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The Cowboy's Runaway Bride
Nancy Robards Thompson


And the bride wore…running shoes?Lady Chelsea Ashford Alden was forced to flee London after her fiancé betrayed her, and now seeks refuge with her best friend. When Ethan Campbell catches her climbing in through a window, he doesn't realise the only thing Chelsea will be stealing is his heart…







And the bride wore...running shoes?

Publicly shamed by her former fiancé, Lady Chelsea Ashford Alden has fallen from grace and her intimate life has become fodder for the British tabloids. On the run from the paparazzi, there’s only one place for the errant aristocrat to wait out the scandal: her best friend’s cottage in Celebration, Texas...

Instead of foiling a burglar, rancher Ethan Campbell startles a gorgeous blonde in the bathtub! Chelsea covers up...her true identity. But not her sizzling attraction to the tall, dark and hunky cowboy. Ethan has loved and lost, and until Chelsea, he never thought he’d love again. But he doesn’t know her secret, and if she reveals the truth, he might be the one to run this time around.


“If you know Juliette so well, why did you break in?”

“She was supposed to leave me a key, but I couldn’t find it.”

He squinted at her. “Where was she supposed to leave it?”

“Under a planter. She wasn’t specific, and, as I said, I couldn’t find it. That’s when I saw the open window—”

Ethan held up his hand, silencing her.

“Just give me your cell phone.”

“I don’t have it on my person.”

His mouth twisted in a dubious expression and he grunted. “On your person? I’ve been giving you the benefit of the doubt. If you don’t want to cooperate, I can call Joyce back and we can sort out what’s what down at the station.”

He held out his hand again, this time moving his fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.

“It’s in the car.” Now he was starting to irritate her. “I’m certainly not hiding it.” She ran her hands down the silhouette of her body to emphasize that she was wearing a T-shirt and a rather snug skirt that didn’t leave room for secret pockets.

When she realized that Ethan Campbell’s gaze was meandering the same path her own hands had traced she regretted issuing the invitation.

Celebration, TX: Love is just a celebration away...


The Cowboy’s Runaway Bride

Nancy Robards Thompson






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


National bestselling author NANCY ROBARDS THOMPSON holds a degree in journalism. She worked as a newspaper reporter until she realized reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Now that she has much more content to report to her muse, Nancy loves writing women’s fiction and romance full-time. Critics have deemed her work “funny, smart and observant.” She resides in Florida with her husband and daughter. You can reach her at www.nancyrobardsthompson.com (http://www.nancyrobardsthompson.com) and Facebook.com/nancyrobardsthompsonbooks (http://www.Facebook.com/nancyrobardsthompsonbooks).


This book is dedicated to Katherine Garbera

for helping me dream up the heroine of

The Cowboy’s Runaway Bride

and for your unwavering friendship.

Kathy, you’re the sister of my heart.


Contents

Cover (#u3fd18a27-29a5-5ca6-85f7-6dfe8bdd2e1d)

Back Cover Text (#u12551f5f-43e6-5ff4-bc2e-1131a855979d)

Introduction (#u6fd37a20-d15a-5eab-a741-befd0aa8cc29)

Title Page (#uea78c8cf-8309-5753-b4fb-b89493237ed3)

About the Author (#u5fe6ccc5-9fd3-5470-bb4d-28b080156f44)

Dedication (#u83059bff-35ad-58c6-83ae-6acb6303b564)

Chapter One (#u5ed750fa-4b62-5b47-ae74-5467a6892b5b)

Chapter Two (#uc0de805d-3952-5ecf-be2a-e00b95da25a7)

Chapter Three (#ub655504e-f8a3-592f-89da-4b95b098daeb)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u25f885e7-47d2-57ae-84b7-7f628344ca71)

Lady Chelsea Ashford Alden cast a wary glance over her shoulder as she approached the front door of the gray stone cottage.

The place looked dark and formidable—cold and utterly unwelcoming—like it didn’t want to be friends. It was so contrary to her university roommate Juliette Lowell’s vibrant personality. Hard to believe Juliette lived here. However, in the dark, Chelsea could see the numbers on the house matched the address her friend had given her.

The fingernail of moon hanging high in the inky Texas sky wasn’t her friend, either. It did nothing to light the porch. Then again, maybe the darkness was her best ally, cloaking her in shadows, hiding her from the monster that had sent her running to Juliette for refuge in the first place.

Life as the Earl of Downing’s daughter didn’t offer much latitude or forgiveness. In fact, sometimes it seemed as if people were standing back and waiting for her to fall. When she didn’t, others were looking for opportunities to pull the rug out from under her or stick out a leg to trip her up.

