Harlequin Romance December 2020 Box Set

by Susan Meier, Sophie Pembroke, Jessica Gilmore

  Her family looked at her and thought, Cover her up with tartan, or Hide her away in the corner, or even Embarrass the hell out of her.

  Damon looked at her and thought she deserved a dress she loved, one that felt like the way she saw herself.

  Surely that had to mean something, didn’t it?

  Her father was still waiting for her verdict on the dress. And she’d promised herself—and Hannah—that she’d try to keep the peace, try not to be difficult, while his health was so delicate.

  ‘It’s very festive,’ she said, carefully picking her way around the truth. ‘It was so kind of Hannah to think of me like that.’

  Her dad’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘I knew you’d like it! I’ll take it home for you and hang it in your room. Save it getting creased in here.’ He glanced around her office again with a frown. ‘And you know, now you mention it, it is very busy on the shop floor today. I’m sure Hannah would appreciate it if you lent a hand.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ Rachel promised, trying hard not to sigh. Apparently her social media campaign would have to wait. Again.

  Closing down her laptop, she added another tally to her chart—thinking about the dress definitely counted as thinking about Damon—and prepared to head out to work. But as she grabbed her phone, she saw she had a new message.

  From Damon.

  What are you doing this afternoon?

  * * *

  He’d tried to forget that kiss, really he had. Tried to push aside whatever impulse had led him to kiss his sister’s best friend. Tried to forget how spending time with her again had sent him back to that other night they’d spent talking, and how the connection between them had scared eighteen-year-old him so much he’d run in the opposite direction. To remind himself, hourly if necessary, that she was an old family friend who had never given him a hint of interest—and had actually run away from him when he’d showed some.

  He’d tried.

  He’d failed.

  As he stood in the middle of his latest business project, Damon tried to convince himself that his interest in Rachel Charles was actually totally professional—the same way he’d convinced himself, nine years ago, that their connection was simply shared concern for the missing Celeste.

  Fake midnight kiss aside, what they’d mostly talked about was her work—most especially, her window displays. He was genuinely interested in the tableaus she put together, and he had a legitimate reason to contact her about them. Nothing to do with the kiss.

  The question was, if he called her about work would she answer?

  There was only one way to find out, he supposed. His phone in his hand, his fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then he dashed out a text and put his phone back in his pocket.

  What are you doing this afternoon?

  Neutral, giving her an easy out, definitely more of a friendly tone than anything else, right? So why was his heart pounding waiting for her answer?

  This was about work. He had to remember that.

  As if the universe figured he might need some help doing so, the gate at the far end of the Cressingham Arcade creaked open and his client, Lady Cressingham herself, strode in.

  Lady Cressingham was, Damon had learned over the last week or two, quite simply a force of nature. Today, she was dressed in a rich plum-coloured wool coat with a fake fur collar, matching leather gloves and shiny black boots. Her hair was perfectly set despite the winter wind, and large diamonds glittered at her throat and earlobes.

  Her eyes narrowed as she approached him, the heels of her boots clacking against the tiled floor of the arcade. ‘So? Any progress to report?’ she asked, her clipped upper-class tones as cold as the icy weather.

  Damon raised an eyebrow, and glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. Ah, that explained it. Old Mr Jenkins was watching them from his shop window, polishing cloth in his hands as he set out his jewellery display for the day. He was the biggest hold out to their whole plan, so Lady Cressingham always took care to be sharper, more professional, when he was watching.

  In truth, their whole acquaintance had started at a party held in a top London art gallery, hosted by a mutual friend. Damon always made a point of talking to new people at events like that; just chatting with the same old crowd rarely threw up any new and interesting opportunities. When he’d spotted Lady Cressingham in her scarlet evening gown and silver wrap he’d just known she would have an interesting story—and he’d been right.

