By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

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СКАЧАТЬ and ravish him. She contented herself with cupping his face in her palms and kissing him deeply and passionately. ‘So I can go ahead and make some enquiries?’

      Lifting her left hand to his lips, Forde pressed a gentle kiss on the finger that held her wedding and engagement rings. ‘We’ll do it together at every stage, OK?’

      ‘OK,’ Melanie whispered, wanting him, loving him.

      Social Services welcomed them with open arms. As Forde had forecast the red tape stretched for ever, however, but by Christmas they had all the necessary pieces of paper in place and their initial two children, a boy and a girl who weren’t related but had spent some time together in short-term care, had arrived to spend the Christmas holiday with them to see how they all got on.

      The children’s case histories were dire and there was no doubt they regarded all adults with deep distrust and, in the boy’s case, a great deal of pent-up anger, but from the moment Melanie saw their small, wary faces she loved them. They came to the house a couple of days before Christmas and on Christmas Eve Melanie sat on the boy’s bed and told him a story of a little girl who had been in care and who felt abandoned and alone. He listened with hostile eyes until the moment she told him she had been that little girl, and then it was clear she had taken him aback.

      It was the breakthrough she had prayed for. From being surly and suspicious he began to ask her question after question and in so doing some of his own traumatic history came out quite naturally. The rest of the children were fast asleep, waiting for Santa to fill their stockings, and Melanie spent two hours talking to him before he settled down to sleep.

      When she joined Forde downstairs, he reached out a hand to her, drawing her towards the French windows and opening them so the crisp, biting air caressed their faces. A few desultory snowflakes were beginning to fall on the sparkling ground, which was white with frost, and the trees surrounding the house looked breathtakingly beautiful in their mantle of white. ‘A fresh new world,’ he murmured softly, drawing her tight into his side. ‘And that’s what I want for these children, Nell. I crept up and listened at the bedroom door while you were talking to him and I know you’re going to transform his life.’

      ‘We both are,’ she said softly, emotion making her voice husky.

      ‘But you most of all.’ He smiled, kissing her hard. ‘We’re going to have more Christmas miracles, Nell, and our family is going to grow in a way I hadn’t thought of but which is perfect. Because of you, my love. All because of you. What did I ever do to deserve you?’

      ‘That’s what I think every time I look at you,’ she whispered. ‘You didn’t let me go when I walked away. You came after me. You will never know what that meant.’

      ‘We won’t let these little ones go either.’ He looked up into the pearly gray sky from which more and more snowflakes were falling. ‘This is going to be another wonderful Christmas, my darling.’

      And it was.

       The Night That Started it All

      Anna Cleary

      As a child, ANNA CLEARY loved reading so much that during the midnight hours she was forced to read with a torch under the bedcovers, to lull the suspicions of her sleep-obsessed parents. From an early age she dreamed of writing her own books. She saw herself in a stone cottage by the sea, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and sipping sherry, like Somerset Maugham.

      In real life she became a schoolteacher, and her greatest pleasure was teaching children to write beautiful stories.

      A little while ago she and one of her friends made a pact each to write the first chapter of a romance novel in their holidays. From writing her very first line Anna was hooked, and she gave up teaching to become a full-time writer. She now lives in Queensland, with a deeply sensitive and intelligent cat. She prefers champagne to sherry, and loves music, books, four-legged people, trees, movies and restaurants.

      For lovely Amy Andrews, a brilliant and versatile author and a wonderful friend.

       CHAPTER ONE

      SINCE the break with Manon, his long-time lover, Luc Valentin mostly resisted seduction. Sex risked ever more desire, and desire was a downhill slope to entanglement in a web of female complications. Before a man knew it he could be sucked into an emotional shredder.

      So when Luc strolled into D’Avion Sydney and the pretty faces at the front desk lit up like New Year’s Eve, their smiles were wasted on the air.

      ‘Luc Valentin,’ he said, handing over his card. ‘I’m here to see Rémy Chénier.’

      The first beguiling face froze. ‘Luc—Valentin? The Luc Valentin? Of …’

      ‘Paris. Head Office. That is correct.’ Luc smiled. Rarely had his appearance at one of the company offices sparked such a dramatic effect. ‘Rémy, mademoiselle?’

      The woman’s eyes darted sideways towards her fellows. It seemed a strange paralysis had overcome them. ‘Er … Rémy isn’t here. I’m sorry, Mr Valentin, we haven’t seen him for days. He isn’t answering his messages. We don’t know where he is. We don’t know anything. Do we?’ she appealed to the others. She consulted her mobile, then scribbled an address. ‘You might try here. I’m sure if he’s in Mr Chénier will be deligh—overjoyed to see you.’

      Luc doubted it. Since his plan was to encourage his cousin to explain the shortfall in the company accounts then wring his unscrupulous neck, joy was likely to be limited.

      There would be a woman involved, Luc guessed, driving across the Harbour Bridge under an impossibly blue sky. With Rémy there was always a woman, though in Luc’s thirty-six years never the same one twice.

      The address was for a sleek apartment complex on Sydney’s northern shore. Luc pressed the buzzer twice before it connected. Then for several tense seconds all he heard was the rustle of white noise.

      Prickles arose on his neck.

      At last, enfin, a voice. It sounded muffled, more than a little croaky, as if its owner had a terrible cold. Or had been weeping.

      ‘Who is it?’

      Luc bent to speak into the intercom, which hadn’t been designed to accommodate tall guys with long bones. ‘Luc Valentin. I am wishing to speak with Rémy Chénier.’

      ‘Oh.’ Through the woman’s husky fog he could detect a certain relief. ‘Are you from his office?’

      ‘You could say I’m from D’Avion, certainly.’

      ‘Well, he’s not here. Praise the Lord.’ The last was muttered.

      Luc drew his brows together. ‘But this is his apartment, yes?’ The place looked like the sort of residence Rémy would choose. All gloss and sharp edges.

      ‘Used to be. Not that he ever seemed to know it,’ she added in an undertone. ‘Anyway, СКАЧАТЬ