‘Oh, yes, I will,’ she cried. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you. Now that I can finally say it, I feel so free. And so very, very happy. I don’t deserve to be this happy.’
‘Yes, you do.’ He lifted his hand and lightly traced the arch of her brow, the line of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the curve of her chin. Then he took her face in his hands and looked down at her.
‘I’ve many beautiful pictures at home in England,’ he said, his voice full of wonder, ‘and I’ve many beautiful pictures here, but nothing comes close to how beautiful you are to me. You’re a picture that I’ll never tire of looking at, and I shall be the luckiest person alive if I’m able to do so every day for the rest of my life.’
A low sigh of sheer bliss escaped her, and she raised herself on her toes, brought her lips to his and silenced him.
The End
About the Author
Liz was born in London and now lives in South Oxfordshire with her husband. After graduating from university with a Law degree, she moved to California where she led a varied life, trying her hand at everything from cocktail waitressing on Sunset Strip to working as a secretary to the CEO of a large Japanese trading company, not to mention a stint as ‘resident starlet’ at MGM. On returning to England, Liz completed a degree in English and taught for a number of years before developing her writing career.
Liz has written several short stories, articles for local newspapers and a novella. She is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. The Road Back, her debut novel, won a 2012 Book of the Year Award from Coffee Time Romance & More.
For more information visit www.lizharrisauthor.com and you can follow Liz on twitter @lizharrisauthor
More Choc Lit
From Liz Harris
The Road Back
Winner of the 2012 Book of the Year Award from Coffee Time Romance & More
When Patricia accompanies her father, Major George Carstairs, on a trip to Ladakh, north of the Himalayas, in the early 1960s, she sees it as a chance to finally win his love. What she could never have foreseen is meeting Kalden – a local man destined by circumstances beyond his control to be a monk, but fated to be the love of her life.
Despite her father’s fury, the lovers are determined to be together, but can their forbidden love survive?
‘A splendid love story so beautifully told.’ Colin Dexter, O.B.E. Bestselling author of the Inspector Morse series.
Find out more and purchase in the kindle store:
UK here
US here
A Bargain Struck
“Liz Harris’s vivid portrayal of 1880s mid-west America as a place ruled by the elements where neighbourly trust is essential to survival, is another sure hit to add to the burgeoning canon of Choc Lit’s highly readable popular fiction.
Kathy Stevenson, Daily Mail newspaper, August 2013.
Does a good deal make a marriage?
Widower Connor Maguire advertises for a wife to raise his young daughter, Bridget, work the homestead and bear him a son.
Ellen O’Sullivan longs for a home, a husband and a family. On paper, she is everything Connor needs in a wife. However, it soon becomes clear that Ellen has not been entirely truthful.
Will Connor be able to overlook Ellen’s dishonesty and keep to his side of the bargain? Or will Bridget’s resentment, the attentions of the beautiful Miss Quinn, and the arrival of an unwelcome visitor, combine to prevent the couple from starting anew?
As their personal feelings blur the boundaries of their deal, they begin to wonder if a bargain struck makes a marriage worth keeping.
Find out more and purchase in the kindle store:
UK here
US here
Evie Undercover
When libel lawyer, Tom Hadleigh acquires a perfect holiday home - a 14th century house that needs restoring, there’s a slight problem. The house is located in the beautiful Umbria countryside and Tom can’t speak a word of Italian.
Enter Evie Shaw, masquerading as an agency temp but in reality the newest reporter for gossip magazine Pure Dirt. Unbeknown to Tom, Italian speaking Evie has been sent by her manipulative editor to write an exposé on him. And the stakes are high – Evie’s job rests on her success.
But the path for the investigative journalist is seldom smooth, and it certainly never is when the subject in hand is drop-dead gorgeous.
Find out more and purchase in the kindle store:
UK here:
US here:
Grand Designs
Linda Mitchelmore
A novella of approximately 93 pages.
Copyright © 2013 Linda Mitchelmore
Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choclitpublishing.com
The right of Linda Mitchelmore to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
ISBN-978-1-78189-149-0
This one’s for my cousin, David Haas, and his daughters, Susan and Sharon, with my love.
And in memory of my ‘butterfly’ brother, Keith, whose wings never opened so he didn’t get his moment in the sun.
Acknowledgements
The Choc Lit Team and my fellow Chocliteers are second to none for support and encouragement – thank you one and all.
My brother, Eric, and his wife, Sheila, prise me from my work-in-progress from time to time for long walks and even longer lunches, and remind me that there is life beyond the keyboard – thanks, you two.
Thanks to my son, James, for loaning me his name for this book … you’re the best.
My daughter, Sarah, is my ears at every social event I go to, and I couldn’t do it without her – thank you, my darling.
And a big thank you to the Exeter Chapter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association – life wouldn’t be the same without our monthly lunches.
