Bridegroom On Loan

Bridegroom On Loan
Emma Richmond

Carrie Dean had fallen for Andrew Beckford–Beck–the first moment she'd set eyes on him. She thought her new boss was attracted to her, too, but Beck already had a girlfriend–the blond, petite and glamorous Helena. What could he possibly see in plain old Carrie?Only, now Helena has left. And Beck is technically single, definitely sexy and Carrie's for the taking! But she's afraid that Beck is only temporarily hers until Helena returns. Carrie is determined to keep her bridegroom-on-loan–but when will Beck realize that she is the one most worthy of his love…?

“I’m not free, Carrie.”

“She left you…. And I want to kiss you. Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you? I need you,” Carrie cried. “All my life I’ve waited for someone like you! It can’t be wrong! How can it be wrong, Beck?”

Moving toward him, body shaking, she touched her hands to his rigid shoulder.

He watched what she was doing, unmoving, and then he turned his head toward her. He was so close, her mouth a bare inch from his, and his eyes looked as if they were smoldering in the flickering light. She parted her lips as though unable to help it, and so he kissed her. And restraint shattered.

Emma Richmond was born during the Second World War in north Kent, England, when she says, “farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

Books by Emma Richmond

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

3505—ONE BRIDE REQUIRED!

3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS

Bridegroom on Loan

Emma Richmond

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

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE (#u82e280a3-b6a2-56fb-8694-cf0ea4e4e1b6)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf273436b-ebb1-5eb8-9289-3e4d8f335d51)

CHAPTER THREE (#udc46510c-4401-55ea-8a4a-d3a936da9a20)

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)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

THE M23 was coned off all the way to Gatwick, or had been—the wind was playing absolute havoc with the presumably once tidy contraflow arrangement which forced everyone to drive on the hard shoulder. Everyone? There was only herself and that lunatic lorry driver behind her. Well, if he thought she was going to speed up, he was mistaken. Driving in the dark was bad enough. Driving in the dark on a narrow, coned-off lane with the strong wind nudging the car sideways every few seconds and the lorry’s headlights dazzling her was the stuff of nightmares. And if he got any closer he would be in her boot!

Maniac, Carenza muttered to herself. What had happened to knights of the road? Once upon a time drivers had been kind, thoughtful, helpful. Not this idiot. As she neared the airport turn-off, the coning ended and the lorry thundered past her with a whoosh of displaced air. Watching his tail-lights disappear, she felt suddenly abandoned, and gave a disgruntled smile. Perverse, Carrie. Very perverse. And if she hadn’t forgotten her notebook she wouldn’t have needed to drive in the dark. Or in a hurricane, which was what it felt like.

Hastily over-correcting as another strong gust punched the side of the car, she was so busy concentrating on keeping straight, she missed the turn-off, and, like a fool, took the next one, stupidly assuming that it would take her back to where she wanted to go. It didn’t, and she drove on too long, searching for a familiar sign instead of turning round and going back. But the road must come out somewhere.

Calm down, she adjured herself. Relax. Just take it slow. This was West Sussex, not some forgotten outpost, and all roads must eventually lead to a town. Horsham wasn’t that far away. Not that anyone would ever have known it, because there were no lights to be seen at all, which seemed crazy when she was in striking distance of at least two motorways and a busy airport.

Turning left at the next junction for the simple reason that it felt right, she drove into the forest. Glancing nervously at the trees that surrounded her, trees that were being thrashed into a frenzy, she really did begin to think that she should go home, and ring Beck in the morning. The wind was definitely getting worse. Small branches began to litter the road ahead, swept along in a crazy dance, and the car that always felt so comforting now began to feel very fragile. She remembered all too well the last storm to hit Britain, the damage it had caused, but surely, surely, the weathermen would have been more on their toes this time?

You didn’t watch the news, Carenza. And although it had been windy when she’d left home it hadn’t been anything like this. A bit late now to berate herself for a fool…Her headlights washed over an old building and she hastily braked to a halt. She couldn’t tell whether it was empty, or abandoned, but it was certainly closed up. An old pub. The Muted Dragon. And absolutely no help to her at all.

Driving on, she reached a crossroads, and, thankfully, a sign. Horsham was to the right, and so the best thing would be to drive there. She knew her way to Beck’s place from Horsham.

Feeling more confident, she picked up speed, passed tall gates with the words Dragon’s Rest picked out in gold, and she gave a small smile. What was with the dragons?

A small animal ran across the road in front of her, startling her. A fox maybe, or a rabbit—and then, over and above the noise of the engine and the wind, she heard a roaring, like an express train thundering out of control.

Frightened, she glanced frantically round—and didn’t believe what she was seeing. Trees, magnificent old trees that had been standing for hundreds of years, were being toppled like wheat.

And she was right in their path.

Realising that she had eased her foot off the accelerator, she hastily jammed it back down, but it was too late. The roaring became a shriek, as though all the furies of hell were chasing her. Then the tree to her right, just a little way in front of her, didn’t merely topple, it was viciously uprooted. She knew that accelerating wouldn’t save her, braking wouldn’t save her, but she tried anyway.

It hit just behind her head and she frantically threw herself sideways, tucked her upper half into the well of the passenger seat as the giant trunk slowly, and inexorably, crushed the flimsy metal above her.

CHAPTER TWO

BENT in half, eyes screwed shut, arms outstretched, breath held, she waited. She could almost feel the weight of it, almost hear the settling of tortured metal, but not quite. Not above the howling of the wind that was now not only outside the car, but in.

Cautiously opening her eyes, she squinted sideways. From what she could see, which wasn’t very much, the tree had crushed the door and the back of the seat and now lay at an angle above her. Not touching her, but an inch or so above her hunched back. The car roof had been crumpled, the windscreen and side windows were gone and glass was showered across her thighs. The odd thing was, she felt quite objective about it all. Not panicky, or hysterical, just objective. She wasn’t hurt—at least, she didn’t think she was. Cramped, lying awkwardly, but not hurt. It was also like being in a wind tunnel. Dust and grit were whirled about her and she had to squint her eyes shut to avoid damage.

She was an independent girl, used to fending for herself, and it didn’t even occur to her that she might wait until someone came along to help.

Cautiously raising her head, she encountered metal, and lowered it again. The gear lever was digging into her hip. She shifted slightly, the car groaned, and she lay still.

The tree was heavy, she told herself, so the car wasn’t going anywhere. She also thought that the tree had done all the crushing it was going to do. So…

She tried to lever her feet up on what was left of the driver’s seat, and couldn’t. Tried to wriggle out from under the crushed metal, and couldn’t. Curved over like a bow, face down, she was effectively stuck—unless she could push the seat back.

Her long dark hair hanging over her face, shoulders hunched, she groped under the seat to locate the lever, pulled—and the seat shot back with the force of a rocket. Dumped head-first on the floor, she cursed, then swore as the car alarm went off.

This was silly.

And why was it, she wondered, that the English always considered how they looked before considering how they felt? Weird.

She managed to get her upper half on to the cushion, managed to lower the seat back—and then wondered whether you could actually open a hatchback from the inside. Well, she decided crossly as she struggled to free herself, if she couldn’t she would just have to wait until someone came! Which probably wouldn’t be until it got light, or the storm blew itself out. Which didn’t sound imminent, although that terrifying roaring and shrieking had gone. A tornado? That was how it had seemed in those few jumbled impressions she’d had before the tree struck. Not that she’d ever seen a tornado first hand, only on news reports, and certainly never in England.

‘And will you shut up?’ she yelled at the car alarm.