From Paris With Love This Christmas. Jules Wake

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Chapter 10

      

       Chapter 11

      

       Chapter 12

      

       Chapter 13

      

       Chapter 14

      

       Chapter 15

      

       Chapter 16

      

       Chapter 17

      

       Chapter 18

      

       Chapter 19

      

       Chapter 20

      

       Chapter 21

      

       Chapter 22

      

       Chapter 23

      

       Chapter 24

      

       Chapter 25

      

       Chapter 26

      

       Chapter 27

      

       Chapter 28

      

       Chapter 29

      

       Chapter 30

      

       Chapter 31

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       Coming Soon from Jules Wake

      

       Also by Jules Wake

      

       Jules Wake

      

       About HarperImpulse

      

       About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

      Far below, the bends in the river Thames were outlined by the lights of the city, shimmering and winking through the thinning clouds like elusive diamonds. Siena’s fingers clutched the armrest as the knots in her stomach tightened.

      ‘You OK?’ asked the older woman next to her in a soft drawl of an American accent. ‘Nervous flyer?’

      Ever since they’d left Charles de Gaulle airport, Siena had been convinced her next seat neighbour was Mary Steenburgen but it wouldn’t have been cool to initiate conversation with a celebrity if you let on you knew who they were.

      ‘Nervous,’ Siena laughed, the pitch a little too high. She was absolutely bloody terrified, but it had nothing to do with the flight. ‘No. This is hardly a flight is it?’ She put on her best twinkly, smiley face. ‘Straight up. Straight down.’ She had enough air miles to get to the moon and back. Her third set of Louis Vuitton luggage was looking positively shabby these days.

      ‘Been to London before?’

      That gentle voice. This woman had to be her.

      ‘Once or twice.’

      ‘Sorry you’re British. Stupid question. I can tell from your accent. You going home for Christmas?’

      Stoopid, as ‘perhaps Mary’ pronounced it, wasn’t so stupid. Officially, Siena was as British as Marmite and Twinings tea which Maman insisted on having for breakfast every day, but she’d lived most of her life in France. She thought she felt French but then how would she know if what she felt was French or English? Sometimes, quite often really, she had no idea what she should feel about a lot of things.

      ‘No I’m going to stay with my sister. I have to be back in France for Christmas,’ she blurted out. Back at the Chateau for Harry’s sixtieth birthday party on the twenty-third. She looked at her watch and worried at her lip. They’d have missed her by now. The dinner reservation was for eight thirty. Yves, her almost fiancé, would be cross, her mother furious and Harry, her stepfather, disappointed perhaps.

      ‘How lovely, dear.’ Mary’s face dimpled with a gentle smile. ‘I love spending time with my sister.’

      Siena

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