And keeping the home fires burning, the larder stocked, and the linen bin empty, is my husband, Roger – thank you so much for everything.
Chapter One
‘Oh, my God! I’m going to be late! Please, please, James, keep going.’
Carrie knew it was ridiculous to give her car a name. All the way from Farchester her ancient Volkswagen Polo had coughed and spluttered, and she was sure it was only her cajoling words that had stopped it juddering to a complete halt.
The map – with the location of Oakenbury Hall ringed in bright pink felt-tip – was open at the right page on the seat beside her, and Carrie gave it a quick glance.
‘Come on, James, you can do it. If you get me there in one piece I won’t even think about selling you. Promise.’
An easy promise to keep, Carrie giggled to herself, because she couldn’t afford a new car anyway. So far, her commissions had been small – a sitting room here, a child’s bedroom there. A couple of dining rooms, and a summer house. And now – thanks to her friend, Genifer Bonnet, who was the owner’s PA – Oakenbury Hall.
Now what was it Genifer had told her about the owner of Oakenbury Hall? Morgan Harrington. Thirty-six. Unmarried, although he’d been engaged once, and the untangling of the engagement had been acrimonious; that much Genifer had told her although not the exact details.
‘Oh, James, I love you,’ Carrie said. She kissed her fingers and touched the dashboard. ‘Oakenbury Hall at last. Oh, my God, James – it’s
huge!’
Carrie changed down a gear, and steered her car through the open gates. Rather large and imposing gates, she had to say. They could do with a lick of paint too, but outside work wasn’t in her job brief. Still, it would be a shame to have a wonderful interior and yet have the outside looking so unloved. Maybe she’d suggest that at least the gates be painted. Goodness, gaining this commission was so important to her – professionally, financially, and most of all for her self-esteem. She just had to get it.
She drove on up the drive, gazing at the house.
‘I think, James,’ she whispered, ‘I might be falling in love, if it’s possible to fall in love with a house.’
A short central flight of steps led to a wide front door. There were three windows on either side, and another two floors above. The stone – the colour of runny honey – glowed. It was as though the house was inviting her in.
Putting on her bravest, most dazzling smile, she ran up the steps to the front porch. But before Carrie could ring the bell, the door was yanked open.
And standing before her was the most delicious man she had ever seen. Tall – a good foot taller than she was – with thick fair hair bleached by the sun, and with a tan that made his smooth skin glow with health. Green eyes with amber flecks in them regarded her with … what? Disbelief? Amusement? Pity? It was hard to read his expression. But he seemed to go with the house somehow – each complementing the other. Oh my God – why hadn’t Genifer told her the owner of Oakenbury Hall was this gorgeous?
Not that she was looking. Not after Aaron had left her, almost literally, at the altar.
‘Mr Harrington?’
‘Morgan. You’re late.’ He lifted his wrist nearer his eyes to check the time on his dazzlingly large watch, and Carrie was given the full benefit of his tanned, muscular forearm, where he’d rolled his blue and white shirtsleeves up above his elbows.
‘I know. I’m sorry Mr Morgan. It’s just my that car … was traffic, the … ’
‘Morgan is my Christian name. And you’re talking gobbledygook.’
Oh I know, Carrie thought, I know. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wasn’t usually at a loss for words – ones that ran coherently together anyway. Perhaps it was the surprise of such a wonderful house and now this handsome, if rather irritated, man.
‘Er, let me take that,’ he said, reaching towards Carrie for the things she was carrying. ‘We’ll dump it over here for the moment.’
Morgan Harrington smiled broadly then at Carrie, showing a perfect set of sparklingly white teeth, but that smile only stiffened Carrie’s resolve that she was not going to fall for his handsome face as she had fallen for Aaron’s – the rat. Inside he might be pure poison as Aaron had been.
But when his hands touched her arms as she slid her things towards him, Carrie almost stopped breathing with the shock of what that touch did to her. Static electricity: that was all it was, she told herself – she got much the same getting out of her car sometimes.
‘Do come in,’ he said.
Carrie stepped inside the hall. It was dark and dimly lit, and while she had imagined it might have smelled of beeswax or lavender, or that there might even have been a dog snoozing by the huge grate, there was nothing but an air of tiredness and sadness. And it was dry … as though there had been no life in the place for a long time.
‘A modern candelabra would be perfect instead of those small wall lights,’ Carrie said. ‘Coloured glass maybe. You can get really lovely-looking ones in department stores, quite cheaply.’
Oh God, no, she thought – I’ve got a case of verbal diarrhoea now! As if this man would do cheap!
‘Really?’
He raised an eyebrow and Carrie thought she saw the beginnings of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. Please, please, don’t smile at me, she thought, because she knew it would be a devastating smile and her knees would become more jelly-like than they already were.
