In the Boss's Castle

by Jessica Gilmore

  And at that moment the aria she loved so much began to swell out all around them, the guests got to their feet and Kit turned, met a pair of sparkling green eyes and was lost once again.

  * * *

  Maddison hadn’t wanted to be given away—after all, she didn’t have anyone to ask—so instead of leaning on someone else’s arm she was clasping a small hand. It might not be customary for the bride and her flower girl to walk down the aisle hand in hand but Savannah wasn’t just a flower girl, she was her little sister. She was hope. Testament that people could change, that the future was unwritten.

  The small hand tugged at hers and Maddison bent down.

  ‘Kit looks really handsome,’ her small sister whispered and Maddison dropped a kiss on the fair curls, careful not to disturb the carefully arranged flowers. ‘I know,’ she whispered back.

  He didn’t look as formally handsome as he had in Kilcanon, clad in the black and green family tartan, but she liked the soft grey linen suit almost as much, just as she loved this flowing, simple lace dress she was wearing as much as the corseted, fuller wedding gown she had worn in Scotland. No veil this time, just fresh flowers in her hair, her feet bare as she walked through the sand towards the sea, towards her groom, towards her future.

  She couldn’t believe that it was all real. That this was her life now. The sand squished beneath her bare toes, the sea rippled just a few metres away and the sun beat steadily down, but it all felt like a dream. A perfect dream. It wasn’t the future she’d thought she’d wanted but it was a million times better.

  Maddison had kept her job at DL Media for the first few months of their engagement while Kit juggled freelance editing with revitalizing the Buchanan estate, but he had asked her advice so often she had ended up taking a formal role in Scotland, overseeing all the marketing of the estate and its various subsidiaries. It meant spending the bulk of the year in Scotland but Kit had promised they would always return to the beachside cottage here in Bayside for the summers, for Thanksgiving and any other time she wanted to see her sister, and Maddison loved the dramatic Scottish coastline. It felt like home.

  The music died down as she reached the end of the aisle and she let go of Savannah’s hand, offering hers to Kit instead. How could she feel so shy? Almost unable to look him in the eye. They were already married, after all! But here she was, standing here, in front of the community she had hidden from, run from and returned to, promising once again to worship Kit body and soul and listening to his steady voice promise her the same.

  The official closed her book and smiled. ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.’

  Kit’s eyes darkened with intent and Maddison’s pulse began to race. Their friends and family were all on their feet, clapping, but the sound died away as the blood pounded in her ears and the world narrowed until all she could see was Kit. ‘My favourite part,’ he murmured as he stepped closer. Maddison quivered as his hands lightly caressed her bare shoulders and he leaned in to brush her mouth with his. She closed her eyes and fell into the deepening kiss, pulling him closer, not wanting the moment to end.

  She’d never thought that girls like her would get a happily ever after but today, in this moment, she was more than happy for Kit to prove her wrong—and to keep proving her wrong. Forever.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, look for Hope’s story, coming soon!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from ONE WEEK WITH THE FRENCH TYCOON by Christy McKellen.

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  One Week with the French Tycoon

  by Christy McKellen

  CHAPTER ONE

  Arriving in Amalfi—a most lively and dramatic town in which to begin your journey...

  WHEN INDIGO HUGHES had spent long hours daydreaming about her walking holiday along the Amalfi Coast of Southern Italy, this wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned.

  Luggageless—after the airline had inexplicably sent her backpack containing her carefully organised walking gear to goodness knew where instead of Naples—and apparently dispossessed, because of a foul-up on the computer with her hotel booking, she was now facing the reality of spending the first night of her much anticipated holiday sleeping rough on the streets of Amalfi.

  Whilst she wasn’t averse to roughing it—she’d travelled to enough festivals and partaken in enough camping trips for that not to be an issue—she’d been looking forward to falling into a comfortable bed after a crazy week of late nights and early mornings, and was not in the mood to laugh this off.

  ‘But my ex-boyfriend booked a room in this hotel months ago,’ she explained again to the receptionist, her voice now projecting the disconcerting characteristic of a crow with a sore throat.

  The intimidatingly poised receptionist pursed her blood-red lips and tightened her arms across her impressive cleavage. ‘I’m sorry, Signorina. As I said, I have no record of your booking and we are fully booked. If you had the documents to prove it, or even the credit card it was booked with, I could perhaps do something for you, but as it is...’ From the look on her face, she clearly wasn’t keen on having someone as scruffy as Indigo messing up her beautifully appointed five-star hotel reception desk whilst also challenging her competency.

