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To Have a Husband
To Have a Husband
To Have a Husband
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To Have a Husband

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An Englishman struggles to break up a wealthy woman and a deceptive blackmailer in this contemporary romance by a USA Today–bestselling author.

Harrie Summer had no choice but to spend time—too much time—with the arrogant Quinn McBride, who was determined to stop the blackmailer in his tracks. Harrie didn’t know if she could trust or believe Quinn; the only thing she was sure about was that, no matter how hard she fought against it, she found him incredibly attractive. . . .

Originally published in 2014.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 21, 2011
ISBN9781459202979
To Have a Husband
Author

Carole Mortimer

Carole Mortimer was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and seventy books for Harlequin Mills and Boon®. Carole has six sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

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    To Have a Husband - Carole Mortimer

    PROLOGUE

    ‘IF I cross your palm with silver, are you going to tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark, beautiful stranger?’

    Harriet’s second reaction to this less than respectful remark to her role as Gypsy Rosa, Fortune-teller, was—you are a tall, dark, handsome stranger!

    It had been her second reaction—because her first had been ouch!

    After being stuck in this tent at the Summer Fête most of the afternoon—a typically damp, English June afternoon—these were the first free few minutes she’d had for a much-needed cup of tea. This man walking in here without warning had caused her to spill most of the hot liquid over her hand!

    ‘You are Gypsy Rosa, aren’t you?’ the man prompted mockingly at her lack of reply.

    Lord, she hoped so, otherwise her fashion sense badly needed working on! She certainly didn’t usually wear flowery skirts that reached to her ankles, or low-necked white blouses designed to reveal rather than hide her cleavage. And her make-up wasn’t usually so garish, the red gloss on her lips matching the varnish on her nails. She also wore huge hoop earrings at her lobes, and her hair was completely covered by a bright red scarf.

    Her only saving grace, as far as she was concerned, was that the lack of lightning in the closed-in tent, as well as making it stifling hot, also made it impossible for anyone to see her properly, and so recognise her. At least, she hoped it did!

    Her sister Andie usually took over this role at the Summer Fête, and loved every minute of it, but this morning her sister had woken with the beginnings of flu. Everyone else, it seemed, already had their role to play at the fête, and so it had been left to her to—reluctantly—become Gypsy Rosa.

    Until the last few moments, it hadn’t been too difficult. She’d lived in the village most of her life, and knew all of the people who lived here, so it wasn’t too hard to predict romances, weddings, even births in some cases, and the rest of what was said she just made up to make it sound more interesting.

    Until the last few moments…

    Because even in the subdued lighting of the tent, she knew she had never seen this man before!

    Although she could obviously see he was tall. And dark. And his physique seemed to imply he was muscular as well as handsome. He was certainly a stranger, of that she was sure!

    ‘Please sit,’ she invited in the husky voice she had adopted for her role of Gypsy Rosa, indicating the chair opposite hers at the table, surreptitiously putting her mug down on the grass at her feet before wiping her wet hand on her skirt beneath the table—otherwise she would be crossing his hand with tea!

    Close up she could see him a little better; he had dark hair and light-coloured eyes, either blue or grey. His face all hard angles, his chin square and determined, he wore a dark suit and a white shirt. Well, she could tell one thing just from looking at him—the way he was dressed, he had no more expected to be at a village fête this afternoon than she had expected him to walk into her tent to have his fortune told!

    ‘It started to rain again,’ the man drawled, looking across at her, his brows raised derisively.

    Ah. In other words, he wouldn’t be in here at all if he hadn’t needed to step inside out of the rain that had dampened a lot of the afternoon!

    She held back a smile at this disclosure: at least he was honest.

    ‘I’m afraid it takes a little more than silver nowadays,’ she murmured throatily. ‘The board outside tells you it costs a pound.’

    ‘That’s inflation for you,’ he acknowledged dryly as his hand went into his trouser pocket to pull out a pound coin and place it on the table between them.

    ‘Would you pass it to me, please?’ she invited—for what had to be the fiftieth time this afternoon!

    It was amazing how many people, even though they knew it wasn’t a real ‘Gypsy Rosa’ inside this tent, still came in here hoping she would tell them some good news. Although it seemed rather sad to her that it appeared to be the lottery most people hoped to win nowadays rather than wishing for anything else good that could possibly happen to them.

    He raised his brows even further as he complied with her request, although his mouth twisted mockingly as, instead of taking the money, she took his hand into both of hers to look down intently into his palm.

