Recent titles by Wendy S. Marcus:
THE NURSE’S NOT-SO-SECRET SCANDAL
ONCE A GOOD GIRL …
WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH
These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk
Praise for Wendy S. Marcus:
‘Brimming with complex characters,
Secrets, mystery, passion, wit, intrigue and romance,
this beautifully written book has it all.’
—Romance Junkies on THE NURSE’S NOT-SO-SECRET SCANDAL
‘This is one hot book,
and it is sure to please the readers that enjoy
hot, spicy reads and a ripping fast pace.’
—Goodreads on THE NURSE’S NOT-SO-SECRET SCANDAL
‘Readers will not be able to resist the rising tension
that builds to a crescendo. Don’t be surprised if you
devour this romance in a single sitting!’
—RT Book Reviews on ONCE A GOOD GIRL …
‘Readers are bound to feel empathy for both the hero
and heroine. Each has a uniquely disastrous past and
these complications help to make the moment when
Jared and Allison are able to give their hearts
to the other all the more touching.’
—RT Book Reviews on WHEN ONE NIGHT ISN’T ENOUGH
Secrets of A Shy Socialite
By
Wendy S. Marcus
MILLS & BOON
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CRAVING HER SOLDIER’S TOUCH is dedicated to Army Specialist Adam Bivins and to men and women around the world who risk their lives to fight for the freedom of others. SECRETS OF A SHY SOCIALITE is dedicated to Mary Ritter and Stella Turk: two vibrant, courageous and strong women whom I am honored to call my friends.
With special thanks to:
My wonderful editor, Flo Nicoll, for believing in me and always helping me find my way when I veer off track.
My supportive husband, for calling from work at the end of each day to ask what he should pick up for dinner.
My three loving children, for making me proud of the wonderful people they are growing up to be. I am truly blessed.
CHAPTER ONE
IF THERE was an easy way to explain why she’d impersonated her identical twin sister, lured a man into bed under semi-false pretenses, then left town without a word to anyone, and not come off sounding like an insincere, inconsiderate, immoral hussy, it required more brain power and finesse than Jena Piermont had at her disposal.
“You’ve been home for two weeks,” Jaci, Jena’s twin, said, leaning back on the sofa and lifting her fuzzy-slippered feet onto the coffee table. “I think I’ve been pretty patient, but it’s time for answers.”
Past time. Where had she been? Why did she leave? How long would she be staying? And the biggie: whose genetic contribution was partly responsible for her adorable six-week-old twin baby girls? Jaci didn’t know enough to ask about the impersonation part of Jena’s explanation dilemma. Soon enough.
“I’m almost done.” Jena arranged the baked brie and slices of crusty French baguette on two large plates and added them to the tray holding the crudité and pâté de foie gras. Never let it be said that Jena Piermont, of the Scarsdale, New York, Piermonts, was not a consummate hostess. Even while hosting her own fall from grace.
Now, to reveal the truth before the other invitees arrived at their little pow-wow. Unfortunately the news she most wanted to share, to discuss with her sister and get her advice on—the real reason she’d returned to town and would be staying for a few weeks—had to remain secret. If everything went as planned, fingers crossed, she could pull it off without Jaci ever finding out.
Jena swallowed then used a napkin to blot the unladylike clamminess from her palms. Grace under pressure. She inhaled a fortifying breath, lifted the tray and carried it to the coffee table. “Move your feet.” She arranged the delectable treats beside the sparkling water and bottled beer.
Justin liked his beer.
“Stop,” Jaci said. “You always do this when you get nervous. Flit around, straightening up, preparing snacks.”
Jena dropped the pillow she’d been in the process of plumping and rearranging on the loveseat.
“Just sit down.” Jaci patted the sofa beside her. “Tell me why you’ve been so quiet lately. What has you so upset? Before the guys get here.”
The guys. Jena considered excusing herself and running to the bathroom to vomit. But that would waste precious time. So she sat. She could do this, would do this. “I love you,” she reminded Jaci.
“I love you, too,” Jaci said, studying her. “Why do you look like you’ve got an olive stuck in your throat?”
Because that’s how she felt. Okay. No sense putting it off any longer. Tonight was the night. “Justin is the father,” Jena blurted out, her gaze fixed on her lap. “Of the twins,” she clarified—as if clarification was needed.
Usually talkative Jaci sat mute.
Jena peered over at her. “Say something,” she prompted.
“I’m
