by Sarah Morgan
“I know. Because when you love a person you love them forever. Sky told me that.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “I don’t want to stop you taking up the job you found, though. We’ll find a way of making it work.”
“I haven’t found a job. I just needed some space, so I thought I’d go back to Cambridge for a couple of weeks. See some friends. Do some thinking.”
“So your only reason for leaving,” he said slowly, “was to escape from me?”
“Yes.”
“Then how would you feel about staying here and taking that part-time post at the university? I can fly you to the mainland once a week. And the rest of the time you can help out at the camp and help me with the rest of my responsibilities.”
“What responsibilities?”
He kissed her and then released her. “Wait there.”
Moments later she heard the scrabbling of paws and a grunting sound and Jaws appeared in her kitchen.
Brittany looked at the panting, slobbering dog and started to laugh. “Are you serious?”
“It’s not doing his manners any good living in the animal shelter. I thought it was time he settled down and learned to trust people. No more of this glaring suspiciously at every human being that passes. No more snapping and biting. It’s time he learned that all you need to get through life is a handful of people who love you.” He stooped to give Jaws a reassuring stroke and the dog trotted across the kitchen and settled himself in a warm spot in front of the stove. “For what it’s worth, Sara thinks we’re a perfect match.”
“I’ve already told you that the physical similarities between the two of you are astonishing, but—”
“Not Jaws and I, you and I.” He drew her back into his arms. “I thought we could live here, the three of us. Build a life. How does that sound?”
“It sounds perfect.” Choked by emotion, she eased away from him and hunted for her phone. “I need to call Emily and Sky.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He took the phone out of her hand. “We’ll go and tell Emily in person. In fact we can share a celebratory meal together.”
“What about Jaws?” She glanced at the dog, who had his head on one side and his teeth in a chewy toy. “We can’t leave him. We’re responsible parents now.”
“We’ll take him with us.”
“Cocoa will object.”
“Cocoa will love him and it will be good for him to make a friend.” He lowered his head and kissed her again. “It’s important to let good people into your life.”
“It’s not fair to make Em cook without any warning.”
“She doesn’t need to cook.” Smiling, he slid his arms around her. “We’ll drive via Seagull’s Nest. I happen to know where I can find a large casserole that needs eating …”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANKS TO MY wonderful agent, Susan Ginsburg, and the team at Writers House who continue to guide my career.
I’m so lucky to have as my editor the lovely and talented Flo Nicoll, who works tirelessly to ensure every book is the best it can be. Thanks to Dianne Moggy for the endless encouragement and support, and to Susan Swinwood and the rest of the team at HQN for their wonderful work. Special thanks to Lisa Wray for her valuable help with publicity. I appreciate all you do!
My heartfelt thanks to everyone in the Harlequin UK office, including Anna Baggaley, Vicky Tinsley and the whole sales and marketing team. I’m grateful for the dedication they show in ensuring my books reach as many readers as possible.
My love and appreciation goes to my family, who continue to accept my unusual choice of job (and the associated lack of catering) with patience and good humor.
And finally my biggest thanks goes to you, the reader, for choosing this book, thus ensuring that I can continue with a career I love.
Free-spirited Skylar Tempest has never seen eye-to-eye with brooding Alec Hunter, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t find him outrageously attractive! This Christmas, will she finally get to kiss him under the mistletoe?
Read on for a sneak peek at the last book in Sarah Morgan’s Puffin Island trilogy —it’s brimming with Christmas magic!
‘I have spread my dreams beneath your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’
—W. B. Yeats
CHAPTER ONE
Skylar Tempest stepped out of her hotel and lifted her face to the sky. Soft, thick flakes of snow drifted down from a sky of midnight-blue, dusting her hair and blending with the wool of her white coat. It was like standing inside a snow globe.
She reached out and caught a snowflake in her palm, watching as it slowly dissolved, its beauty fleeting and ephemeral.
London was experiencing a cold spell, and bets were on for the first white Christmas in years. The snow had been falling for a couple of hours and the streets were frosted silver-white. It was easy on the eye and lethal underfoot—which was why she’d decided to take a cab rather than walk the glittering length of Knightsbridge to the gallery.
She didn’t want to arrive at the most important night of her life with a black eye.
With a smile that left the doorman dazzled, she stepped into the waiting cab.
Cocooned in warmth, she watched as people bustled along the crowded streets. They walked heads down, snuggled in layers of wool to keep out the cold. Stores with elaborately decorated windows shone bright with fairy lights, beaming shimmering silver across the snow.
Drinking in the light and colour, she fought the temptation to reach for the sketchpad she always carried. In a world that often presented its ugly side, Skylar looked for the beauty and captured it in her art. She worked in a variety of mediums, dabbled in ceramics, but her first love was jewellery.
The necklace she’d chosen to wear tonight was an example of her work and the only splash of colour in her outfit. She’d designed it as part of her latest collection, but she’d fallen in love with the piece and kept it. The stones were a mixture of blues and greens: Mediterranean hues that added warmth to the cold December evening.