    She knew absolutely nothing about palm-reading, but as the afternoon had progressed she’d realised you really could tell quite a lot about a person from their hands. And this man was no different. For one thing, his hand was quite smooth, meaning he didn’t physically work with his hands. It was also his left hand he had brought forward, a left hand bare of rings.

    She glanced up at his face beneath lowered lashes. It was a hard, indomitable face, with a touch of ruthlessness if it should prove necessary to his plans.

    No, she decided, that lack of a ring did not, in this man’s case, mean that he was unmarried; he was just a man who would resist any show of ownership, even that of a wedding ring.

    But while he obviously didn’t do physical labour with his hand, it was nevertheless a strong hand. The nails were kept deliberately short; if he was a musician he certainly wasn’t a guitar player. She remembered quite vividly from her youth having to keep the nails on one hand long so that she could pluck at the guitar strings!

    Well, she had decided what he wasn’t—now all she had to try and work out was what he was!

    Quite honestly, she didn’t have a clue. Wealthy, from the cut of his suit, and the silk material of his shirt. And, as she knew from his entrance, he was possessed of a mocking arrogance that spoke of a complete confidence in himself and his capabilities. Wealthy, then, she decided.

    But that only made his presence at a small village fête all the more an enigma!

    Or did it…?

    Perhaps not, if her guess was correct.

    She moved further over his hand, frowning down as if in deep thought. ‘I see a meeting,’ she murmured softly.

    ‘That tall, dark, beautiful stranger?’ he taunted mockingly.

    She shook her head slowly. ‘This is with another man. Although he is a stranger to you,’ she continued, frowning. ‘This meeting will take place soon. Very soon,’ she added as she felt the sudden tension in the hand she held in hers.

    ‘And?’ he prompted harshly.

    Yes—and? She had worked out by a process of elimination who this man might possibly be, and it seemed from his reaction to what she was saying that she was probably right, but what did she say to him now?

    At this moment she felt, with the rain teeming down outside, as if only the two of them existed, that the rest of the world were a long, long way away. It was almost as if—

    She blinked dazedly as the tent-flap was thrown back suddenly to admit the light—and a young lady who looked very like a drowned rat at this moment, with her red hair plastered over her face from the deluge of rain still falling outside.

    She glared at the man sitting opposite ‘Gypsy Rosa’. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she muttered accusingly, pushing the wet hair from her face.

    The man stood up, smoothly taking his hand back as he did so. ‘Well, now you’ve found me,’ he drawled unconcernedly, although his eyes—now identifiable as aqua-blue—were narrowed coldly.

    The young woman nodded. ‘I’ve come to take you up to the house.’ She indicated the umbrella in her hand—something she obviously hadn’t taken the time to use on herself on her run over here! ‘If you’ve finished here, that is?’ she added with a derisive twist of her lips.

    The man glanced back at ‘Gypsy Rosa’, those strange-coloured eyes gleaming with mocking humour. ‘Yes, I believe I’ve finished here,’ he said dismissively.

    They’d barely begun, but as ‘Gypsy Rosa’ really had nothing else to tell him, perhaps it was as well this particular fortune-telling had been interrupted!

    She stood up, holding out his pound coin. ‘I believe you’re a man who makes his own fortune,’ she murmured dryly.

    He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head, although he made no effort to take back the money she offered him. ‘Keep it to put in the fête’s funds; I believe it goes to a good cause.’

    A party for the village children, where great fun was had by all. But she was surprised he’d bothered to find that out…

    ‘Thank you.’ She dropped the money into the jar with all the other pound coins she’d collected through the afternoon.

    He turned back to the young woman standing near the entrance. ‘Then I’m ready whenever you are,’ he prompted.

    The young woman with the red hair nodded tersely, turning outside to put up the umbrella, her impatience barely contained as she waited for the man to precede her out of the tent.

    Uh-oh, ‘Gypsy Rosa’ winced inwardly as she watched the pair hurry across the lawn through the rain to the house. From her sister Danie’s behaviour towards him just then he had already done something to upset her this afternoon, and Danie certainly wouldn’t have kept that rancour to herself!

    Which boded ill for the meeting that was about to take place inside the house…!

    Talking of which, it was time that Harriet went back to being herself, and for ‘Gypsy Rosa’ to retire…

    CHAPTER ONE

    QUINN’S fingers tapped restlessly on the arm of the chair he sat in. Quite frankly, he was tired of waiting for the arrival of his host for the afternoon, Jerome Summer. Justifiably so, in his book.

