by Anne Oliver
Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set
Behind Closed Doors…
Fired by Her Fling
Who’s Calling the Shots?
Nine Month Countdown
Anne Oliver
Christy McKellen
Jennifer Rae
Leah Ashton
This month, experience the true art of flirtation that Harlequin KISS brings with four original stories in one, fun and sexy bundle! Titles include Behind Closed Doors… by Anne Oliver, Fired by Her Fling by Christy McKellen, Who’s Calling the Shots? by Jennifer Rae and Nine Month Countdown by Leah Ashton.
Look for 4 compelling new stories every month from Harlequin KISS!
Table of Contents
Behind Closed Doors…
By Anne Oliver
Fired by Her Fling
By Christy McKellen
Who’s Calling the Shots?
By Jennifer Rae
Nine Month Countdown
By Leah Ashton
He’s back—and as bad as ever!
Jack Devlin is Cleo Honeywell’s Achilles’ heel—and he’s a drop-dead-gorgeous one at that. But just because he sends a million inappropriate thoughts racing through her mind doesn’t mean she’ll forgive him for jetting off across the world and taking her heart with him. Especially now that he’s dared to come waltzing back into her life!
But while Cleo may be determined not to fall at his feet—or into his bed—Jack has other ideas. Because it may have been years, but he still finds Cleo as irresistible as ever. And this time, once they’ve flipped the do-not-disturb sign, he’ll be staying all night!
SNEAK PEEK EXCERPT FROM
Behind Closed Doors...
“Just because I left home doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you.” Jack immediately cursed himself. Why had he said that?
“Yeah, right.” Cleo glared at him, her mouth compressed into a grim line, at odds with the soft play of sunlight over her face. She crossed the room again, coffee obviously forgotten.
“I stopped thinking about you a long time ago. You’re history, Jack. You may think you’re God’s gift to women, but not to this woman. This woman wants more than a quick roll between the sheets and a kiss goodbye.”
The thought of a naked Cleo in bed with some faceless man was a black hole he always took pains to steer clear of.
“I damn well hope so,” Jack replied.
Praise for
Anne Oliver
“Oliver showcases her hero’s vulnerabilities
and her heroine’s fears realistically.
Humor and passion make for an engaging read.”
—RT Book Reviews on
Mistletoe Not Required
“Fun and flirty—
held my attention through the entire story.”
—Harlequin Junkie on
Mistletoe Not Required
Behind
Closed Doors…
Anne Oliver
ABOUT ANNE OLIVER
Anne Oliver lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and with its perfect location and relaxed lifestyle, why would she want to leave?
In another life Anne was an early childhood teacher, but not long after she began writing paranormal and time-travel adventures as a weekend escape she knew it was more than a hobby. Eventually preferring the fun of writing contemporary romance, she dreamed of swapping yard duties for the life of a published author.
It happened in December 2005 when she was accepted by Harlequin®. The dream continued when her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year Award in 2007 and 2008. She considers herself very lucky to have been a finalist for the same award in 2012 and 2013.
Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook.
Visit Anne at her website, www.anne-oliver.com. Anne loves to hear from readers at [email protected].
Other Harlequin® KISS™ titles by Anne Oliver:
The Party Dare
Mistletoe Not Required
This and other titles by Anne Oliver are available in ebook format from www.Harlequin.com.
With thanks to my critique partners,
Kathy, Trish, Linda and Sharon,
who encouraged me to just go for it!
Thank you also to my husband, Henry, and
lifelong friend Sue, both of whom believed in me,
and to Kimberley Young for giving me this opportunity.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT
ONE
It wasn’t the homecoming he’d pictured. Jack Devlin pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose and stared at the two-storey house he’d lived in for the first twenty-one years of his life. For the past six years he’d been pretty successful in making a point of not picturing it.
Perhaps that was the reason he was tripping through this emotional minefield now. Being dead didn’t exonerate his father, but Jack had to concede he himself should have attempted some sort of reconciliation years ago.
But he wasn’t the same naïve young man who’d left without a backward glance. The Jack Devlin who’d scaled that trellis to his room at three a.m. till he knew the steps blindfolded and backwards seemed like someone else.
And the woman he was about to come face to face with was no longer the sixteen-year-old kid he’d left behind.
He cursed the familiar gut-punch that always accompanied that particular image and hooked a finger inside the too-stiff collar of the shirt and black tie he’d picked up at Melbourne International Airport. In this suffocating summer heat he could almost feel those memories reaching out to strangle him.
She’d be here. No matter what she’d been up to since Jack had last seen her, Cleo Honeywell would not miss his father’s funeral.
His jaw tensed as he reached for his bag. He frowned down at the shirt’s packaging creases as he hefted the pack and winced as pain shot through his injured shoulder. So much for returning in style.