  He’d never asked her age, and Wikipedia had been strangely coy on the subject, but he guessed she had to be in her sixties, if not her seventies. She’d been married to Lord Cressingham for as long as anyone could remember; the rumours were that he’d been cheating on her since their wedding day. Not just rumours, actually. Lady Cressingham had been quite open on the subject the night they’d met.

  ‘We have an arrangement of sorts, I suppose,’ she’d told Damon. ‘I ignore the fact that he’s a philandering son of a you-know-what who can’t keep his trousers fastened, and he lets me spend his family fortune on causes that appeal to me, and to speculate on projects that have the potential to make me a lot of money, while also helping others.’

  She was a jack of all trades when it came to businesses, just like himself, it turned out. Maybe that was what had drawn them together in the first place. All he knew was that a month after that party, she’d called him up out of the blue with a proposition.

  ‘Come and run my latest project for me. I need someone with an entrepreneurial eye.’

  Damon had been between projects and he’d been intrigued. And so he’d said yes.

  Which was how he came to be standing in the middle of the shabby, slightly crumbling Cressingham Arcade, being glared at by an antisocial jeweller, imagining what magic Rachel could work with the window displays in this place.

  Lady Cressingham was still waiting for a project update, though.

  ‘I do have some new progress, and some new ideas to talk through with you.’ His phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Excuse me one second.’

  Pulling it out, he checked the screen and saw the one-word answer from Rachel.

  Yes.

  ‘In fact,’ he went on, stashing his phone away again, ‘if you have time for afternoon tea today, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone who might be the key to turning this place into everything you’ve been dreaming of.’

  Lady Cressingham raised a sceptical eyebrow, but nodded all the same. ‘Book us a table at the Ritz at three. If nothing else, I want to make the aquaintance of the woman whose text message just put that smile on your face.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RACHEL HAD LIVED in London her whole life and never been for afternoon tea at the Ritz. She supposed most people hadn’t, really. It wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. Unless you were Lady Cressingham, apparently, who seemed to know all the waiters by their first names.

  She’d assumed, when Damon had told her to meet him at Piccadilly Circus, that it would just be the two of them. And she definitely hadn’t imagined he’d be taking her to the Ritz. If she had, she might have worn something slightly more suitable for the occasion. Or not, because actually, now she thought about it, she wasn’t sure she even owned anything suitable for taking afternoon tea with a member of the aristocracy at one of London’s most famous hotels.

  Maybe the dress Damon had bought her. Except she wasn’t allowing herself to think about that dress, or what had happened last time she wore it.

  Because this wasn’t a date, or even a friendly catch-up. Or, as she’d sort of assumed, Damon’s attempt to let her down gently. Last time she’d thought she was close to Damon, even without a kiss to mark the occasion, he’d made it obvious—in a kind way—that it was just a one-off. The next time he’d visited, she’d been very clearly relegated back to ‘Celeste’s friend,’ rather than a friend of his in her own
right. And she’d stayed that way until he’d kissed her two days ago.

  Of course he’d want to set the record straight again. The thought had occurred to her as soon as she’d seen his text. Damon, despite his playboy reputation, was always scrupulously honest with his flings—she knew that from Celeste. He never led them on, and always made it clear up front how much—or how little—he was willing to give.

  As Celeste put it, ‘I understand him not wanting to get into a romantic tangle. They can be so messy if you aren’t both straight upfront about what you’re entering into, or if one of you has higher expectations than the other.’

  She made it sound more like a business arrangement than a love affair, Rachel thought, though she hadn’t said that.

  ‘But Damon doesn’t even have those discussions with his girlfriends. He just tells them straight not to expect anything past one night. Anything extra is just a bonus.’

  But he hadn’t had a chance to tell Rachel that, so she figured he was worrying she was reading more into that midnight kiss than was really there. All the way to Piccadilly on the Tube she’d been planning the most casual way to let him know that she had absolutely no expectations of him; she knew better than that.

  Except it seemed that wasn’t why he’d invited her at all.

