The Final Proposal

The Final Proposal
Robyn Donald

THE MARRIAGE MAKERAn unlikely match… He's a farmer, she's an image consultant. He despises city women and she hates the country. But when a series of bizarre coincidences make Kear Lannion and Jan Carruthers neighbors, he just can't seem to keep away from her. Has Kear chivalrously decided he ought to watch over this city girl alone in the country?Or has he made up his mind to seduce her out of her new property? Either way, Kear Lannion has finally met his match - in more ways than one!THE MARRIAGE MAKER - Can a picture from the past bring love to the present?

Jan’s heart thumped erratically in her chest. She’d recognize that lithe form anywhere. (#u6bcb0853-3f95-54b4-b21c-9057d64ad7e4)INTRODUCTION TO SERIES (#u011f8cc1-6a29-5867-8cd4-5553143e3e46)Title Page (#ua663b235-ec04-5ab9-b8e8-846634f1d66f)CHAPTER ONE (#u1695e120-7789-57d9-bae0-7ddd6f60dc63)CHAPTER TWO (#u0af1bed8-9610-5bb7-ada5-273843bf985e)CHAPTER THREE (#u813b0dd1-d6b2-5483-a0dd-81ee04fdd054)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)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Jan’s heart thumped erratically in her chest. She’d recognize that lithe form anywhere.

“This is private property,” he said.

Jan discovered that she disliked him in equal measure to her unbidden, reluctant attraction to him. “My private property,” she told him, not without relish.

“I see. I assume you plan to sell it.... If you do, I’d like first refusal.”

It didn’t seem too much to give him, but something held her back.

He said, “Where do you plan to stay the night?”

“Here.”

There was a glint of irritation in the frigid depths of his eyes. “Do you know how to work the range? The water?”

Tilting her chin, she said, “I’ll be perfectly all right.”

And she enjoyed a fierce satisfaction when his mouth curved into a slow smile that was both sinister and sexy as hell.

“Don’t play games with me,” he said softly.

INTRODUCTION TO SERIES

Olivia Nicholls and the two half sisters Anet and Jan Carruthers are all born survivors—but, so far, unlucky in love. Things change, however, when an eighteenth-century miniature portrait of a beautiful and mysterious young woman passes into each of their hands. It may be coincidence, it may not! The portrait is meant to be a charm to bring love to the lives of those who possess it—but there is one condition:

I found Love as you’ll find yours,

and trust it will be true,

This Portrait is a fated charm

To speed your Love to you.

But if you be not Fortune’s Fool

Once your heart’s Desire is nigh,

Pass on my likeness as Cupid’s Tool

Or your Love will fade and die.

The Final Proposal is Jan’s story and the concluding title in Robyn Donald’s captivating new trilogy THE MARRIAGE MAKER.

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The Final Proposal

Robyn Donald

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

CHAPTER ONE

‘GERRY, I look completely ridiculous. Nobody in their right mind wears clothes like this to a celebrity polo tournament!’ Jan Carruthers stared at her reflection with appalled fascination as her cousin carefully settled a wide-brimmed hat onto her short, auburn hair. Some milliner, crazed by romanticism, had draped both crown and brim with what looked to be the entire stock of a florist’s shop.

‘That,’ Gerry said smugly, stepping back to gaze at her, ‘is the whole idea. When you do “before and after” shots, you always make the “before” shot as outrageous as you can. You, little coz, are now definitely, extravagantly, magnificently conspicuous—just the way you should look.’

‘I should have told you to find some other midget when you came up with this absurd scheme.’

‘You did, several times. But I’m cunning, and I know all your weak spots. As soon as I mentioned all those poor women who think it’s necessary to spend thousands of dollars to look good, you wavered. Then I pointed out that you could donate the money you’re going to earn to your centre for troubled girls. Being the noble-minded sucker that you are, you couldn’t say no.’

‘It’s not my centre, and I’d have turned you down without a moment’s thought if I’d known you were going to dress me up as a mushroom.’ Jan glowered down at the narrow-skirted silk suit in palest peach. Worn to a fashionable lunch it would have been perfect; it would be totally out of place at the polo ground just south of Auckland.

‘No, you wouldn’t have.’ Secure in her model’s figure, and with her extra eight inches of height, Gerry radiated satisfaction. ‘Stop grumbling—of course you look like a mushroom. Women who are only five foot two can’t wear hats like cartwheels. Just be grateful we didn’t decide on the toadstool look, and make the hat scarlet with big white spots.’

The far too many people needed to set up a photographic shoot for a fashion magazine sniggered. Clearly this rare opportunity to indulge themselves with flagrantly bad taste was giving them all a sneaky forbidden pleasure.

‘Besides,’ Gerry pointed out mercilessly, ‘your centre for disturbed girls needs all the money it can get. Didn’t I see in the newspaper that the government has just cut the grant by fifty per cent?’

‘And fifty per cent of a shoestring is a thread,’ Jan muttered, still feeling the sick dismay the news had caused.

Gerry surveyed her with affectionate resignation. ‘Under that glossily smart, sophisticated, hip exterior you’re the most motherly creature I’ve ever come across. Why don’t you get married and have kids of your own instead of spending most of your spare time worrying about, raising money for and counselling your wayward girls?’

‘They are not my girls, and they are not all wayward!’ ‘Oh, semantics! In need of care and attention, then—and don’t you dare frown!’

Jan froze. It had taken so long for her make-up to be applied that she didn’t dare risk cracking it. More for form’s sake than from conviction, she said, ‘I warn you, I’ll have strong hysterics if anyone so much as smirks.’

The hairdresser, a nervy young man with a shaven head set off by a diamond stud in his ear, said fretfully, ‘I still think she should be wearing a wig. With ringlets.’

‘No,’ Jan said, as forcefully as she could through stiff lips.

Gerry sighed. ‘She’s right. We don’t want to slide over the edge into farce. She has to look as though some poor woman could make the same mistakes.’

‘A madwoman.’ Jan leaned forward to peer at the coating of blue mascara on her black lashes. Flinching, she closed her eyes and backed away from the mirror. ‘I must be crazy! I’m an image consultant—I show people what their most flattering colours and styles are, I teach them how to wear clothes so they look great and I’m moderately famous for my seminars and workshops on self-esteem—I don’t prance through magazine pages as a glaring example of what not to do.’ Ignoring Gerry’s outcry she chewed her lip, carefully and sultrily coloured a shade that clashed subtly with the suit and her ivory skin.

‘The “after” pages will reveal you as your true, impeccably elegant self,’ Gerry reminded her with cheerful callousness. ‘Come on, let Cindy redo your mouth and then put this bracelet on.’