* * *
Tabby sucked in her tummy and studied the mirror. No, it was pointless: she was pregnant and there was no escaping that pregnant apple shape, no matter how well cut her maternity clothing was. With a wry smile at the foolishness of her vanity, Tabby went downstairs to check the last-minute arrangements for Amber’s fourth birthday party.
The party was a catered affair, everything set up to entertain a whole posse of Amber’s nursery-school friends. There was a bouncy castle in the garden of their London town house, purchased after the birth of their first child, Andreus, who was already a rumbustious noisy toddler. Closely pursued by his nanny, Teresa, who had become as much a part of the family as the children, Andreus hurtled across the hall to throw his arms up to be lifted by his mother.
Tabby tried not to wince at the weight of her son, but, at eight months along in her second pregnancy, lifting a child who was already outstripping his peers in size was becoming quite a challenge. He hugged her tight, black curls like his father’s silky against her throat, her own big blue eyes bright in his little smiling face. Sometimes, Tabby was still afraid that if she blinked her happy family life would disappear and she would discover she had been trapped in an inordinately convincing and wonderful daydream. And then she would look at Acheron and the children and she would be soothed by the closeness of their bonds.
Admittedly she would never have picked Acheron out as a keen father figure when she first met him, but exposure to Amber’s charms had soon raised a desire in Acheron to have a child of his own. By the time the legalities of Amber’s adoption had been settled and she had officially become their daughter, Tabby had been expecting Andreus. The little girl whom Tabby was currently carrying had been more of an accidental conception, thanks to a little spur-of-the-moment lovemaking on the beach in Sardinia where they had first found love, and which of all Acheron’s properties they visited the most, although they had quickly extended the house to add on more bedroom capacity.
His father’s widow, Ianthe, and her two surviving children had stayed with them there to attend Kasma’s funeral. It had been a sad and sobering occasion but it had also done much to build a bridge between Ash and his father’s former family. Ianthe had admitted to having been seriously worried about her daughter’s mental health but Ash’s late father, Angelos, had refused to face up to that reality. Kasma’s brother, Simeon, and his family also had young children and the two couples had become close friends since that last sad encounter.
The front door opened and Andreus scrambled down from his mother’s arms to hurl himself violently at Acheron, shouting, ‘Dad!’ at the top of his voice.
Tabby watched Acheron scoop his son up, and a warm smile curved her generous mouth because she never loved Acheron more than when she saw him with the children. He was kind, affectionate and patient, all the things that they had both so badly lacked when they were kids themselves. ‘I thought you wouldn’t make it back in time.’
‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ Acheron enquired.
Amber came racing downstairs, a vivid little figure clad in a flouncy new party dress, and flung herself at her father with very little more circumspection than her toddler brother. ‘You’re here!’ she carolled. ‘You’re here for my party.’
‘Of course, I am,’ Acheron said in the act of producing a present from behind his back, only to laugh as the housekeeper opened the door to let Amber’s best friend and her mother enter and the two little girls went running off together. ‘So much for being flavour of the month there!’ he teased.
‘But you’re always my favourite flavour,’ Tabby rushed to assure him in an undertone before she went to greet the arriving guests.
Acheron watched her acting hostess with quiet admiration. His Tabby, the best and luckiest find he had ever made, always warm, sunny and bright and still the most loving creature he had ever met. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that he loved her more with every passing year.
* * * * *
Jennie Lucas
JENNIE LUCAS grew up dreaming about faraway lands. At fifteen, hungry for experience beyond the borders of her small Idaho city, she went to a Connecticut boarding school on scholarship. She took her first solo trip to Europe at sixteen, then put off college and travelled around the U.S., supporting herself with jobs as diverse as gas station cashier and newspaper advertising assistant.
At 22, she met the man who would be her husband. After their marriage, she graduated from Kent State with a degree in English. Seven years after she started writing, she got the magical call from London that turned her into a published author.
Since then life has been hectic, with a new writing career, a sexy husband and two small children, but she’s having a wonderful (albeit sleepless) time. She loves immersing herself in dramatic, glamorous, passionate stories. Maybe she can’t physically travel to Morocco or Spain right now, but for a few hours a day, while her children are sleeping, she can be there in her books.
Jennie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her website at www.jennielucas.com, or drop her a note [email protected].
To my wonderful agent, Jennifer Schober, with gratitude.
IT WAS a fairy tale come true.
Three months ago, Rose Linden had been struggling to pay her bills. Today, she no longer worked two jobs in San Francisco, scraping frozen rain off the window of the broken-down car she jump-started each night. As of an hour ago, she’d become a baroness, with the world at her manicured fingertips.
And Lars Växborg was her husband.
Rose glanced at her new husband across the enormous gilded ballroom of his castle in northern Sweden. The slender, blond baron looked sleek in his tuxedo, sipping champagne as he was deep in discussion with several young women.
She was his wife now. She should have been ecstatic. And yet, staring at Lars across the room, she suddenly found she couldn’t breathe.
“Very fancy wedding, Baroness,” her father teased, then frowned. “But why are you so skinny these days, peanut? You been sick or something?”
Her mother elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s her wedding day,” she hissed. “Rose looks beautiful!”
He looked her up and down accusingly. “She’s skin and bone!”
Her mother patted her own full cheeks. “I dieted before my wedding to you, Albert. But of course—” she sighed “—that was five children ago. For heaven’s sake, let Rose enjoy being thin, because it won’t last!”
But Rose didn’t laugh, as she normally would have while being teased by her large, loving family. Nor did she tell them that she hadn’t lost weight on purpose. She just never felt like she could relax around Lars, even though—or perhaps because—he constantly assured her she was perfect in every way.
She’d told herself it was wedding day jitters, but though she’d already spoken her vows she was still feeling queasier by the minute. Was it because she hadn’t eaten since yesterday? Or because the corset boning of the bodice of her wedding gown was laced too tightly, causing her breasts to spill over the top?
She should have felt