Which was why she was in Texas.

She was tired of the limelight; tired of the pomp and pretense; tired of people using her; tired of watching her life play out on the covers of the British tabloids. Because God knew what the paparazzi couldn’t confirm, they invented or they paid off acquaintances to create stories for them. She had experienced that compliments of a reporter named Bertie Veal, who had stalked her since university.

Most recently, he’d colluded with her ex to ruin her life. There was no worse betrayal than when someone you trusted in the most intimate way sold your most vulnerable moment to the press.

Chelsea tried to blink away the image, but it was burned into her brain. Intimate footage she didn’t know existed until it had appeared on the tabloid’s website.

She shuddered at the thought as she lifted the welcome mat in search of the key Juliette had left for her. The video had set off a humiliating chain reaction, the worst of which was her father’s embarrassment and disappointment.

The look on his face had been devastating. It had cut her to the quick when he and her mother had told her she was on her own to solve the problem, that it was best for all if she distanced herself from the family until she’d cleaned up her mess—as if by virtue of simply leaving the country, London’s upper crust would forget she was their daughter.

At least they would pretend to forget. In the meantime, it was very clear that Chelsea was cordially invited to stay away until she’d gotten her life together.

The first step in Plan Damage Control was to make freelance trash reporter Bertie Veal leave her alone. The only way she would accomplish that was to disappear. Celebration, Texas, was the perfect place to hide because it was the last place in the world anyone would think to look for her.

No one would recognize her here. Most Americans seemed interested in the Buckingham Palace royals. They didn’t care about the antics of the two-bit daughter of an obscure earl. American tabloids were all about Charles and Camilla, Wills and Kate, or movie stars spotted without makeup and rap singers caught cheating.

Chelsea switched on her phone’s flashlight app and shone it on the wooden floorboards, but found nothing.

She tried the door, but it was locked. Juliette was a wedding planner and she was in San Antonio on business this weekend. She’d made it clear that Chelsea was welcome and apologized for not being there when she arrived, but duty called.

After a wedding reception Jules had dreamed up had been featured in Southern Living, her business had skyrocketed.

Chelsea was happy for her friend and glad that at least one of them had her life together. She assured Juliette she could manage, and they’d bid their temporary goodbyes with promises of a long catch-up as soon as Juliette got home.

The only logical hiding places for a key on the front porch were the doormat and a rocking chair. Again, she used the flashlight feature on her phone to search around the chair, but she came away empty-handed.

Perhaps Jules had left it on the back porch. They’d been in such a hurry when they’d talked that only now did it dawn on Chelsea that Jules hadn’t mentioned a specific location for the key—only that she would leave it on the porch. Or maybe Chelsea had misunderstood. How hard could it be to find a hidden key?

The flash of headlights warned of an approaching car. Chelsea sank back into the shadows, deciding she was grateful for the cloak of darkness that concealed her. As the vehicle continued to move down the road she breathed a sigh of relief.

After the car was gone, she made her way to the back of the house away from the street to see if she could locate another hiding spot for the key.

When Chelsea and Juliette had roomed together at university, the two had weathered stronger forces than Bertie Veal. Well, nothing worse than discovering Hadden Hastings, her ex-boyfriend, had sold a video he’d secretly recorded of Chelsea and him having sex, but she and Jules had gotten into their share of trouble over the years. If they hadn’t been knee-deep in it together, they’d gone to great lengths to cover for each other. That was what made them such good friends.

When Chelsea had phoned Juliette and told her she was in trouble and had given her the bare-bones rundown of Hadden’s betrayal, she’d insisted Chelsea seek refuge with her in Celebration.

Chelsea and Juliette had both known Hadden Hastings at university. He’d been part of their group of friends. But Chelsea hadn’t dated him until the year after they’d graduated.

When she ran into him after she got home from a year of doing relief aid work in Africa, she’d seen him with different eyes. He’d suddenly become datable. He’d been fun and funny and romantic and sympathetic to her post-university quandary—after all, he couldn’t seem to find his place in the world, either.

He’d charmed her and she’d fallen for him.

He was the last person she’d ever thought would secretly record their lovemaking, much less sell the footage to Bertie Veal. The betrayal hurt as much as the humiliation of having a “sex tape” published for the entire world to view. The press ate it up because there was nothing quite as titillating as a noble scandal.

Chelsea lifted up the mat at the back door and ran her hand over the rough surface of the wooden floorboard.

