Mistletoe Seductions: A Mistletoe Proposal / Midnight Under the Mistletoe / Wedding Date with Mr Wrong

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)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

A Mistletoe Proposal (#ulink_5e91bc38-d9a7-5908-8a0c-efdd78f8f6a0)

LUCY GORDON cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men. She’s had many unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books. Once, while staying in Venice, she met a Venetian who proposed in two days and they’ve been married ever since. Naturally this has affected her writing, in which romantic Italian men tend to feature strongly.

Two of her books have won a Romance Writers of America RITA

Award.

You can visit her website at lucy-gordon.com (http://lucy-gordon.com)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_1e6fa61a-dfee-5b3c-8c3b-5b7e1aed7e05)

AFTER five years the gravestone was still as clean and well-tended as on the first day, a tribute to somebody’s loving care. At the top it read:

MARK ANDREW SELLON,

9

April 1915—7

October 2003 A much loved husband and father

A space had been left below, filled three weeks later by the words:

DEIRDRE SELLON,

18

February 1921—28

October 2003

Beloved wife of the above

Together always

‘I remember how you insisted on leaving that space,’ Pippa murmured as she tidied away a few weeds. ‘Even then you were planning for the day you’d lie beside him. And the pictures too. You had them all ready for your own time.’

A family friend had returned from a trip to Italy and mentioned how Italian gravestones usually contained a picture of the deceased. ‘It really makes a difference to know what people looked like,’ she’d enthused. ‘I’m going to select my picture now.’

‘So am I,’ Dee had said instantly.

And she had, one for herself and one for her husband, taken when they were still in robust middle age. There, framed by the stone, was Dee, cheerful and ready to cope with anything life threw at her, and there was Mark, still bearing traces of the stunning good looks of his youth, when he’d been a daredevil pilot in the war.

Below them was a third photograph, taken at their sixtieth wedding anniversary party. It showed them standing close together, arms entwined, heads slightly leaning against each other, the very picture of two people who were one at heart.

Less than two months later, he had died. Dee had cherished the photograph, and when, three weeks after that, she had been laid beside him Pippa had insisted on adding it to the headstone.

Finishing with the weeds, she took out the flowers she’d brought with her and laid them carefully at the foot of the stone, murmuring, ‘There, just how you like them.’

She rose and moved back, checking that everything looked right, and stood for a moment in the rich glow of the setting sun. A passer-by, happening to glance at her, would have stopped and gazed in wonder.

She was petite, with a slender, elegant figure and an air of confidence that depended on more than mere looks. Nature had given her beauty but also another quality, less easy to define. Her mother called her a saucy little so-and-so. Her father said, ‘Watch it, lass. It’s dangerous to drive fellers too far.’

Men were divided in expressing their opinion. The more refined simply sighed. The less refined murmured, ‘Wow!’ The completely unrefined wavered between, ‘Get a load of that! ‘ and ‘Phwoar! ‘ Pippa shrugged, smiled and went on her way, happy with any of them.

Superficially, her attractions were easy to explain. The perfect face and body, the curled, honey-coloured hair, clearly luscious and extravagant, even now while it was pinned back in an unconvincing attempt at severity. But there was something else which no one had ever managed to describe: a knowing, amused look in her eyes; not exactly come-hither, but the teasing hint that come-hither might be lurking around the corner. Something.

A wooden seat had been placed conveniently nearby and Pippa settled onto it with the air of having come to stay.

‘What a day I’ve had!’ she sighed. ‘Clients talking their heads off, paperwork up to here.’ She indicated the top of her head.

‘I blame you,’ she told her grandmother, addressing the photograph. ‘But for you, I’d never have become a lawyer. But you had to go and leave me that legacy on condition that I trained for a profession.’

‘No training, no cash,’ Lilian, Pippa’s mother had pointed out. ‘And she’s named me your trustee to make sure you obey orders. I can almost hear her saying, “So get out of that, my girl.”’

‘That sounds like her,’ Pippa had said wryly. ‘Mum, what am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to do what your Gran says because, mark this, wherever she is, she’ll be watching.’

‘And you were,’ Pippa observed now. ‘You’ve always been there, just out of sight, over my shoulder, letting me know what you thought. Perhaps that was his influence.’

From her bag she produced a small toy bear, much of its fur worn away over time. Long ago he’d been won at a fair by Flight Lieutenant Mark Sellon, who’d solemnly presented him to Deirdre Parsons, the girl who later became his bride and lived with him for sixty years. To the last moment she’d treasured her ‘Mad Bruin’ as she called him.

‘Why mad?’ Pippa had asked her once.

‘After your grandfather.’