    He’d been flown in by helicopter to the Summer estate earlier this afternoon. After landing on the smooth lawn that backed onto the impressive manor house, he’d been informed by the pilot that the man he had come here to meet, Jerome Summer, had been called away elsewhere, but would hopefully be back later on this afternoon.

    It had been that ‘hopefully’ that had rankled him the most about that statement. Jerome—Rome—Summer was obviously a busy man, hence this Saturday afternoon appointment in the first place, but Quinn’s time was no less valuable, and hanging around at the country fête that was being held on the estate, for most of the afternoon, was not using that time effectively as far as he was concerned.

    Besides, it was one of the most boring afternoons he had spent for a very long time!

    Well…except for the fortune-teller; she might have proved interesting. But he’d hardly begun to talk to her before being interrupted—by the red-haired virago he was quickly learning to dislike!—with instructions that he was wanted up at the house—now.

    Well, he had been up ‘at the house’ for fifteen minutes now, and Jerome Summer still hadn’t put in an appearance. Quinn should have realised that the tea tray waiting for him in the sitting-room was rather ominous!

    He would wait for another five minutes, he decided coldly, and then he would ask to be flown back to London. Which wasn’t in any way going to help solve the problem he’d come here to talk over with Jerome Summer, but at the same time Quinn refused to be treated offhandedly.

    ‘Ah, my dear Mr McBride, so sorry to have kept you waiting!’ greeted a jovial male voice seconds after Quinn had heard the door open behind him.

    The man who’d entered the sitting-room was recognisable on sight as his host, Jerome Summer. The man’s photograph as often as not adorned the pages of the newspaper Jerome owned, admittedly usually on the financial pages, about one successful business feat or another. He was tall, blond-haired, with a still boyishly handsome face despite his fifty-odd years—those photographs in no way portrayed the sheer power of the man, both physically and charismatically.

    He smiled cheerfully as Quinn slowly stood up, holding out his hand in greeting. ‘Estate business, I’m afraid,’ Rome excused his tardiness dismissively. ‘With a place this size, it’s never-ending.’ He shrugged good-naturedly.

    Quinn knew something of the other man; he never liked to meet adversaries without being at least partially briefed. Jerome Summer had bought this estate, comprising the house and extensive grounds, including a deer-park, and half the cottages in the village itself, some twenty years ago. A widower for some years, he now lived here with his three children.

    But, as Quinn also knew, those facts only told half the story. Jerome Summer was a self-made man. As the youngest son of a country doctor, he’d built up a financial empire over the last thirty years with various business enterprises, until now, aged fifty-four, he was one of the richest and most powerful men in England. And his complete ease of manner spoke of the confidence that wealth gave him.

    It also explained why he’d felt no qualms about keeping Quinn waiting about for hours; if Jerome Summer was half the man of shrewdness Quinn guessed him to be beneath that boyish charm, then he would also have done his homework on him. The McBride family, of which Quinn was now the head, chaired and was the major shareholder of one of the most prestigious banks in London. But it was a bank with which Jerome Summer had no personal or business dealings.

    ‘Ah, good, you’ve been given tea.’ Jerome Summer indicated the tea tray on the table.

    For all of Jerome Summer’s breezy attitude, Quinn was quite sure the other man was well aware of what his movements had been for the whole afternoon, tea being the last thing Jerome was interested in!

    ‘It’s probably cold by now,’ he told the other man dryly as his host poured tea into the second cup that had been on the tray when he’d arrived—giving Quinn the hope at the time that Jerome Summer himself would appear at any moment!

    The other man looked up to grin at him. ‘Believe me, over the years I’ve become used to drinking tea in all sorts of guises.’ As if to prove his point he straightened to take a swallow of the lukewarm brew.

    Quinn was becoming impatient again. He’d come here because he had something he needed to talk to this man about, something of great importance to him, and with this man acting as if he’d just called in on the off chance of being offered afternoon tea it was becoming increasingly difficult to bring the conversation round to what he wanted—needed!—to talk to Jerome Summer about.

    ‘Mr Summer—’

    ‘Please call me Rome,’ the other man invited lightly, relaxing back in one of the armchairs. ‘And do sit down, dear boy; you’re making me nervous towering over me like that!’ He laughed softly up at Quinn as he still stood.

    Quinn’s eyes narrowed. ‘I doubt that very much— Rome,’ he bit out tersely, not fooled for a moment by the other man’s apparent friendliness. And he certainly wasn’t a ‘boy’, dear or otherwise. At thirty-nine, he’d controlled the

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