  Panicky heat rushed to Indigo’s face. ‘As I explained, my ex-boyfriend booked the room so I don’t have the credit card or documents. I assumed a booking reference number would be enough.’

  The woman’s helpless shrug, then her overemphasised shift in eye contact to the next person in line, tipped Indigo over the edge of frustration into fiery indignation. But before she could draw breath there was a movement behind her and a tall man in a beautifully cut casual suit stepped forwards to stand next to her at the desk.

  ‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ he interjected smoothly, his fresh, spicy scent hitting her nose at the exact same moment his eyes locked with hers.

  Indigo had never related to the expression of being ‘swept off her feet’ by a man before, but that was exactly how she felt right now. As if the power of his presence had physically lifted her into the air, her internal organs quivering as if she were in free fall. She gazed up at him, his unusual combination of whisky-brown eyes and sandy-blond hair keeping her transfixed as her pulse beat
an enthusiastic rhythm in her throat. But apparently she didn’t capture his interest in the same way because, after giving her a curt nod, he turned sharply away, bringing her back down to earth with a thump.

  ‘I have a reservation,’ he said to the receptionist in a deep, smoky, French-accented voice, which made Indigo think of the actors in the Gallic art house films she’d been so in love with during her college days.

  Lounging against the desk, he held up his smartphone so the receptionist could see the screen and type the booking reference into her computer.

  Indigo looked from one to the other in disbelief. She seemed to have been well and truly dismissed.

  Something she’d become rather too familiar with recently.

  Before she could open her mouth again to point out that they were both being utterly rude and that she wasn’t going to be ignored like this, the receptionist shook her head and looked up at the Frenchman, her expression projecting a lot more contrition than when she’d dealt with Indigo.

  ‘I’m sorry, Signor, I don’t have a record of your booking.’

  ‘That’s not possible. Check again, please,’ the man replied in a tone that clearly brooked no argument.

  Indigo watched with a sense of self-righteous vindication as the receptionist typed the number in again, then checked something else on another screen, her shoulders stiffening as she finally accepted there was a problem with the booking system.

  She seemed a little pale when she looked back up at him. ‘My apologies, Signor,’ she breathed. ‘I don’t know what could have happened. It appears there was a glitch with the computer and I’ve given your room away. I only have the honeymoon suite available now, but it would be my pleasure to let you stay there tonight. We will correct the mistake by tomorrow and I will have your original suite available for you then.’

  Indigo frowned as she twigged what was going on.

  ‘Hang on a second. Why didn’t you offer me the honeymoon suite? I was here first!’ she protested, feeling a cocktail of humiliation and umbrage warm her face again.

  The woman’s gaze slid to hers. ‘Because the gentleman booked a suite, Signorina, so this room is more in his...category.’ She gave Indigo a tight little smile as if to say, That’s not the word I was grasping for, but you get the message.

  ‘Okay—’ the Frenchman began in his smooth, lyrical accent.

  But even the strength of his charisma couldn’t keep the bubble of anger from rising through Indigo’s body.

  ‘Really?’ she spluttered, taking a step back to run a critical gaze over his long, lean body. ‘You’re really going to take the room when you can plainly see that I was here first!’

  He turned to look at her again, his expression giving nothing away as his heavy-lidded gaze swept over her face.

  She felt exposed, almost naked under his scrutiny, and had to fight not to wrap her arms around her body for protection against it. Locking her jaw, she stared him out, knowing from experience that not backing down was the only way she was going to get what she wanted. Or, in this case, what she needed—a comfortable bed for the night. Which had already been paid for!

  A muscle twitched in the Frenchman’s jaw as he kept his gaze fixed on hers. He really did have the most striking face, with prominent high-set cheekbones and a broad masculine brow above those mesmerising eyes. What was it about French men that made them so unutterably sexy? The ones she’d met throughout her life had all had the same confident, direct gaze that made her feel simultaneously appraised and giddily unnerved. It was as though he was scrutinising the whole of her exterior whilst also looking deep inside her.

  The feeling of being so thoroughly examined made her whole body tingle.

  She stared harder at him to combat her dip in concentration.

  Something flashed in his eyes and the corner of his mouth lifted fractionally. Was he amused by her determination to win?

  Scowling as frustration pricked at her skin, she opened her mouth to restate her case—but he beat her to it.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said bluntly. ‘You must have the room.’

  Indigo blinked at him in surprise, snapping her mouth shut. This, she had not expected.

  ‘Oh! Okay.’ She frowned, a little dazed by how easy that had been. ‘Really?’