The heavy aroma of greasy food wafting through the open windows overlaid the outdoor’s fragrance of lemon-scented gums. The resulting nausea churned in his stomach and the headache that had been building behind his right eye now throbbed in time with The Easybeats’ ‘She’s so Fine’ pumping from the stereo. No prizes for guessing who’d selected Dad’s favourite musical entertainment—Cleo was obviously this afternoon’s hostess.
The ground heaved and he slumped against one of the verandah pillars, gritted his teeth. Damn painkillers were wearing off. What he needed was sleep, twelve hours of blessed uninterrupted oblivion. But that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. With a deep breath, he slipped his glasses in his shirt pocket, pushed away and stepped inside.
He’d missed the funeral by a good two hours, but apparently the party wasn’
t over yet. A motley bunch of senior citizens in psychedelic seventies gear were still in full swing, Ben Hargreaves included. His father’s solicitor was wearing a lime and purple tie and flares. A fancy dress funeral. And why the hell not? One corner of Jack’s mouth lifted at an irony only he could appreciate. A fitting finale for the quintessential wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Then his gaze snagged on the woman in the red and white daisy-splashed halter dress with a spectacular rear end as she slung her arms round Ben’s neck for a slow dance. Her skirt—if you could call the scrap of fabric a skirt—hiked several inches to reveal equally spectacular thighs.
A different kind of heat stirred his lower body. There wasn’t a whole lot of her, perhaps five-two if you discounted the platform shoes, but the curves were all there and in all the right places. His photographer’s eye admired the form, but it was a purely masculine hum that slid through his veins.
Then she turned slightly and he got his first look at her profile.
Cleo.
For the second time in as many minutes the old punch slammed into his solar plexus. He set his pack down before he dropped the thing as what little strength he had left drained from his limbs.
He could try telling himself it was jetlag, or the fact that he’d discharged himself from hospital against the doctor’s advice and grabbed the first flight out of Rome. Face it, Devlin, you’ve never gotten Cleo out of your system. Still those slumberous blue eyes, that wild-in-the-moonlight hair. For years he’d imagined how that hair would feel in his hands, how it would look on his pillow.
At sixteen she’d been off limits, a beauty with a chip on her shoulder you could carve a monument from. He didn’t know about the attitude, but her looks had only improved.
She’d twisted her hair up into one of those clasp things that showed off her nape and made her look elegant and casual at the same time. Her full mouth, more often than not set in a pout, had been one of his forbidden fantasies.
She wasn’t pouting now and her smile was as stunning as he remembered. But then, he thought with a wry grimace, she hadn’t seen him yet.
His throat was suddenly parched. Right now he’d kill for a cold Aussie beer. Or something stronger to mask the feelings that had sprung to life again as if the past few years hadn’t existed.
Watching her, he steeled himself against anger, resentment, regret, and, churning through it all, the burning sense of loss for this girl who’d grown into a woman.
All ancient history. He let out a slow, tired breath. The sooner he finalised his father’s affairs, sold the house and got out of here, the better.
* * *
He was here.
Cleo knew by the way her scalp tingled the minute Jack Devlin arrived. Her breath backed up in her lungs and the tingling spread from her scalp, down her spine to the backs of her exposed bare legs.
She could feel those hot-chocolate eyes on her, no doubt dark with disapproval at her choice of attire for the occasion. Tough. Gerry had wanted a celebration of his life and that was what she’d arranged.
She might not have been Gerry Devlin’s daughter by blood, but he had been her father in every other sense of the word, which gave her the right to do as she saw fit. His only offspring hadn’t even had the courtesy to contact her about funeral arrangements.
Typical Jack Devlin. Too self-absorbed to think beyond his next conquest. Her lip curled. More than likely he’d been bonking some bimbo while his father lay dying.
But she didn’t feel tough. She felt uncommonly fragile. Through sheer will, or plain old desperation, she restored her smile while she tugged ineffectually at the hem of her dress, then reached up to kiss Ben’s cheek. ‘Thank you for everything. Gerry would’ve enjoyed the send-off.’
‘A pleasure, Cleo. Anything you need, just name it.’ Ben’s warm hands clasped her suddenly clammy ones and squeezed. She wanted to hang on, just a moment more—please—but his eyes flicked to the door, and her heart jolted. ‘I’ll be...it’s Jack!’
Sucking in a breath, she braced herself. And turned.
But the dishevelled man a few feet away wasn’t the fashion-savvy, smooth-cheeked Jack Cleo remembered. Oh, his broad shoulders still blocked the doorway and he still oozed that lazy, raw sexuality. Nor had his dark eyes—make that dark, bloodshot eyes—lost that uncanny knack of appearing hot and cold at the same time.
