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Kiss Me on This Cold December Night
Charlotte Phillips
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Contents
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013
Copyright © Charlotte Phillips
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Charlotte Phillips 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.
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Ebook Edition © December 2013
ISBN: 9780007536375
Version 2014-09-30
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
For my lovely mum and dad. Mum, thanks for everything. And Dad, wherever you are, if it has internet access I know you’ll be reading everything I write and forcing everyone else to do the same. Love you both.
‘A suite if you have it, but I’ll take anything.’
Tom Henley wrestled his credit card from his wallet. He might have had his plans thwarted by the bonkers British weather, which for some insane reason had decided to dump a shedload of snow over the entire country in late December, putting it bang on track for the first white Christmas in years, but that didn’t mean he had to take it lying down.
‘Odds on for a white Christmas,’ the receptionist said, giving him a wink.
He stared at her beaming smile across the marble counter.
‘And that would be a good thing because…?’
When you’d spent Christmas in Barbados every year for pretty much your entire life, snow was not something to be excited about. On the contrary, it was a complication. Christmas to him meant sunshine and white sandy beaches and swimming in the calm Caribbean sea. And family of course. Let’s not forget that. This year, family responsibility would feature more than ever before. He pressed his thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose. The day had been on a steady nosedive since he’d attempted check in at Gatwick five hours ago only to be told that the entire place was at a standstill because of ‘the wrong sort of snow.’ Faced with the prospect of sleeping rough in the airport concourse, there was no way he was about to see it as a great adventure. A quick change of plan and now he was checking into the Lavington Hotel, his place to stay of choice whenever he came to London. Crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas, marble floors and freshly brewed coffee. Just what he needed after hours of airport tannoys, irritable crowds and fast food outlets. The relaxed luxury and familiarity of the place soothed him.
Or would do, if everyone would stop with the excitement over the UK’s inability to cope with a bit of frozen water.
The receptionist’s smile faltered.
‘It’s romantic, isn’t it? Doesn’t everyone always dream of a white Christmas? It’s only a week away, I’m sure we’ll hang onto the snow long enough for that. And it’s really not that bad in London. The North has got the worst of it.’
Hang on to the snow? Oh just bloody great.
‘I don’t dream of a white Christmas,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got commitments.’
‘Work, is it?’ Her tone had an edge of frost now that perfectly matched the weather.
‘Work and family,’ he snapped. The two things were going to be inseparable for him, more now than ever. ‘The airport was at a standstill. It might not be too bad in London but apparently it’s the wrong sort of snow. Whatever the hell that means. And there’s some kind of issue