New Year Fireworks. Diana Hamilton

       Three sizzling, intense romances by favourite Mills & Boon authors

       New Year

       Fireworks

       Praise for the authors:

       Merline Lovelace

      ‘With The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution, Merline Lovelace writes a terrifically edgy, yet hopeful, story about two wounded souls.’

       —RT Book Reviews

       Diana Hamilton

      ‘Diana Hamilton creates a pleasant story with well-rounded characters and strong story development.’

      —RT Book Reviews on The Faithful Wife

       Catherine Spencer

      ‘On New Year’s Eve, the attraction between Cassandra Wilde and Benedict Constantino reached a boiling point …’

       —RT Book Reviews

      New Year Fireworks

       The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution

      Merline Lovelace

       The Faithful Wife

      Diana Hamilton

       Constantino’s Pregnant Bride

      Catherine Spencer

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution

       About the Author

      A retired Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with her flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

      Since then, she’s produced more than seventy-five action-packed novels, many of which have made bestseller lists. Over nine million copies of her works are in print in thirty-one countries. Named Oklahoma’s Writer of the Year and the Oklahoma Female Veteran of the Year, Merline is also a recipient of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA^® Award.

      When she’s not glued to her keyboard, she and her husband enjoy traveling and chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma. Check her website at www.merlinelovelace.com for news, contests and information about upcoming releases.

      To our traveling buds, Sue & Pat, who shared

       the glories of the Amalfi Coast with us despite

       the knuckle-biting roads and one sprained ankle.

       Next stop—the Pyramids! And very special

       thanks to Elizabeth Jennings, doyen of Italy’s

       fabulous Women’s Fiction Festival and the kind,

       patient fellow author who straightened out

       my mangled Italian.

       One

      Sabrina Russo got only a few seconds’ warning before disaster struck.

      The powerful roar of a vehicle rounding the hairpin curve behind her carried clearly on the late December air. Cursing, she kicked herself for parking her rental car in a turnout a good ten yards back. The roads on this portion of Italy’s Amalfi coast were narrow and treacherous at best. Walls of sheer rock hedged the pavement on one side, thousand-foot drops on the other. But, like the worst kind of numbnuts tourist, she’d had to leave the protection of the turnout and inch along this narrow, pebble-strewn verge to snap a picture of the colorful village spilling down the steep mountainside to the blue-green Mediterranean below.

      The slick leather soles of her boots provided only marginal traction as she scrambled back toward the turnout. She was still trying to reach its protective guardrail when a flame-red Ferrari convertible swept around the curve.

      Sabrina caught a glimpse of the driver—just a glimpse. Her frantic mind registered dark hair, wide shoulders encased in a buckskin-tan-colored jacket, and a startled expression on a face so strong and chiseled it might have been sculpted by Michelangelo. Then the Ferrari was aiming right for her.

      “Hey!”

      Yelping, she leaped back. She knew she was in trouble when her left boot heel came down on empty air. Faced with the choice of throwing herself forward, under the Ferrari’s tires, or toppling down the steep precipice behind her, she opted for the tumble.

      She didn’t fall far, but she hit hard. The cell phone she’d been using to shoot the photos flew out of her hands. A rocky outcropping slammed into her hip. Her gray wool slacks and matching, hip-length jacket protected her from the stony, serrated edges. The wool provided little buffer, however, when she crashed into a stunted, wind-tortured tree that clung to the cliffside with stubborn tenacity.

      Pain shot from her ankle to her hip in white-hot waves. The achingly blue Mediterranean sky blurred around the edges.

       “Signorina! Signorina! Mi sente?”

      A deep, compelling voice pierced the gray haze. Sabrina fought the agony shooting through her and turned her head.

       “Ecco, brava. Apra gli’ occhi.”

      Slowly, so slowly, a face swam into view.

      “Wh—what happened?”

      “Siete …” He gave a quick shake of his head and shifted to flawless English. “You fell from the road above. Luckily, this cypress broke your descent.”

      Sabrina blinked, and a twisted tree trunk came into focus. Its thin branches and silvery-green leaves formed a backdrop for the face hovering over her. Even dazed and confused, she felt its sensual impact.

      The man was certifiably gorgeous! Whiskers darkened his cheeks and strong, square chin. His mouth could tempt a saint to sin, and Sabrina was certainly no candidate for canonization. His short, black hair had just a hint of curl, and his skin was tanned to warm oak.

      But it was his eyes that mesmerized her. Dark and compelling, they stared into hers. For an absurd moment, she had the ridiculous notion he was looking into her soul.

      Then more of her haze cleared and she recognized the driver of the Ferrari. Anger spiked through her, overriding the pain.

      “You almost hit me!”