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Nate was only a client
Still, Emma’s fingers twitched at the memory of that night. She’d spent half the party resisting until finally she gave in to temptation. He pressed a kiss to her fingers.
“You taste of truffles,” he’d murmured.
Had he detected the throbbing of her pulse or the racing of her heart in response to his closeness? “What else do you sense?”
“You could drive a man wild.”
Tingles like faint electrical impulses had swept through her body, and she’d pressed closer to him. His long, lean body was the shape she found most attractive in a man, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, a long neck and strong jawline faintly shaded by stubble.
The memory elicited a shiver of desire she couldn’t blame on anything but attraction—the way that stubble had felt so enticing when she kissed him.
But she’d resolved never to willingly cross his path again. So what on earth was she doing now, walking up to his front door?
Dear Reader,
Welcome to my first book for Harlequin Superromance, after a long spell writing traditional romances and romantic suspense for other Harlequin lines. I’ve always enjoyed reading Harlequin Superromance books because they explore not only a page-turning romance between a capable, modern woman and an equally strong, modern man, but we also meet their friends, family and their world. This makes the writing so much fun.
I particularly enjoyed researching the recipes Emma Jarrett—a chef—cooks for heart surgeon Nathan Hale. For some of the dishes, I reached back into childhood to the foods my mother cooked, reminding me of home, comfort and security. It’s good to see that some of the foods, like homemade sausages and meat loaf, are being reinvented in contemporary versions. It seems the more worrying daily life gets, the more comfort we seek in traditional foods—and romance. In this book I try to provide a generous helping of both.
The Bay Walk around a beautiful section of Sydney Harbour is also one I’ve done. If I have to work off my indulgences, why shouldn’t my characters? Bon appétit.
Valerie Parv
With a Little Help
Valerie Parv
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Valerie Parv always wanted to be a writer, penning her first novel in an exercise book at the age of eight. That novel resides in the State Library of New South Wales, among their collection of her papers. She’s tried her hand at many things including owning and running a coffee shop where her double chocolate fudge brownies were a big hit, but says nothing beats the sheer joy of cooking up a new romantic story.
For my cheering section, the bats, with whom brainstorming is way too much fun; for Leigh who also made brownies and talked catering with me; and for CH always.
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
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
TO EMMA JARRETT, FINDING her mother waiting in her office meant only one thing—trouble. Cherie Kenner-Jarrett didn’t venture out of the eastern suburbs of Sydney without good reason, although her reasons were seldom good for Emma.
Ignoring her mother’s tiny frown, she slid her patchwork velvet backpack off her shoulders and parked it on the desk.
“What happened to the Miu Miu bag I gave you for your birthday?” her mother asked. Cherie’s own bag was Prada as usual, Emma noted. Her charcoal suit over a frilled pink shirt had the distinctive cut of an Aloys Gada, her mother’s favorite designer.
Cherie’s hair was styled in a flawless chin-length bob with a sleek, off-center part highlighting her sea-green eyes. Emma’s hair was a lighter reddish-gold, like the last embers of sunset, but flared out in an undisciplined cloud—the reason she usually wore it twisted up and imprisoned in a bear-claw clip. A couple of extra inches in height made her look slimmer than her mother, although Cherie actually weighed a little less, watching her diet with a resolve Emma couldn’t match while working in the food business.
Since her mother sat behind the desk, Emma took the visitor’s chair, a recycled wooden kitchen chair she’d painted citrus to match the billowing folds of curtain disguising the window’s small size and view of the brick wall next door. “Your bag is too—special—for every day. This backpack is one of my own designs. The material came from a vintage velvet skirt I found at the markets. Aren’t the colors amazing?”
“Amazing,” Cherie agreed without conviction. “It’s good that you keep up with your hobby. But if it means you sold my gift online, I don’t want to know.” Her manicured hand swept across a sheet of paper in front of her. “I see the bank’s concerned about the business exceeding your overdraft limit. Why didn’t you come to me or your father?”
No point protesting about her mother’s right to read the letter, Emma knew. As a teenager growing up in Bellevue Hill, she’d never had the pleasure of opening her own mail. The letters had been neatly slit before reaching her. “In case there was something we needed to know about,” was the excuse. Emails and instant messages fared little better until Emma learned to password protect them. Then there’d been lectures about the dangers
