The Boss's Bride. Emma Richmond
“You’re the only person I’ve ever employed who answers me back.”
“And is that why I’m still here?” Claris asked.
“Probably.” Returning his attention to the baby, Adam handed him a plastic shape, which promptly went into his mouth. “I don’t know whether he’s hungry or just teething.”
“Both, I expect. It’s time for his lunch, anyway.”
He shouldn’t have kissed her, he thought as he watched her unpack the baby’s lunch. It had made her wary, and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. Not that he was entirely sure what he wanted. He knew only that the delightful Miss Newman was seriously disrupting the calm waters of his normally agreeable existence. A new experience for him. As was the baby. They had both given him thoughts he didn’t normally have….
Emma Richmond was born in north Kent, England, during the war, when, she says, “farms were the norm and freeways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
Books by Emma Richmond
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®
3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS
The Boss’s Bride
Emma Richmond
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
WITH an air of profound boredom, Adam Turmaine wandered over to an old print hanging above the hall table. Extending one finger, he touched it to the bottom right-hand corner. ‘What does that say?’
Claris leaned closer and informed him drily, ‘Treasury of Mechanical Music.’
‘Most appalling writing I’ve ever seen in my life. What am I doing here?’
‘Waiting to meet your aunt.’
Removing his gaze from the ancient map of Rye, he gave his companion a long look of contemplation. ‘Do I have an aunt?’
Claris’s lip twitched.
‘I’ll take that as an affirmative, although why you would think I’d be even remotely interested in meeting a distant relative, I can’t imagine.’
‘Because she’s family?’ she guessed. ‘Because there have been anonymous phone calls hinting that her financial advisor is ripping her off?’
‘What a singularly disgusting expression, and you really must stop trying to fit me with this mantle of concern for other people’s affairs,’ he drawled as he returned his attention to the map. ‘How long have you worked for me?’
‘You know how long I’ve worked for you.’
‘Then you should know by now that I’m not in the least family-minded.’ Turning, he gave her a warm smile. ‘You’d better point her out to me.’
‘Adam! You must know what your aunt looks like!’
‘Must I? Why?’
Eyes full of amusement, she merely looked at him.
‘It’s been years, Claris,’ he excused himself. ‘The last time I saw her was at my uncle’s funeral.’ Glancing into the reception room behind her, he encountered several pairs of eyes all looking at him. They smiled in disconcerting unison. He didn’t smile back. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘Local dignitaries, I think. It’s only natural they would want to meet you.’
‘Is it? Have I ever evinced an interest in meeting a complete stranger?’
‘No,’ she denied drily.
‘Then I can’t imagine why they should. We only arrived a few days ago, and already I’m expected to visit…’
‘Colonel Davenport,’ Claris put in helpfully.
‘Colonel Davenport,’ he agreed. ‘A man I do not know, have never to my knowledge met, and whom I have no desire to meet, but who seems to think it imperative I concern myself with local vandalism.’
‘That’s because he doesn’t know you,’ she murmured, tongue in cheek.
‘But you do,’ he informed her softly, ‘which makes it all the more amazing that you seem to expect me to concern myself in my aunt’s affairs. And what colossal cheek on my part it would be to assume that she’s incapable of looking after her own investments.’ Halting, he suddenly gave a small frown. ‘On the other hand…’
Claris waited.
‘My memory of her, which I would be the first to admit can sometimes be faulty—’
‘Selective,’ Claris put in.
‘—is of a fluttery woman who couldn’t string two sentences together.’
‘I expect you made her nervous.’
He looked genuinely astonished. ‘Why on earth would I make her nervous?’
Claris gave a wry smile. ‘Do you have any other relatives?’
He pulled a face. ‘What a sobering thought. I had hoped I didn’t have any.’
‘You don’t mean that…’
‘I don’t?’ Adam asked in surprise.
‘No. So now come and meet her. You can’t stand out in the hall all evening—’ Breaking off, because she knew her employer could do just that if he had a mind to, she added, ‘Please?’
Adam sighed. ‘Very well, but I do wish you would curb this enthusiasm you have for pitching me into situations I have no desire for.’
‘ I pitch you? You were the one who accepted the invitation.’
‘I didn’t understand the details—oh, God, who’s this?’
Turning quickly, Claris stared at a very large lady in puce who was emerging from the rear of the hall. The woman halted, beamed, and then held out both hands as though greeting a long-lost friend. ‘Mr Turmaine!’
Adam deftly avoided an embrace.
‘I had no idea you’d arrived!’
And someone’s head was going to roll, Claris thought in amusement, for that little oversight.
‘I’m your hostess. Mrs Staple Smythe.’