Blue Moon Bride

Blue Moon Bride
Renee Roszel

“I don’t, for a second, see you as a believer in fate.”

“Really?” Roth answered.

His eyes were riveting. Hannah couldn’t think or move. A strange combination of fear and anticipation began to sizzle along her nerves.

“Assumptions, Miss Hudson, can be dangerous,” he murmured. “You hardly know me.”

His hand suddenly cupped the back of her head, drawing her face to his. Hungry, searching lips covered hers. The boldness of his act sung through her veins, his kiss more potent and delicious than she dared admit. Her arms snaking around his shoulders, she leaned in, breast to chest, her body’s response an explicit “yes.”

As surprisingly as it began, his kiss ended. Roth’s fingers trailed slowly, deliberately downward, pausing at her nape. “You’re right about one thing,” he whispered. “I don’t believe in fate.” Cunning fingers drifted languidly on, southward along her spine, until his hand came to rest provocatively, just below the small of her back. “But, I love a challenge.”

Praise for Renee Roszel

A Bride for the Holidays

“…an endearing romance. The charming way these two characters find their happily-ever-after will leave a smile on your face.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Bridegroom on Her Doorstep

“Renee Roszel at her best with characters and dialogue that are real and entertaining…”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Her Hired Husband

“Renee Roszel…charms readers with two lovable characters, humorous scenes and a cozy love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Blue Moon Bride

Renee Roszel

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

Renee Roszel has been writing romances for over two decades and finds it hard to believe she’s had such a dream career for so long. Over the years she’s traveled to far-flung, exotic places such as the USSR (before the breakup) and to Germany’s East Berlin (before the wall tumbled). She has toured her native America, too, scuba diving in Hawaii, the Cayman Islands and Florida Keys. Her grown sons live in Illinois and Florida, making for farther fun vacation visits. At present, she and her husband have just finished building their own home on Grand Lake in northeastern Oklahoma, where Renee looks forward to continuing her writing, inspired by the tranquility and native beauty of one of Oklahoma’s most celebrated waterways.

Renee loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.ReneeRoszel.com

Books by Renee Roszel

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3752—SURRENDER TO A PLAYBOY

3778—A BRIDE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

3865—JUST FRIENDS TO…JUST MARRIED

To Linda Fildew

My Editor, My Friend

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE (#ue7cfe46c-5b79-5d26-b713-b5428d6eaa77)

CHAPTER TWO (#u052bb57f-ce58-5aa3-b45d-ab73fcb13a6b)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf4cd7801-8916-5657-9752-b11627f842e7)

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)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

HANNAH found herself smiling for the first time in weeks. She gazed up at the moon. It hung in the night sky, centered in an arched window of the last standing wall amid the ruins of an old stone church. From her perch on a granite garden bench, Hannah stared, transfixed, at the glowing orb so improbably framed in the vaulted opening that once housed stained glass.

The spectacle was even more unique because it was the second full moon this month. “A blue moon,” she whispered, wondering how many others had witnessed the awe-inspiring sight from this enchanting perspective. Her tentative smile lingered. She was glad that the proprietress of the inn suggested she come out here. The wildflower garden emanated quiet and peace, the perfectly framed moon adding a touch of magic. For the moment her troubles receded enough to allow her to feel briefly uplifted. Or at least not completely demoralized, as she had since quitting her job a month ago.

She sighed, unsettled by the profound gloom she heard in her tone. But how else should she feel after discovering she was a water cooler joke?

How could she have let Milo Brisco turn her into his puppet? Caught up in her mindless infatuation for the smooth-talking lawyer, she had let him convince her to bleach her perfectly respectable dark blond hair to “Marilyn Monroe platinum,” and change the natural, curly way she wore it into a sleek, extreme style that took an hour to achieve every morning. Not to mention how he had persuaded her to forgo her moderate office attire and allow him to choose trendy, hip, patently sexy, clothes.

She experienced a surge of self-condemnation. How could she have been so blinded by her weakness for the man to allow him to manipulate her? She thought she had more backbone than that. Obviously she was wrong.

Two years ago, after her parents’ divorce, she committed herself to being an independent woman, hanging on to no man for survival or fulfillment. Her parents’ ugly split taught her that much: no man’s midlife crisis and panting search for a trophy wife would devastate her as it had her mother. Dorothy Hudson was left alone, depressed, reduced to eking out a living as a burger joint cook.