The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress. Natalie Anderson

       Praise for Natalie Anderson:

      “Natalie Anderson is one of the most exciting voices in steamy romantic fiction writing today. Sassy, witty and emotional, her Modern Heats are in a class of their own …”

       —Cataromance Look for an exciting new novel from Natalie Anderson, Hot Boss, Boardroom Mistress, available in Mills & Boon^® Modern Heat™ in December 2009.

      About the Author

      Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, NATALIE ANDERSON decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them – and, boy, is it that! Especially writing romance – it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream, kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boon^® novels … She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time – she’d love to hear from you: www.natalieanderson.com

       The Millionaire’s Mistletoe Mistress

      Natalie Anderson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Dear Reader,

      I do love Christmas – from the songs I’ve heard and sung a zillion times, to the crazy race in the supermarket for the last pack of strawberries, to the corny cracker jokes and the silly presents we tease each other with. And of course the coming together of family and friends that occasionally brings its own complications!

      But sometimes Christmas can be harder – when one is far from home, lonely or has lost someone all too recently. The jollity is shadowed with pain both past and present. At those moments in the season, I try to find the little things to take pleasure in – an act of kindness, sharing something small with someone even smaller or perhaps much older, or, hey, maybe reading a book with a happy ending!

      My heroine Imogen is lonely and working in a store surrounded by the trappings of Christmas. Mostly she adores this, but sometimes it is a reminder of what she doesn’t have this year. So I wanted to give her the fairytale, the finding of home and happiness that many of us long for at Christmas. For me it’s a time of tradition, of family, of forgiveness, of looking forwards and back, but mostly of being and sharing together.

      And so I do hope you have a wonderful Christmas and get to spend time, love and laughter with your nearest and dearest.

      With very best wishes,

       Natalie

      For Uncle Allan: a box of tomatoes, stiff gins, mushy cauli and cheese, pavlova and raspberries, Spanish cream, plum duff, your brand of chocolate … I can still have all these things this Christmas. But without you, my heart aches.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘PLEASE, please work.’ Imogen slowly pushed the card in before, just as slowly, pulling it out. Nothing happened. The little green bubble just refused to light up.

      She tried again. Pushed it in slowly, then whipped it out fast. Nothing.

      Fast in. Fast out. Nada.

      ‘Damn.’ Getting desperate, she tried fast in, slow out. ‘Give me the green light, give me the green light. I do not have time for this.’

      She didn’t have time for anything. A quick glance at her watch showed precisely ten minutes remained until the meeting began. Ten minutes to wash off the mix of mud, blood and sleet and change into the new shirt and skirt she’d bought from the overpriced shop three doors along precisely eight minutes ago.

      ‘Please, please, please.’ Why did this have to happen now? She wanted to wail. Why … when she’d got all her reports together well ahead of schedule, when she’d found something to wear after her cringe-worthy disaster on the street, when the receptionist had been so sympathetic … why did she have to fall at the final hurdle?

      She pulled her wet shirt away from her skin. It was cold and muddy and she felt hideous and sore. She’d gone for such a spin on the icy path—landing awkwardly and sliding flat on her front, ending up in a puddle of nasty water. She cursed the hidden ice that never seemed to melt on these Edinburgh footpaths. She couldn’t master walking on them at all. No matter what shoes she wore, she still slipped. And the one time she needed to get somewhere fast, and in one piece, she’d gone for the biggest spill of all.

      And still the hotel room door wouldn’t open. The smiling receptionist had practically leapt to attention when Imogen had explained why she was there and who she was meeting and what had happened on the way. She’d handed over her wool coat and been assured it would be delivered to the dry cleaners, and had then been given a key card to a room.

      ‘Please use the room to shower and change. No charge.’

      The ‘no charge’ bit was a huge relief, because the emergency outfit she’d had to buy had not been cheap. Nor was it the kind of business clothing she usually wore. Her wardrobe consisted of a neat uniform of black below-the-knee skirts and discreet jackets—nothing attention-seeking at all. Imogen didn’t want attention; she just wanted to get on with the job—and do it well. But the nearest clothing boutique had stocked far more stylish and figure-revealing items than her usual mass-produced, form-concealing choices. She’d frantically pulled aside the hangers in a quest for something conservative and simple. And she’d been in too much of a hurry to even try her selection on. Surely the black trousers and green shirt that she now held in the large carrier bag would fit? She was a standard size. Surely—hopefully, please, Lord—it would be fine?

      Well, it wouldn’t be if she couldn’t get into the wretched room to wash and change!

      She flicked the hank of hair that had fallen free of its tie back over her shoulder, breathed in deeply, and tried to control her rising temper with a slow count out.

      ‘One … two … three … fourfivesixseveneightaineten.’ She inserted the key card one last time. ‘Argh!’ she exclaimed in total frustration.

      Nine minutes and counting. She was never going to make it. She was going to have to meet the new manager of Mackenzie Forrest wearing a sodden shirt and with dirt on her hands. She banged those hands hard on the door in front of her and swore. ‘Open, damn you!’

      And then it did. So quickly she stumbled. Regaining her balance with a wince of pain from her knee, she looked up. Then lost all her remaining poise as he spoke—dry and unconcerned.

      ‘Can I help you with something?’

      Stunned, she stared, stared and stared some more. He was wearing nothing—nothing—but he held a white towel to his … his … lower middle. There was acres of chest … lightly bronzed, so broad, so bare … and he was dripping wet. Imogen couldn’t help following the light dusting of hair … down. Couldn’t resist following the angles of his muscles … down. Couldn’t stop following the drops of water … down, down, down.

      Down to where that broad hand was holding the fluffy towel which was catching those slow drips of water. She’d never seen a body so perfect—not even in billboard ads for underwear or aftershave. She’d certainly never seen a torso with such muscle definition. Not body-builder, too-many-steroids, bulging-veins kind of muscles, but strong and smooth and sharp. There was not an ounce of fat for those muscles to hide behind—they were all on show. And she’d never before seen a belly button that her tongue basically begged to touch. In fact, it seemed her whole body had gone brazen—and so had her brain. She was blatantly watching as his fingers tightened on the towel and his other hand came to support it. Blatantly fascinated as each of his abdominal muscles moved, revealing even greater definition.

      ‘Ma’am?’