  ‘How are you finding the cucumber sandwiches, dear?’ Lady Cressingham asked her, across the table. Between them, sitting at the end of the loaded table, Damon sat devouring a scone slathered in jam and cream, apparently oblivious to the many, many questions Rachel had about this whole gathering.

  ‘They’re delicious.’ She put her half-nibbled sandwich down on her plate. ‘In fact, this whole spread is incredible. I’m just…wondering, well… I mean, I just wasn’t sure…’

  ‘Why Damon invited you to tea?’ Lady Cressingham finished for her, shaking her head. ‘Damon, dear, I was led to understand that you were much smoother with the ladies than this.’

  Rachel’s eyes widened and she sat bolt upright, ready to correct the obvious mistaken assumption. ‘Oh, no, Damon and I…we’re old friends, that’s all, really.’

  Lady Cressingham looked unconvinced, but waved away Rachel’s protests all the same. ‘I’m not sure our Damon has old friends, only new ones. But in this case, I believe he’s brought you here for a business proposal, rather than a personal one.’ She shot an unreadable look along the table at Damon. ‘At least, that’s what he seems to believe.’

  Confused, Rachel turned to Damon too. ‘A business proposal?’ How could she possibly be of use to him with one of those? She didn’t even really know what his business was.

  ‘Lady Cressingham has hired me to manage her latest project for her,’ Damon explained. But before he could say any more, Lady Cressingham took over.

  ‘The Cressingham Arcade,’ she explained. ‘It’s not exactly in the most fashionable area of the city, but it’s respectable enough, and it’s been languishing in my husband’s property portfolio for far too long. I decided it was time to make proper use of it for a change.’

  ‘A shopping arcade?’ Rachel asked, still baffled as to what her part was going to be in this.

  ‘A small one. Set back from a reasonably busy shopping street, but currently woefully ignored by passing shoppers.’ Lady Cressingham shook her head at her bite-sized lemon cake. ‘Such a waste. And of course my husband has completely forgotten that he even owned it.’

  How rich did a person have to be to forget that they owned a shopping arcade? Rachel could hardly imagine. She gazed around at the opulent surroundings of the Ritz restaurant and its patrons. Perhaps for a person who judged tea there as an everyday occurrence, property ownership became just as ordinary.

  ‘It has eight shops,’ Damon went on, ticking them off on his fingers as he went. ‘At present, three are unoccupied, two are recently let and three have long-standing occupants. So right now there’s a jeweller’s, a florist’s, a stationer’s, a chocolate shop and a wedding dress boutique.’

  ‘It sounds…lovely?’ Rachel said, still confused as to her part in this.

  ‘It could be,’ Lady Cressingham said, dryly. ‘It needs a lot of TLC, but Damon has the decorators and builders coming in for that. It needs some more tenants too, but I’ve got my feelers out. I only want a certain sort of business in my arcade.’

  Rachel nodded. Clearly the aristocracy had standards about who they rented to. She shouldn’t be surprised about that.

  But Damon shot a fond smile at the older lady. ‘You’re giving Rachel the idea you’re elitist, you know.’

  Lady Cressingham drew herself up to her full seated height. Which, since her posture had been impeccable since they’d sat down, was quite an achievement. ‘Well, I do have very strict criteria.’

  Damon rolled his eyes. ‘What she means is that she will only rent the unoccupied shops to people, usually women, looking for a fresh start in life.’

  That…wasn’t what Rachel had expected at all. She gave the aristocrat across the table a surprised look, which Lady Cressingham politely pretended not to see as she poured herself another cup of Assam tea.

  ‘People need a little help sometimes, when they’re starting over,’ she said, stirring her cup. ‘And I’m in a position to give them that. That’s all.’

  But she didn’t have to, Rachel knew. Plenty of people had all the money in the world and only used it to make more. And while she was sure that Lady Cressingham intended for the arcade to become a profitable business, that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to do some good with it too.

