Owed: One Wedding Night. Nancy Holland
Читать онлайн.| Название | Owed: One Wedding Night |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Nancy Holland |
| Жанр | Контркультура |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Контркультура |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008127374 |
Owed: One Wedding Night
NANCY HOLLAND
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Nancy Holland 2015
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover design by Michelle Andrews
Nancy Holland asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008127374
Version 2015-05-27
In loving memory of my mother, who introduced me to romance and always believed this day would come.
Contents
Madison Ellsworth’s heart pounded in rhythm with the noisy staccato of her heels on the marble floor of Carlyle & Sons’ San Francisco headquarters. The unwelcoming glass-and-steel decor, softened only here and there by hand-woven wall-hangings in shades of rust, gold, and azure, made the long path from the elevator to the receptionist’s desk seem endless.
She could do this. She had to do this. Her mother had gone through so much in the last two months. The least Madison could do was take this one burden off of her shoulders. If she felt like a sacrificial lamb on the way to slaughter, she had no one to blame but herself. She crossed her fingers for luck.
When she finally reached the stunning metal sculpture that was the receptionist’s desk, the redhead who sat behind it looked up at her with a small frown.
Madison shifted the Italian leather briefcase her mother had given her when she got into Stanford Business School from one damp hand to the other. “I’m here to see Mr. Carlyle.”
“I’m sorry.” The receptionist didn’t sound sorry at all. “He has an appointment with,” she glanced at the computer screen, cleverly hidden in the desk. “With a Mrs. Ellsworth.”
Madison took a deep breath and resisted the need to lift a hand and check that her sleek up-do was still perfect. “Mrs. Ellsworth couldn't make it. I’m her daughter.”
The