‘Jack, my boy, it’s good to see you.’
Ben’s booming voice broke the spell she seemed to find herself under. Jack’s gaze lingered on her a second longer, then switched to the man beside her.
‘I’m only sorry it’s under these circumstances,’ Ben continued. ‘My condolences.’
Jack nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Rooted to the spot, Cleo watched them come together and shake hands.
Jack hadn’t bothered to shave and he looked as if he’d just left a lover’s bed. Unkempt dark hair curled over his collar. His trousers looked as if they’d been slept in, although she didn’t imagine Jack slept in anything but a tan.
And did he think that stubble on his jaw was sexy? But her palm itched to touch; she could almost feel the roughness beneath her fingers... Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. Lucky for her both men were too busy talking to notice.
If the Jack she knew left stubble on his jaw, it was a skilful designer shadow. One that highlighted that dimple in his chin. The dimple she’d loved to touch just to annoy him. Of course that was before she’d become aware of him as a man rather than a brother—which he wasn’t. But there was no mistaking the fact that Jack Devlin was all man.
Once again Jack’s attention focused on her.
‘I’ll let you two get reacquainted,’ she heard Ben say as he moved away.
She wasn’t sure if the sound of music and conversation behind her dimmed. They simply ceased to exist. All she could hear was her pulse drumming in her ears, all she was aware of was the thick pounding of her heart against her chest. And Jack.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced her legs to move but stopped a safe arm’s length away. Safe? His unfathomable eyes all but devoured her. She watched them roam her face, felt them as surely as a touch—brow, eyes, cheeks. Lips... If she hadn’t known better she could have sworn—
But no. He hadn’t come back for her. He’d come back for his father.
She willed away the humiliating sting of tears. Hasn’t he hurt you enough already? He doesn’t think of you that way, never has, never will.
He smelled of the aircraft, new shirt and unfamiliar soap, but underneath she smelled the scent unique to him. The scent that had invaded her dreams for too many years.
Clenching her fists at her sides so he wouldn’t see the tremor, she lifted her chin. Even though she wore platform shoes he towered over her. ‘So, the prodigal son returns.’
‘Hello, Cleo.’ Perhaps because it was expected of family, he touched his lips to her cheek. Her breath caught, then trembled out at that first physical contact. Unlike that final fevered and furious night in his room, his kiss was cool and detached.
But no less devastating.
To compensate, she waved a careless hand behind her. ‘You’re too late.’
‘How ironic.’ He was still leaning intimately towards her. His lips were smiling, and a casual observer might have thought he was pleased to see her, but his eyes were like granite. ‘You said those exact same words the last time I saw you.’
At his twenty-first birthday party.
The night was indelibly printed into her brain. Sam Denton’s bloodied nose when Jack had punched him through the car window, his fury as he’d dragged her from Sam’s car. The shame when his father had caught Jack hustling her upstairs to his room with his jacket covering her open blouse and bare breasts.
And that final humiliation... She’d gotten the reaction she’d wanted
all right, and paid the price. Her attempts to make Jack notice her, just once, had driven him out of her life.
‘Or perhaps you were lying that night,’ he murmured.
His voice catapulted her back to the present and the reality that he was going to throw all those old hurts in her face when what he should be asking about was his father.
He leaned closer. ‘Was I?’
‘Were you...what?’
‘Too late.’
‘What are you talking about?’
His voice was even enough but his expression held no hint of amusement. ‘Convenient amnesia, Cleo?’
A fist slammed into her stomach. Amnesia would be a blessing. ‘You’re one to talk about “too late”.’ His sheer nerve, bringing up that night at his father’s funeral, made her voice clipped and hard. ‘You denied a dying man—a man I loved even if you didn’t—his last wish.’
‘Which was?’
‘To say goodbye to you.’
Something dark and disturbing flickered in his eyes. But not guilt, not even regret. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’ His voice was rock-hard, like the set of his jaw.
Probably true, but it didn’t let him off the hook. No way. She gave him her best impression of ‘do I look stupid to you?’—pouted lips, lifted brow, a look she’d perfected years ago that never failed to provoke the heck out of him.
‘If you don’t mind, Goldilocks...’ he retaliated in kind as he moved to collect his bag ‘...I’ll dump my gear and wash up. Is my old room still my old room?’
How long had it been since she’d heard that pet name? And hated it?
Since Jack.
Determined not to make it easy for him to simply slip back into her life, she shrugged. ‘If you can still find your way.’
As he bent to pick up his bag he staggered again, what little colour he had beneath his stubble leaching from his face. Cleo looked closer. His lips suddenly looked like chalk, the skin around them white and drawn. Alarmed, she fought her immediate response to lay a hand against his sweat-sheened brow and kept her voice impersonal. ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?’