Dark Paradise

Dark Paradise
Sara Craven

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.He's be expecting sun, sand and sexMatt Lincoln, hard-hitting television journalist possessed a sexual charisma that was almost tangible and a male ego that could almost touch the clouds. Unless Kate agreed to accompany him on a little tryst to the Caribbean, he would seduce her stepbrother's wife.Through bitter experience, Kate had acquired immunity to men like Matt. Now she wanted revenge. She would pretend to fall headlong into his irresistible arms. Then at just the right moment, she'd pierce his overblown ego with her scathing rejection.But for Kate the right moment never came.

Dark Paradise

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER (#u09825d52-70c8-5f18-98d2-c20e685dee5e)

TITLE PAGE (#ud4b48117-cc27-534d-a610-31d2a2588625)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u9c04f6f1-f7ba-5e76-8656-e66b3806f360)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u8c4f8b0b-78e4-57bb-9471-f3d846108295)

THE wine in her glass glowed like a ruby. And had cost very nearly as much, Kate Marston reflected drily.

She’d been expecting a business lunch, but this was fast developing into an occasion, and she wasn’t sure she could take it.

She wondered what would happen if she were to lean across the table and say to her companion, ‘Clive, you’re very sweet, and I like you. But it will never, ever be any more than that. So if all this expensive claret and sharing a chateaubriand is to promote a shift in our relationship, then they’d better go back to the kitchen’.

She wouldn’t say it, of course. She was too fond of Clive to give him such a public affront, besides being fairly dependent on him financially, and extremely hungry as well.

She had been a young hopeful in her final year at art college when they had met. He was the youngest director of a well-known publishing firm specialising in children’s books, and she’d been hawking a portfolio of her work around, looking for a job as an illustrator.

She was tired of hearing how talented she was, accompanied by regretful little speeches about economic recession and cutbacks, and she had expected little different from Barlow and Herries. Her confidence, her belief in herself had taken several hard knocks already, and she was surprised to get beyond the reception desk.

Her surprise deepened as the fair-haired, rather solemn young man into whose office she had been shown began to exhibit signs of positive enthusiasm as he examined the paintings and sketches she had brought.

‘Do you know,’ he had said at last, ‘you could be exactly the person we need.’

He told her confidentially that they had just acquired an established and popular author for their list who was proving troublesome to say the least. The lady in question had left their chief rivals after rows about publicity and the quality of illustrations for her books, and Barlow and Herries were naturally anxious to satisfy her on both these points.

Only it was proving more difficult than anyone had ever imagined.

‘She’s turned her nose up at all our regular artists,’ Clive Joffrey had said rather bitterly. ‘She claims she wants something original and unique to match her very personal style, and I quote. I think you might have what she wants.’ He picked up one painting and studied it closely. ‘This is a scene from one of her books, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Kate, hope and excitement choking any deeper explanation.

He nodded. ‘I like it. All that sweetness and light on the surface, and the sinister undertones.’ He shuddered. ‘God knows why kids go overboard for her, but they do. Her books would have given me nightmares when I was a child!’

Kate smiled. ‘I love them.’

‘Better and better. Make sure you tell her that when you meet. That’s another thing she insists on—meeting everyone, checking on the vibrations. Awful woman.’ He gave her a narrow glance. ‘Think you could cope?’

Amazingly, she had, and was still doing so. Not that the dreaded Felicity, as she was known, was her only source of income. Clive had seen to that, recommending her to contacts in the magazine and advertising worlds, so that now, three years after that fateful interview, she had a flourishing freelance career as an artist.

The only fly in the ointment had proved to be Clive, whose personal interest in her had developed as rapidly as his professional interest had done. That was something she hadn’t wanted at all, and she had done her best to dissuade him, but all to no avail. Clive might seem quiet, but he was also determined, she had discovered, and eventually she had succumbed in a moment of weakness to his gentle pressuring and agreed to go to the theatre with him.

That evening, and subsequent outings in his company, had proved pleasantly undemanding, and if Clive was content to be held at arm’s length, then Kate supposed she had no real reason to complain.

Except that lately she had sensed a change in his attitude, a growing impatience perhaps with the course of their friendship, because it was nothing more.

This lunch today was a case in point. She was used to the publishing habit of conducting business discussions over well-cooked food in congenial surroundings, but these surroundings were more than congenial—they were luxurious, and the whole meal was developing all the hallmarks of a celebration, of some kind.

Kate sighed inwardly. Clive’s whole manner was portentous too, suggesting that it was all leading up to something. A proposal? she wondered wryly. And if so—what? Marriage, or something rather more casual. Because neither was acceptable.

And as if to confirm her worst fears, Clive lifted his glass and said, ‘To us.’

She smiled wanly, and drank, without echoing his words. She wished she didn’t feel so depressed. This was a fantastic restaurant, and the chateaubriand currently being dissected for them on a serving table looked delicious. Why couldn’t she enter into the spirit of the occasion, and worry about overtures from Clive as and when they occurred?

There was a slight hubbub nearby and she glanced round to see a well-known film star making his way to a table, trying to pretend that he wasn’t instantly recognisable.

Her mouth relaxed into a smile as she wondered how many other lunchers had shared her enjoyment of that air of total selfconsciousness. Not Clive. He was too busy fussing about the vegetables, she thought, as she glanced round the restaurant. But there were others exchanging amused smiles, and one girl in particular, her face alive with excitement and laughter as she leaned towards her companion.

Kate froze. Alison? she thought. But it can’t be! For a moment she wondered if the wine could be giving her hallucinations, or if there’d been a maverick among the wild mushrooms she’d been served as a first course.

It couldn’t be her sister-in-law sitting only a few tables away. For one thing, there was no way Jon, her stepbrother, could afford these prices …