either—especially where women were concerned. Six feet two inches of lean, tanned muscle, emphasised by the fitted T-shirts and denims he habitually wore—a blue T-shirt today, and black jeans—with eyes as clear and blue as the sky on a cloudless summer’s day, strong, high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, and a mouth that was so wickedly sensual it should have a warning label