Tonight was her big night, she was in one of her favourite cities at her favourite time of year, and Richard was joining her.
They’d been an item for over a year. A year in which his entire focus had been his political career. Since he’d won his senate seat the pressures had intensified. They’d barely seen each other in the months leading up to the election, and the time they had spent together had been marred by his incendiary moods. She’d resigned herself to attending the private showing of her collection alone, so his call from the airport had been a surprise.
Now she was eagerly anticipating the night ahead.
Starting tonight, everything was going to be different. With the stress of the election behind them, they’d finally be able to enjoy quality time and do all the things they’d talked about doing.
He’d hinted that he had a special Christmas gift for her.
A trip to Florence, maybe?
He knew how much she’d always wanted that.
Or Paris, maybe? To visit the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay.
Her mood lifted.
They’d celebrate her exhibition and later they’d enjoy a more intimate celebration. The two of them in her luxurious hotel suite with a bottle of champagne. Tomorrow they’d visit the ice rink at Somerset House. She’d walked past it the day before and spent a happy hour people-watching. Her creative brain had soaked up the kaleidoscope of colour and smiling faces. She’d absorbed it all: the uncertain, the wobbly and the graceful. Twirling teenagers, parents holding eager children, lovers entwined. After that, the London Eye at night. She’d watched the slow, graceful rise of each capsule over the dark ribbon of the Thames and decided she wanted to experience that.
It would be romantic, and she and Richard needed to spend more time on their relationship.
She stared out of the window, thinking about it.
Was this love?
Was this it?
She’d always assumed that when she finally
fell in love she’d know. She hadn’t been prepared for all the doubts and questions.
‘Christmas party, love?’
The cab driver glanced in the mirror and Skylar gave him a smile, glad to be distracted from her thoughts.
‘Not exactly. A private showing. Jewellery, pots and a few pieces of art.’
A series of watercolours she’d painted on a trip to Greece to visit Brittany. Having a best friend who was an archaeologist had expanded her horizons. That trip had been the inspiration for her collection: Ocean Blue.
‘Where are you from?’
‘New York.’
‘I hope you bought your credit card. Prices are high in this part of London. Whatever you buy is going to cost you.’
‘It’s mine.’ Excitement mingled with pride. ‘My collection.’
He glanced at her in his mirror. ‘I’m impressed. To have your work on display in these parts at any age would be something, but for someone as young as you—well, you’re obviously going somewhere. Your family must be really proud.’
Her good mood melted away like the snowflake she’d held in her palm.
Her family wasn’t proud.
They were exasperated that she persisted with her ‘hobby’.
She’d invited them. Sent them a pretty embossed invitation and a catalogue.
There had been no response.
Turning her head, she focused on the snowy scene beyond the windows of the cab. She wasn’t going to let that ruin her evening. Nothing was going to ruin the evening.
The cab driver was still talking. ‘So you’ll be flying back home for the holidays? Family Christmas?’
‘That’s the plan.’ Although not the reality. ‘Family Christmas’ sounded cosy and warm, like something from a fairy tale. It conjured up images of prettily wrapped gifts stacked beneath a tall tree festooned with twinkling lights and homemade decorations, while excited children fizzed with anticipation.
Christmas at her parents’ house felt more like an endurance test than a fairy tale, more corporate than cosy. The ‘tree’ would be an artistic display of bare twigs sprayed silver and studded with tiny lights—part of a larger display planned and executed every year by her mother’s interior decorator. Stark, remote and absolutely not to be touched at any cost. The ‘gifts’, artfully stacked on various surfaces for effect, would be empty boxes.
Any child hoping to find something magical under her family’s tree would be disappointed.
Those gifts summed up her family, she thought.
Everything had to be shiny and perfectly wrapped. Appearances mattered.
Leaning her head against the cool glass of the window, she watched as a man and a woman loaded down with bags struggled through the snow with two bouncing, excitable young children. She imagined them arriving home and decorating the tree together. They’d write letters to Santa and hang stockings, counting the number of sleeps until Christmas Day.
The most important things in life, she thought wistfully, couldn’t be wrapped.
She watched as the family disappeared down a side street and then looked away, impatient with herself.
She was too old for Christmas fantasies, and with Richard arriving and her exhibition she had plenty to celebrate.
Her phone rang and she tugged it out of her bag, expecting Richard again.
It was her mother, and surprise mingled with warmth.
She’d remembered.
‘Mom? I’m so happy you called.’
‘I shouldn’t have to call.’ Her mother’s crisp, cultured tones came down the phone. ‘But your father and I need to know when you’ll be home.’
Bridging the gap between hope and reality almost gave her whiplash. ‘You’re calling about my schedule?’
‘Stephanie sent you an email. You didn’t respond.’ Stephanie was her mother’s assistant, and Sky knew the email was probably sitting in her inbox—along with all the others she’d ignored while burning the midnight oil to get ready for this week.
