Millionaire Under The Mistletoe: The Playboy's Mistress / Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed / The Boss's Mistletoe Manoeuvres

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

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The Playboy’s Mistress (#ud852a80d-a343-5eee-9512-0f0e7d751d2d)

Kim Lawrence

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in Anglesey with her university lecturer husband, assorted pets who arrived as strays and never left, and sometimes one or both of her boomerang sons. When she’s not writing she loves to be outdoors gardening, or walking on one of the beaches for which the island is famous – along with being the place where Prince William and Catherine made their first home!

CHAPTER ONE (#ud852a80d-a343-5eee-9512-0f0e7d751d2d)

DARCY slid her pink feet—the bath had been very hot—into a pair of slippers and padded through the quiet flat to the phone. It was nice to have the flat to herself for once. Jennifer was a great flatmate, but she thought silence was something you filled with noise—preferably the loud, throbbing variety! Music-wise the two were not compatible.

Propping the phone against her ear, Darcy hitched the towel wrapped sarong-style, around her slender body a little tighter and waited for someone to pick up. She was just about to hang up when Jack Alexander answered the phone.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she called cheerfully down the line. ‘Is Mum around?’ She eased her bottom onto the table-top, anticipating a nice long natter.

‘I’m afraid you can’t speak to your mother, Darcy…she…she isn’t here…’

It wasn’t the news that her hyperactive mother wasn’t at home that struck Darcy as strange—her community-minded parent was on more village committees than she had fingers to count them on—it was the peculiar note that bordered on panic in her phlegmatic stepfather’s voice.

Her post-warm-bath, pre-glass-of-wine, mellow holiday mood evaporated. Darcy wasn’t psychic, but she did know Jack, and she had the nasty suspicion that the icy fingers tap-dancing up her spine knew what they were about.

Her heart was thudding as she lightly asked, ‘What is it tonight? Practice for the carol concert or the church roof committee…?’

Jack would tell her what was up in his own good time—he wasn’t the sort of man who could be hurried. An affectionate smile briefly curved her lips as her thoughts rested on the man who had married her mother—Darcy loved him to bits.

Darcy had been five and her elder brother, Nick, seven when Jack entered their lives. After a couple of years Clare had come along and then, much to everyone’s surprise, the unplanned but much loved twins. The Alexanders were a tight-knit family.

‘Neither,’ came back the strangled response.

The line between Darcy’s straight, well-defined, darkish eyebrows deepened; Jack sounded perilously close to tears. This, she reminded herself, is the man who delivered his own grandchild in the back of a Land Rover without breaking sweat. She immediately ditched tactful reticence in favour of the upfront approach.

‘What’s up, Dad?’ she asked bluntly.

‘It’s your mother…’

Anxiety grabbed Darcy’s quivering tummy muscles in an icy fist; eyes wide in alarm, she shot upright from her perch on the console table. All sorts of awful scenarios ran through her head and with some trepidation she put the most alarming of these into words.

‘Is Mum ill…?’

‘No…no, nothing like that; she’s…she’s…’

A noisy sigh of relief expelled, Darcy slid to the floor.

‘She’s gone away.’

‘Away as in…?’

‘She’s spending Christmas in a…a retreat in Cornwall.’

‘But that’s the other end of the country!’ Darcy heard herself exclaim stupidly—as if the where mattered! It was the how and why that were infinitely more important. Her spinning head struggled to make sense of what she was hearing and failed miserably. No matter what else was wrong in her life, there had always been a solid, reliable, constant…Mum… No, this just didn’t make sense—no sense at all!

‘It wouldn’t matter if it was down the road; they don’t even have a phone,’ her stepfather came back in a heavy, doom-laden tone. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do! Everyone’s asking after her. She’s making the costumes for the school Nativity play, the WI want two-hundred mince pies by Thursday… How do you make mince pies, Darcy…?’ he asked pathetically.

‘We’ve got more important things than mince pies to worry about.’ As if he needed reminding of that! ‘Have you any idea at all why has she done this, Dad? Did you have a row or something?’

‘No, nothing like that; she’d been a bit quiet lately…but you’re right; it must be my fault.’

‘Nonsense!’ Darcy meant it. The day she found a man who was half as marvellous as Jack Alexander she was going to stick to him like superglue!

‘Apparently she needs time alone. Are you still there…? Darcy…Darcy…?’