  Rachel still couldn’t see exactly where she fitted into all this. But suddenly, she desperately wanted to know.

  This could be the first step she’d been looking for, without even knowing it. She’d been so focussed on following her plodding plan—get the test results, make sure Dad was okay, move out, start thinking about new jobs—and Damon, in his usual chaotic style, had come in and ripped up the whole strategy.

  But he was giving her an opportunity she hadn’t even envisioned. The chance to do something that might matter to people, just a bit. That was what she needed, and she hadn’t even realised it until now.

  Plus, working on a new project might distract her from thinking about that kiss. That was just an added bonus.

  Placing her forearms on the table, she leant forward. ‘Okay. How can I help?’

  * * *

  Damon saw the moment when Rachel went from wanting to run away from this strange tea party to actively wanting to help. He smiled to himself as Lady Cressingham pushed the plate of scones towards her. She approved of Rachel, he could tell. He wasn’t sure why that was important to him, but apparently it was.

  More crucially, Rachel approved of the Cressingham Arcade project. And that really did matter to him.

  He wanted to talk to her about the other night—about that kiss, his brain supplied, unhelpfully—but there hadn’t been time between meeting her off the Tube, and meeting Lady Cressingham at the Ritz. And since he still wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say about it, beyond apologising if he’d got the wrong message, he hadn’t exactly pushed the point. Also, that uneasy feeling of being with someone who saw too deep inside him, the way she had years ago, seemed to be back and he didn’t like it any more now than he had then. He needed to re-establish some boundaries, and talking about kissing definitely wasn’t going to achieve that.

  The personal could wait. They had business to discuss first.

  ‘Like Lady Cressingham said, the whole place is having a bit of a do-over. We’re putting in new tiles for the floors, touching up all the paintwork, having new signs painted, the works. But all that means we’re not going to be able to open properly to the public until later in the month—’

  ‘Right before Christmas,’ Rachel said, grasping the problem immediately. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, in a way Damon tried to convince
himself he didn’t find adorable. The line between her eyebrows when she was concentrating was pretty cute too.

  Focus, Damon.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Which means we’re missing a lot of the prime Christmas shopping time.’ Hell, it was already the third of December. They’d missed a lot of it already, but that couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t as if the arcade was doing a roaring trade before they started, however much Mr Jenkins might be complaining now about the disruption.

  ‘You need to get people talking about the arcade before it even opens,’ Rachel said, thinking aloud. ‘You want a buzz about the place, so people are excited to visit that first day, maybe even hold off on some of their shopping until you open.’ Her eyes widened as she seemed to realise that she was telling Lady Cressingham what to do. ‘I mean, that’s what I’d suggest. Or what I’d do. But I’m sure you both know better than I do about these things.’

  Lady Cressingham selected a miniature Victoria sponge from the cake stand. ‘Actually, dear, I don’t think we do. That’s why Damon brought you in. So, tell me: what else would you do to make my arcade the only place anyone wants to shop this Christmas?’

  Rachel hesitated. Watching her closely—not least because she was nibbling her bottom lip again and he just couldn’t look away—he tried to figure out what was stopping her. She knew this stuff; he’d checked out the social media accounts for Hartbury’s, and as far as he could see they were head and shoulders above what most stores were doing. People really engaged with her posts about the window displays, more than anything. Her stepmother must be thrilled at all the extra attention she was bringing in…

  Her stepmother. Hartbury’s. Of course.

  ‘The arcade would be a completely different sort of business to Hartbury’s,’ he said, quickly. ‘Different clientele too. I mean, the stores there sell personalised, one-off sort of items most of the time. Lots of handmade things too. Nothing like your stepmother’s store.’

  Lady Cressingham caught onto the problem promptly. ‘Absolutely! We’d never ask you to undermine your family business, of course not. And Hartbury’s has a very fine reputation. But I do not believe that the products sold would truly be commensurate with those sold in the Cressingham Arcade.’