‘I’ve been busy, Mom. It’s my private viewing tonight, and—’
‘We’re all busy, Skylar, and I’d appreciate not having to chase my own daughter for a response. Particularly when you’re the only one without a job.’
Sky thought of the commissions she had lined up. She had enough work to keep her busy through most of next year. ‘I have a job.’
‘I mean a proper job. I’m doing the seating plan for Christmas Eve. We’ll be eighty for lunch. Dinner is more intimate—forty. What time will you be arriving?’
Sky leaned her head back against the seat, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Forty? Intimate?
So much for a cosy family Christmas.
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘Then decide.’ Her mother was businesslike, and Skylar imagined her sitting at her elegant Queen Anne desk, ticking off the items on her ‘To Do’ list: Phone dreamy, wayward daughter.
‘Christmas Eve.’ At the last possible moment. ‘I’ll be home Christmas Eve. But I’ll make my own arrangements so you can cross me off your list. I’ll talk with Richard and see what works for him.’
‘Richard has already sent through his plans.’
Without sharing them with her?
‘He emailed you? I was of kind of assuming we’d travel together.’
‘You need to stop assuming and take action, Skylar. Richard’s career is on the rise, but he still found time to respond to my email personally. Your father is impressed—and we all know he’s not easy to impress.’
Sky’s fingers tightened on the phone.
She knew. She’d been trying to impress her father for years … so far with no success.
Something tugged deep inside her.
In third grade she’d painted him a picture. It had taken days of hard, painstaking effort to produce something she thought he’d like. She’d been excited by the result.
‘Look at this, Daddy. I painted it for your office.’
He’d barely glanced at it, and the next day she’d noticed it in the trash, buried beneath empty cans and juice cartons.
She’d never drawn anything for him again.
She watched as snowflakes swirled and danced past the window and tried not to mind that Richard had apparently succeeded where she had failed.
‘He’s smart,’ her mother was saying. ‘Persuasive. Charming.’
Except when he’s under pressure. Then he was short-tempered and far from charming. But that wasn’t a side he showed to the voting public or to her family.
She stirred in her seat, feeling guilty for not being more understanding.
This was his dream, and she knew how it felt to have a dream.
Richard Everson had nurtured ambitions of running for office since childhood. The occasional burst of irritability at this point was understandable.
Her mother was still talking. ‘You’re lucky to have found a man like him, but you won’t hang on to him if you’re dreamy and romantic. Relationships require application and hard work.’
And that, Skylar thought, was exactly how her parents’ marriage had always seemed to her. Work. More corporate merger than loving union.
Was that really what love was?
She hoped not.
‘When is he arriving?’
‘Christmas Eve in time for lunch. He’ll be excellent at this sort of event.’
Event?
‘It’s Christmas, Mom.’
‘I thought you would finally have grown out of romanticising the holidays.’ Her mother sounded impatient. ‘Your father has given a great deal of thought to the guest list. There are influential people attending. People who will be useful to Richard’s career.’
Not friends or family. People of influence.
‘Anyone I know?’
‘The list was attached to the email Stephanie sent. I hope you take the time to prepare.’
‘Preparing’ involved absorbing and memorising pages of notes on each individual. Likes, dislikes, t
opics to be avoided at all costs.
Even at Christmas it was all about networking.
A wild idea flitted into her mind. Christmas in a cottage on Puffin Island. Log fire. Good wine and the company of her friends. She and Richard together, without the pressures of the outside world.
It was a dreamy idea.
It was also heresy and it was never going to happen.
‘I’m sorry you couldn’t be here, Mom.’
‘You couldn’t have picked a worse time. You’re putting a great deal of pressure on Richard. As your father said when he spoke to him earlier, expecting him to fly to London is unreasonable.’
‘Richard spoke to Dad?’
‘He called this morning.’ Her mother paused. ‘Choosing that man is the one thing in your life you’ve done right. Don’t make a mistake tonight, Skylar.’
Make a mistake about what?
‘Wait a minute—he called you?’
‘I’ve said enough. The rest is up to you. Make good choices.’
Her mother ended the call and Skylar sat for a moment, staring out of the window.
Make good choices.
Her family had never understood that, for her, art and the process of creating something tangible and beautiful, whether a pot or a necklace, wasn’t a ‘choice’. It was a need—maybe even an obsession. It came from deep inside. She had images clamouring in her head, ideas crowding her brain. Inspiration was everywhere, and there were days when she was dizzy and dazzled by possibilities.
Choice wasn’t part of it.
She could no more have given up what she did than she could have given up breathing, but her family had never understood that. Their approach to life was analytical. Their appreciation of art limited to its cultural significance or financial value.
Growing up, there had been days when she’d wondered if her parents had brought the wrong baby home from the hospital. They were good people, but she felt as if she was in the wrong house.
The phone rang again. This time it was Brittany and Emily, her friends, who were both back home on Puffin Island in Maine.