‘Really,’ she said.
‘Good to know you have your finger on the pulse,’ Morgan said. ‘Keen to get on.’
‘Making up for being late,’ Carrie said, struggling to sound like a grown-up professional and not a hormone-filled fourteen-year-old. ‘It’s not how I normally do things.’
‘Good, good,’ Morgan said. He extended a hand towards Carrie. ‘Now we’ve dealt with that lot, we can do the handshake thing.’
‘Carrie Fraser,’ she said, as she placed her hand carefully in his.
‘I rather guessed you were,’ he said, the expression on his face telling her nothing. But his eyes – oh his eyes – were telling her something totally different because they were dancing with amusement. He was laughing at her, wasn’t he? He could see he had reduced her to mush, and with looks like his that was probably par for the course from women.
Morgan clasped his hand around Carrie’s fingers. His handshake was firm and dry and went on for longer than Carrie had expected. And he hadn’t let go yet.
And there was that tingly feeling again. Only stronger. It reminded her of the time she’d touched an electric fence on a walk in the country with her father. It was all she could do not to yank her hand away from Morgan’s.
But as politely as she could, she disentangled her fingers from his, taking control of the situation.
‘Drawing room,’ Morgan said, pushing open a large, heavy door that squeaked on its hinges.
‘Um,’ Carrie said. ‘This, um … interesting.’
Dark green wallpaper, patterned with ivy trails, had faded in places where the sun had got to it. The doors were such a dark wood they were almost black. In her mind’s eye, Carrie could see the doors stripped to show the beauty of the grain in the wood. Two couches – non-matching – and three differently styled chairs were dotted about the large room as though no one had cared where they were placed.
How could she tell him it was tatty beyond belief? She guessed that Morgan had become accustomed to it over the years and viewed it as normal. He’d probably been used to this room all his life. And his father and grandfather before him if the style of the wallpaper was anything to go by.
‘Ghastly, isn’t it?’ Morgan said.
He laughed then – a huge, rolling, chocolatey sort of laugh.
‘I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr Harrington.’
‘You weren’t. I know it’s horrible. But call me Morgan. Please.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Mr Harrington. I mean, if we’re to keep this on a professional footing …’
‘You were thinking of some other footing, Carrie?’
Again that flicker of amusement in his eyes.
And again, Carrie got that wishing-the-ground-would-swallow-her-up feeling.
‘You look,’ Morgan said, ‘as though you could do with a cup of coffee.’
Yes, some hot, strong, coffee was just what she needed to bring her to her senses.
‘Thank you,’ Carrie said, pleased to see the man had the manners to offer her a drink after driving all this way to see his house. ‘A cup of coffee would be lovely. Black. No sugar.’
‘Wow,’ Carrie said, as Morgan threw wide the door to the master bedroom. ‘This is bigger than I expected.’
And a lot brighter than the drawing room, thank goodness. There were unpainted, wooden shutters at the window, folded back so that light streamed into the room. The oak flooring was polished to a high sheen, either by the application of many feet walking on it over the years, or regular polish. A large Persian, rug covered about a third of the floor area – faded in places to a pleasing softness of tone. Oh yes, Carrie could do something with this room.
‘If you’re out of your depth with it, best say now,’ Morgan said.
‘I’m not out of my depth, Mr Harrington.’ Carrie looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, meeting his challenge. The coffee she’d drunk had done its work. She was back in control now and she would need to know his plans for the room.
‘Morgan, please,’ he said.
�
��I prefer Mr Harrington – it keeps things more business-like. Do you have any colour preferences for this room?’
‘Nothing too girlie – too pink.’ He strode across to the bed and ran a hand across the faded paisley-patterned eiderdown. Then he patted it and little swirls of dust rose up into the air.
He was standing, deathly still, staring into space, and Carrie was alarmed. Something bad had happened to this man, hadn’t it? She knew it. She’d stood staring into nothingness herself many a time after her father’s death, and then Aaron’s betrayal.
‘Mr Harrington? Are you all right?’
She came to stand beside him. She reached out and laid a hand on top of his, just for the briefest of seconds – a touch she hoped conveyed concern, understanding.
‘Yes, fine. I was thinking about something.’
‘About this room? The colours?’
‘No, not specifically.’ His voice held more than a snap of irritation that she’d asked after his wellbeing. ‘You’d have carte blanche. I’ve never slept in this room and I doubt I ever will.’
‘Oh,’ Carrie said. ‘So, you won’t be stopping here?’
She waved her arms around the room and the professional in her saw how it would look transformed by colour and with lights in the right places and with flowers on the dressing table. So many grand houses – well, the National Trust houses she’d been in anyway – had high ceilings, but the ceilings she’d seen so far in Oakenbury Hall were much lower, giving the place a more intimate, homely feel, despite the size of the house itself.
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