  Sighing, he ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. ‘To be honest, mademoiselle, I’m too tired to argue. It’s been—’ he winced, his expression turning troubled ‘—an intense day for me and I want to relax before starting my walk tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait—you’re walking the coast too?’ she asked in surprise. Looking at him, standing there in his expensive suit with his designer bags sitting prettily at his feet, she’d imagined he was here to do some upmarket sightseeing in the town, or perhaps conduct a high-powered business meeting in the hotel.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners as he half frowned, half smiled. ‘Is that so unlikely?’ he asked, his voice tinged with playful irony.

  The bottom fell out of her stomach. ‘No! No, I guess not.’

  ‘Anyway, what kind of a man would I be to leave a lady stranded in a strange town in the middle of the night?’

  Something about the way he said this, with a twist of wry humour, stopped her from telling him she didn’t need a man’s help—that she’d managed perfectly well on her own for the last three months without one, despite the challenges she’d faced.

  ‘But, Signor, there are no other rooms available in Amalfi!’ the receptionist cut in before Indigo could form a reply. ‘It’s a busy time and all the hotels in the town are booked up. I know this because I’ve already phoned around for another traveller.’

  The Frenchman turned to face her. ‘You’re telling me you can’t find me an alternative room for the night?’ he stated with unnerving calm.

  She shrank away from his gaze, suddenly seeming a lot less self-assured than she had a few minutes ago. ‘Yes, Signor, I’m so sorry,’ she said, her swallow appearing to catch in her throat. ‘I’ll be able to give you the suite you booked from tomorrow, but tonight there aren’t any other rooms available—’

  ‘This is unacceptable,’ he said quietly, but with a girder of steel to his voice. ‘I do not expect this level of incompetence from an establishment like this. Fetch your manager.’

  The receptionist’s shoulders tensed as if she’d balled her fists and her eyes widened. ‘I can’t disturb him—he is sleeping right now and has given strict instructions not to be woken—’

  ‘I don’t care. Get him.’ He leant forward, pressing his hands against the desk. ‘Now.’

  ‘Please, Signor, I’ll lose my job,’ she whispered. ‘I’m new here and I can’t afford to make any mistakes.’ Her brow tensed as her eyes took on a look of abject panic.

  The desperation in her voice made Indigo’s stomach tighten as a wave of pity washed over her. She could see by the way the young woman’s eyes had pooled with impending tears that she was both terrified of her boss and totally inexperienced in dealing with this level of cold assertiveness from a customer.

  ‘Describe the suite to me,’ Indigo blurted to the receptionist before the Frenchman could respond.

  The receptionist turned to stare at her in surprise before recovering quickly, using the question as a lifeline to pull her professional self back to safety. ‘There is a beautifully appointed bedroom with a super king-sized bed and an en suite bathroom—’

  ‘Does the bedroom door have a lock?’ Indigo asked.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Frenchman turn to stare at her in baffled disbelief. She ignored him.

  ‘Yes, Signorina,’ the receptionist replied, looking confused to have her patter broken into with such an odd question, ‘and the separate living area has the latest entertainment system—’

  ‘And a large sofa?’ Indigo cut in again.

>   The receptionist blinked hard and frowned, then her expression softened with a mixture of relief and gratitude as she realised where Indigo was going with this. This time she didn’t falter with her answer. ‘Absolutely! It is very comfortable—large enough to fully stretch out on. There is also a separate bathroom with a whirlpool tub and a waterfall shower.’

  Indigo nodded decisively. ‘Okay then, we’ll share it.’

  ‘What?’ The word jumped from the Frenchman’s mouth as if he’d not been able to stop it.

  She took a breath and turned to face his incredulous gaze. ‘I’ll take the sofa in the living room, you can have the bedroom; that way we both get to sleep tonight.’

  The Frenchman’s brow crinkled in disdain. ‘Non. Thank you, but I don’t think that’s appropriate.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t bite, you know.’

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t, but it seems improper to ask you to share your room with a strange man.’

  ‘You don’t seem that strange to me.’ She cast him a smile, which he begrudgingly returned, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘But, seriously, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind sharing and I’d hate to feel responsible for this woman losing her job.’

  He flapped his hand, dismissing her concern. ‘It wouldn’t be your fault.’

  She looked him hard in the eye. ‘But I’d still blame myself and it would ruin my holiday. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like you have a better option.’

  He gave a gentle snort and shook his head, wearily rubbing his hand over his forehead, as he appeared to give her suggestion some serious consideration. ‘Are you sure you’re happy to do this?’ he asked, his eyes dark with indecision.