Lovestruck

Lovestruck
CHARLOTTE LAMB

You remember, last night? At the party? When you proposed to me?"Proposed…  Sam hoarsely repeated, going pale. Natalie gave him a dewy look. "Yes. You went down on your knees, in front of them all… ." "On my… " he breathed, with incredulity and horror. "Knees." She nodded."And asked me to marry you. You put your signet ring on my finger and said it would do until we could get to a jeweler's to choose a real engagement ring, a sapphire to match my eyes. You remember, don't you, Sam?"

The morning after... (#ub649b114-de88-57d4-a7cb-97bd96420d18)About the Author (#u40477b9d-d2df-5ae0-ae52-222f34909114)Title Page (#u9e62b3ff-95d8-5afb-8411-41e097aee010)CHAPTER ONE (#u84eb6393-fee7-5f4f-8d7d-32ece1bf2bf4)CHAPTER TWO (#u4c29667c-3d5f-5142-af27-2c125236bb61)CHAPTER THREE (#u8219d927-41bc-5075-b298-b78298f414d4)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

The morning after...

When Natalie had first begun working for Sam Erskine, he had tried to date her and she had turned him down cold. Sam had accepted that—Natalie was far too good at her job for him to risk seducing her.

But when Sam, a little worse for wear, proposed to Natalie at a party, she decided to play him along and pretend she believed that he meant it. The next morning, Sam had a giant headache; the last thing he wanted to be was engaged! Natalie wasn’t herself, either. However, this dizzy, weak feeling she got whenever Sam was near was no hangover—she was lovestruck!

CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of the war moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb has written over a hundred books for Harlequin Presents.

Lovestruck

Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE walked in through the swing doors to find the reception lobby already crowded. Waiting fans buzzed with interest, staring at her slender figure, smooth dark hair and quiet, restrained clothes before deciding she was nobody famous or important and taking no more notice of her. They were mostly hanging around to catch one of the radio station’s biggest stars, Johnny Linklater, whose blown-up, grainy photograph stared down from the -walls on either side of the reception desk.

A tall, rangy, carelessly graceful man in his midthirties, Johnny had a charm that hid a multitude of sins. His fans were oblivious of his flaws, of course; for them Johnny was perfect.

They should have seen him last night! thought Natalie, signing in for work. He had been incandescent, knee-deep in pretty girls, looking terrific in black leather jeans and matching knee-length boots, a scarlet silk shirt open at his tanned neck. Pure Hollywood. But all that glitter hadn’t hidden from those who knew him really well a hectic desire to forget that the party celebrated his birthday, a day Johnny always dreaded.

Its arrival meant that another year had flashed past and he was one more year further on towards middle age. His birthday parties were acts of defiance. Behind his brilliant smile and light-hearted charm, Johnny was desperate, terrified of getting old, and although he could sometimes be irritating Natalie could forgive him a great deal for that secret vulnerability. It made him so much more human.

‘Lovely morning out there, Susie,’ Natalie said, exchanging smiles with the girl sitting behind the reception desk, a pretty blonde of about twenty, with round, saucer-like hazel eyes, who had only been working there for a few months and was still unable to believe her luck in getting the job. Natalie could remember how that felt. She, herself, had been over the moon at getting a job at the radio station when she’d started, but that had been three years ago; she was no longer starry-eyed these days—she had discovered that stars were just human beings under all the glitter.

Checking the time Natalie had written beside her name, Susie looked at her watch, then said, in disbelief, ‘You’re late!’

‘So I am,’ Natalie said cheerfully, amused by Susie’s incredulity. Okay, she was normally one of the first to arrive, but why shouldn’t she be late once in a blue moon? Nobody was perfect.

Adding two and two and reaching the obvious conclusion, Susie enviously asked, ‘Good party last night?’

Natalie’s blue eyes gleamed with reminiscence. ‘I had a lot of fun, thank you.’

‘Who with? Not Johnny?’ Susie at once asked, eyes brimming with curiosity, but Natalie was not being drawn.

Laughing, she walked off to the lifts, knowing that Susie would soon hear about it; the news would be all round the radio station in an hour or two. Gossip spread like wildfire here, and a lot of the staff had been at Johnny Linklater’s party last night. He had invited everyone who worked on his show, from the production staff to the girls in the programme office, as well as all the executives, including the head of the station, Sam Erskine, and Natalie, who was Sam’s secretary.

