‘Close your eyes for me,’ she whispered, her voice seductively low and filled with emotion. ‘Can you still see me?’
He had to clear his throat to speak. ‘I can always see you. I told you that once before.’
Since he’d met her, she was all he could see—in the daylight, when he couldn’t stop looking at her, and when he was in the darkness, whether awake or on the fringes of sleep. She was all he saw.
He lifted one of her hands and set it flat against his chest, covering it with his own. ‘I see you with this. Your hair is a really deep chestnut, and it does this sexy, curly thing all around your face. Your eyes remind me of autumn. And you’re smiling that way that makes it look like you’re lit up from inside. I see you.’
Trish Wylie tried various careers before eventually fulfilling her dream of writing. Years spent working in the music industry, in promotions, and teaching little kids about ponies gave her plenty of opportunity to study life and the people around her. Which, in Trish’s opinion, is a pretty good study course for writing! Living in Ireland, Trish balances her time between writing and horses. If you get to spend your days doing things you love, then she thinks that’s not doing too badly. You can contact Trish at www.trishwylie.com
Praise for Trish Wylie…
‘Trish Wylie’s BRIDE OF THE EMERALD ISLE
is charming, witty, and has a beautiful, unusual setting.
It also has fantastic characters—particularly the
wounded but wonderful Garrett.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Trish also writes for Modern Heat™…
‘WHITE-HOT is absolutely wonderful!
Trish Wylie’s spellbinding tale will tickle your funny
bone and tug at your heartstrings. Featuring characters
which leap off the pages, realistic dialogue, sweet
romance, sizzling sex scenes, electrifying sexual
tension and dramatic emotional intensity,
WHITE-HOT! is feel-good romance at its finest!’
—Cataromance.com
Dear Reader
A good friend of mine reminded me of something important this year—to be grateful for the good stuff when it’s here. How many of us dedicate the same amount of time to appreciating the good things as we do focussing on the bad? Maybe it’s because the bad can be so very overwhelming, and over the years life simply wears us down. Yet it’s the good stuff that makes the difference, don’t you think?
We need to laugh as often as possible, take a deep breath of air to remind us we’re alive, look around us and see the beauty in things, spend time doing what makes us happy. Most of all we need never to get so old or so jaded that we stop dreaming or believing in moments of magic.
One of the things I love the absolute most about writing and reading romance is the fact it shows we all still believe in love in the twenty-first century. We may have busier lives, might be more cynical, but people still reach out for love in all its forms: in friends, in family, in a man and a woman who can make it through the rough times because life is richer together than it is apart. That’s a little bit of magic right there.
So if there’s one thing you bring with you out of Ronan and Kerry’s story I hope it’s a little reminder to make the most of the good stuff and any moment of magic that comes your way. Grab hold of it, celebrate it, savour it, and that way even in times of darkness you’ll still be able to see the light. Just like Ronan will with Kerry by his side.
Hs & Ks
Trish
THE MILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSAL
BY
TRISH WYLIE
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
KERRY DOYLE liked to consider herself a fairly patient woman. After all, she’d waited years to make her dream trip; researched, planned, scheduled everything to the nth degree. But if the man in the seat next to her poked her with his elbow one more time she thought she just might scream. She’d specifically allowed extra money for better seats on the longer flights for the added personal space that came with them. And it was a seven-hour flight from Dublin to New York—including the change at Shannon—one that was going to feel like twice that in the longer leg they were currently on if he didn’t quit it soon.
And he’d shown so much promise in the ‘scenery’ department before he sat down too…
He poked her again, causing Kerry to let a sigh escape. It wasn’t much of a poke—none of them had been—but even so…
‘Sorry.’
It was a step in the right direction. ‘Maybe if you sat a little more to the left?’
He turned in his seat, smiling at her with the kind of smile that probably worked wonders with the majority of women no matter how much he irritated them first. ‘The stewardess already got me twice with the trolley. I’m not exactly built for these wee seats.’
All right, he had a point there. She hadn’t been able to help noticing him when he got on the plane, especially when towering over her to place his bag in the overhead compartment. And he wasn’t just scenic, he was tall—very tall. Not that she’d be able to guess accurately until she stood up and compared him to her own five seven, but if she had to hazard a guess she’d say he was well and truly over six feet tall. Add that to broad shoulders, a wide chest and muscled upper arms and even the fact that the rest of him seemed fairly lean wasn’t going to help him fit into the space the airline had allocated, was it?
So she’d allow him that. She’d even sympathize a little, inwardly. ‘No, you’re not—but I’m just getting a little concerned about attempting to take a drink later in the flight if you bump me at the wrong time.’
It might also affect her choice of what she asked the stewardess for—after all, coffee and tea left stains. And the wardrobe she had with her had to last a long time. As always with Kerry it came down to practicalities—it was just the way her mind worked.
She accompanied her words with a polite smile in an attempt not to make an adversary for the rest of the flight, and then found herself suddenly distracted from further coherent thought by the way he examined her face before he replied.
Nice eyes. In fact he had great eyes. A pale blue made even paler when framed with thick dark lashes, which in turn highlighted the dark pools of his irises. Then there were shards of darker blue and white threaded through the paler blue— as if an artist’s watercolour