Secrets Of A Shy Socialite. Wendy S. Marcus

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

       Before you start reading, why not sign up?

      Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

       SIGN ME UP!

      Or simply visit

      signup.millsandboon.co.uk

      Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

      CRAVING HER SOLDIER’S TOUCH is dedicated to Army Specialist Adam Bivins and to men and women around the world who risk their lives to fight for the freedom of others. SECRETS OF A SHY SOCIALITE is dedicated to Mary Ritter and Stella Turk: two vibrant, courageous and strong women whom I am honored to call my friends.

      With special thanks to:

      My wonderful editor, Flo Nicoll, for believing in me and always helping me find my way when I veer off track.

      My supportive husband, for calling from work at the end of each day to ask what he should pick up for dinner.

      My three loving children, for making me proud of the wonderful people they are growing up to be. I am truly blessed.

      CHAPTER ONE

      IF THERE was an easy way to explain why she’d impersonated her identical twin sister, lured a man into bed under semi-false pretenses, then left town without a word to anyone, and not come off sounding like an insincere, inconsiderate, immoral hussy, it required more brain power and finesse than Jena Piermont had at her disposal.

      “You’ve been home for two weeks,” Jaci, Jena’s twin, said, leaning back on the sofa and lifting her fuzzy-slippered feet onto the coffee table. “I think I’ve been pretty patient, but it’s time for answers.”

      Past time. Where had she been? Why did she leave? How long would she be staying? And the biggie: whose genetic contribution was partly responsible for her adorable six-week-old twin baby girls? Jaci didn’t know enough to ask about the impersonation part of Jena’s explanation dilemma. Soon enough.

      “I’m almost done.” Jena arranged the baked brie and slices of crusty French baguette on two large plates and added them to the tray holding the crudité and pâté de foie gras. Never let it be said that Jena Piermont, of the Scarsdale, New York, Piermonts, was not a consummate hostess. Even while hosting her own fall from grace.

      Now, to reveal the truth before the other invitees arrived at their little pow-wow. Unfortunately the news she most wanted to share, to discuss with her sister and get her advice on—the real reason she’d returned to town and would be staying for a few weeks—had to remain secret. If everything went as planned, fingers crossed, she could pull it off without Jaci ever finding out.

      Jena swallowed then used a napkin to blot the unladylike clamminess from her palms. Grace under pressure. She inhaled a fortifying breath, lifted the tray and carried it to the coffee table. “Move your feet.” She arranged the delectable treats beside the sparkling water and bottled beer.

      Justin liked his beer.

      “Stop,” Jaci said. “You always do this when you get nervous. Flit around, straightening up, preparing snacks.”

      Jena dropped the pillow she’d been in the process of plumping and rearranging on the loveseat.

      “Just sit down.” Jaci patted the sofa beside her. “Tell me why you’ve been so quiet lately. What has you so upset? Before the guys get here.”

      The guys. Jena considered excusing herself and running to the bathroom to vomit. But that would waste precious time. So she sat. She could do this, would do this. “I love you,” she reminded Jaci.

      “I love you, too,” Jaci said, studying her. “Why do you look like you’ve got an olive stuck in your throat?”

      Because that’s how she felt. Okay. No sense putting it off any longer. Tonight was the night. “Justin is the father,” Jena blurted out, her gaze fixed on her lap. “Of the twins,” she clarified—as if clarification was needed.

      Usually talkative Jaci sat mute.

      Jena peered over at her. “Say something,” she prompted.

      “I’m … surprised. That’s all.” Jaci shifted on the couch to face her. “I knew you had a crush on him in high school.”

      Not really a crush. More like a fascination-attraction-day/night dreamy type thing for the totally wrong type of boy. A silent plea for rescue from a mundane existence cluttered with more responsibilities than any teenager should be burdened with. An illicit mental visit to the dark side where the expectations and judgment of others meant nothing and Jena could indulge in the forbidden. Break the rules. Go wild. Have imaginary sex.

      “And I’d thought maybe you were considering him as a husband candidate to meet the terms of our trust,” Jaci went on.

      Never. Okay. Maybe once, or a few times during random episodes of pregnancy-induced psychosis when out-of-control hormones caused gross mutations to the brain cells responsible for rational thought. Moments of weakness when Jena had actually entertained the possibility of Justin protecting her from the machinations of her brother, providing a home for her and their daughters, and taking care of the three of them.

      But Justin didn’t want her, and Jena refused