Once the others got to work this morning they would talk of nothing else, but Natalie had no intention of joining in. Discretion was an important part of her job; she knew a lot of secrets and never let a single one slip. She would never have held down her job so long otherwise.

Her office was on the top floor with a view across the town to the sea. A hush hung over the entire corridor this morning, although normally phones were ringing and voices arguing from one end to the other. Most people on this executive floor had been at the party and would still be struggling in to work.

As she’d expected there was no sign of her boss yet, although Sam Erskine was usually there when she arrived each morning; he seemed to come to work at crack of dawn. He worked a twelve-hour day five days a week, and often on Saturdays, too, and he expected his secretary to work almost as hard—to get there early and go home late, like himself. This morning, though, she had been certain he would be late. He must have the hangover of the century, and serve him right.

Natalie began her usual morning routine at once: switched on her word processor, collected the mail from the in-tray, where it had been delivered by the boy from the mail room, and began opening letters, reading through them, sorting them into various piles in order of importance and urgency. The telephone began to ring a few minutes later and the fax machine chattered away from time to time.

The calls were all for her boss, of course; she scribbled messages on her pad, answered questions, fielded enquiries deftly without admitting that Sam wasn’t yet at work. He expected the utmost discretion from her and she knew he would not want anyone to know he was in late that morning.

At a quarter past ten Natalie got a call from a friend in the advertising department who hadn’t been at the party last night. Gaynor’s voice was breathless with excitement.

‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’ hedged Natalie, although she knew exactly what Gaynor was talking about and couldn’t help smiling. But as Gaynor couldn’t see her that didn’t matter.

‘Oh, come off it, Nat, you know what I’m talking about...the party last night? I just saw Johnny’s producer, and she told me Sam had...’

Natalie heard a sound outside her office and hurriedly said, ‘Sorry, Gaynor, somebody coming in...can’t talk now, see you later.’

She hung up, but it wasn’t Sam, it was only one of the producers, who hurried in asking urgently, ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘He isn’t around at the moment, Red,’ fenced Natalie.

‘Hangover?’ She should have remembered that James Moor had been at the party last night. He was not much taller than she was, a cheerful, energy-burning man in his early thirties, with eyes the colour of chestnuts and a shock of bright red hair, hence his nickname.

She shrugged, not answering.

‘Poor Sam. I wonder how much he remembers?’ Red said, grinning at her. ‘Well, get him to give me a buzz, will you, when he does show?’

He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. Natalie glanced at her watch. It was half-past ten now, but Sam still hadn’t shown up. Was he coming in to work at all today? Or was he hiding under his duvet wondering how to get himself out of trouble?

‘Mr Erskine’s office,’ Natalie said, picking up the receiver, and heard a high-pitched female voice she instantly recognised.

‘I want to talk to him!’ it shrilled.

I bet you do, thought Natalie, but said in a blank, polite voice, ‘I’m sorry, he isn’t in the office at the moment. Can I take a message?’

Furiously, the voice shrieked, ‘You mean he doesn’t want to talk to me!’

‘Who shall I tell him called?’ Natalie said in her creamiest tone, smiling to herself as she pictured the other woman’s expression. Helen West was a singer, a vibrant redhead, whose career had never quite got anywhere but who always behaved as if she were a big star. She had a temper as hot as her hair.

‘You know damned well who it is!’ Helen West yelled. ‘And you can tell him from me he isn’t getting out of it by hiding behind you. He’s going to regret doing this to me! And so are you—don’t worry!’

The phone slammed down and Natalie winced. Replacing the receiver, she looked at the clock. Twenty to eleven—where was he? Probably Helen West was right and Sam was hiding. From both of them. As well he might!

But he had a couple of really important appointments—he would have to show up sooner or later. Unless he had fled the country? No, he wouldn’t do that. He would be here sooner or later.

She couldn’t wait.

On going to bed the night before, Sam Erskine had automatically set his alarm for seven o’clock, as usual, but had slept through the peremptory ringing, which had finally died away leaving him to sleep on and on. It was well after ten when he finally stirred and turned over, yawning.

Opening one eye, he hurriedly shut it again as light blazed into it. ‘Ohhhh...’ he groaned, putting a hand to his thudding head.

After a moment he cautiously opened his eye again and looked at the clock, letting out a grunt of disbelief—what on earth was he doing, still in bed at this hour? It wasn’t Sunday, was it? Warily he opened his other eye and sat up, groaning again as the movement increased the thudding in his head; he felt as if someone was heating a gong inside his scalp, sending shock waves through the rest of him.