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The husband she never forgot
Ordered to attend a romance writers’ workshop in order to get in touch with his ‘feminine’ side, the last thing bestselling thriller writer Tom Garrick expects is to meet the woman who lied to him and broke his heart—his wife!
Mary Harrington was convinced she’d moved on from Tom, but one glimpse of her ex’s gorgeous face and she knows she’s been lying to herself! And, thanks to a hotel mix-up, she’s now sharing a room with him! Sparks fly, but will this fling be for one night only, or can they find a way towards forever?
Secret Wedding
Liz Fielding
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Begin your story at a moment of crisis, a point in time when your character’s life is about to change for ever.
—Mollie Blake’s Writing Workshop Notes
TOM GARRICK couldn’t believe he was doing this. He wrote bestselling thrillers for men. His readers didn’t want emotional guff polluting the action. Women were included for the sole purpose of providing sex and sympathy while they fixed up his hero’s wounds. And to bump up the body count. He almost smiled. Almost.
“The books are still selling really well,” his publisher had told him, “But you seem to have lost that wonderful humanity women readers loved. Get back in touch with your feminine side, Tom.” The man hadn’t been making a suggestion. He’d meant it. “Women buy a lot of books.”
Tom didn’t have a feminine side. Not any more. As for spending his weekend being lectured on how to raise the “sigh” factor in his books … He said something rude, his mood deteriorating as he manoeuvred his sports car towards the gothic pile that was the venue for a weekend workshop with bestselling romance novelist Mollie Blake.
He repeated his curse, stocking up against his entry into a sugar-pink, expletive-free zone.
Mollie Blake was not happy as she shifted gears, grinding the motor slightly. She didn’t do signings, or talk shows, and she sure as heck didn’t do workshops. But when your sweetheart of a publisher had promised a friend, had gone down on his knees, had been desperate enough to offer the loan of his precious car because it had a phone and she’d never be out of touch …
Late, she put her foot down on the accelerator.
Tom cruised the packed car park. The venue, at least, was a bonus. The hotel had once been used as a set for low-budget horror movies, and the weekend might be considerably enlivened by devising grisly literary ends for other members of the workshop. He grinned. He’d think up something really special for Ms Mollie Blake.
Mollie’s car phone rang and her heart gave a little lift as she pressed the hands-free button to answer it. “Hi, sweetheart …” Then, “Can you hold on a minute, darling? I need to park.”
Spotting a space, Tom shifted into reverse. Maybe he could get a book out of this workshop. His grin deepened as he considered a title. A Shroud in Pink Lace?
“What the—?” He was jolted out of pleasurable thoughts of mayhem and murder by an ominous thunk and the sound of breaking glass. The positive thoughts evaporated; he’d got it right the first time. This was going to be the weekend from hell.
His old Aston Martin was built like a tank and had scarcely sustained a scratch. But he’d hit a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of black Porsche and he let slip a phrase that he usually confined between the covers of his books.
“Ditto.” The woman who’d been at the wheel of the Porsche didn’t look up from her examination of the damage, but her voice gave him a moment of hope. Soft, slightly husky, the sound settled low in his vitals, stirring something that his mind reached for, but just slipped past the edge of memory …
He shrugged, let it go. And fought to contain a smile. It wasn’t all bad news. Bent over the buckled rear of the car in a short, close-fitting skirt, the lady displayed a physical framework to match all that classy German engineering. Her face was hidden by a pale curtain of silver-blonde hair that shimmered in the light spilling from the entrance to the hotel, but the rest of her was a feast to behold.
Her legs alone were enough to give a man straight-to-hell ideas—if a man was in the market for that kind of thing. She was the kind of woman that any one of his heroes would be glad to have hanging off his left arm, and maybe, in the interests of research….
“Tell me,” she asked, pre-empting him without bothering to look up, “just what kind of idiot are you?” The softness had been illusory. Not that she had raised her voice. Simply endowed it with an edge of sarcasm that would have cut through steel. Well, in her place he guessed he’d