Nothing. No key there, either.

Then she lifted up the various flowerpots and tipped the planters, all to no avail. As a last resort, she called Juliette, but the call went straight to voice mail.

“Hello, Jules. It’s Chelsea. I’m so sorry to bother you because you’re probably knee-deep in first dances and cake cuttings right now. But I made it to your house and I can’t locate the key. Please give me a quick ring when you have a moment. It’s probably in some painfully obvious place that I’m not seeing. You know me.” She forced a laugh. “Anyhow, I hope the wedding is going well. I can’t wait to see you. Toodles, love.”

She disconnected the call and was just about ready to give up and return to the car when she noticed that a small window near the back door was open a few inches.

It wasn’t optimal, but it was a way inside.

The window was small—tiny, in fact—and a bit high off the ground. And why had she chosen to wear a skirt today? Well, it didn’t matter now. It wasn’t as if anyone was lurking about, hoping to catch a glimpse of her knickers.

Chelsea stared up at the window and sighed.

It appeared to be her last recourse. She could either make it work or wait in the car until Juliette called her back. It was getting chilly out here. She’d much rather wait snug and safe inside.

She dragged over a patio chair made out of fat plastic pipe with a woven nylon seat base and positioned it under the window. Kicking off her wedge sandals, she tucked her phone and rental car key into one shoe and climbed up onto the chair. It wobbled a bit and she grabbed the window ledge to steady herself.

Chelsea was a solid five foot nine inches in bare feet. Hoisting herself up and inside that tiny window would be a challenge, but this was no time to fret. She couldn’t overthink it. The sooner she got inside the house, the sooner she could relax.

She got to work on removing the screen. It took more effort than she thought it would. In the process, she broke her right index fingernail into the quick, which smarted like bloody hell. The pain had her performing a little jig, which caused the chair to rock unsteadily. But a moment later Chelsea persevered and popped the window screen out of its track. It clattered as she dropped it onto the porch floor.

Now it was time for the most challenging feat of the evening: stuffing herself through the small opening. The window looked into a small bathroom and was positioned just above the bathtub. A double swag shower curtain framed the tub. Beyond that she could make out a commode and a pedestal sink. The door to the room seemed to open into a hallway, but that was all she could see in the dim light.

With one deep breath, Chelsea used all the arm strength she could muster to pull herself up. As she labored, she managed to get a foothold on the house’s cold, gray stones and used them to walk herself up the wall.

She just might pull this off.

With one last grunt and upward push, she managed to tip herself inside the window...sort of... During the effort, her foot caught on the chair—how the bloody hell had that happened? If she’d tried to do that on purpose she wouldn’t have been able to. Nonetheless, the chair seemed to be attached to her foot. With a swift kick and a smart shake, she managed to free her lower limb. The chair crashed to the ground, echoing in the otherwise silent night, and leaving her precariously half in, half out of the window, faltering like a teeter-totter trying to find its balance.

With her arse hanging out in the most undignified manner, she was sure there was a life metaphor hidden somewhere in this situation. But this was no time to ponder it. She was going to fall one way or the other, and after all the work it had taken to get this far, she wasn’t about to start over.

With one last forward thrust, Chelsea tumbled inside. As she twisted to break her fall, the bathroom light flicked on. Chelsea screamed as she registered the huge man hulking in the threshold.

* * *

Based on the racket he’d heard, Ethan Campbell thought he might have cornered a couple of raccoons that had fallen down the chimney or gotten into Juliette Lowell’s house through an open window. The last thing he’d expected was to catch a tall, gorgeous blonde breaking and entering.

But there she was looking guilty as hell, standing in the bathtub, tugging up on the neckline of her blouse and smoothing her bright pink skirt into place. The open window was a yawning black hole behind her.

With her wide eyes and tousled long hair, the Beatles’ song, “She Came in Through The Bathroom Window,” suddenly took on a whole new meaning. Ethan tried to ignore how pretty she was and stepped forward to show the woman he meant business.

There had been some burglaries in Celebration over the past few weeks. Was this woman part of a ring?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for her to answer and he didn’t take his eyes off her as he reached into his jeans’ pocket for his phone to call the sheriff. She was barefoot, he noticed. He also registered her long, lean, tanned legs and the barely there hint of cleavage that winked at him as she crossed her arms.

He forced his gaze back to her face. She stared at him, big-eyed and mute. She looked scared, like a cornered cub. He had a hard time believing Goldilocks was here to ransack the place. Nonetheless, she wasn’t supposed to be here.

No one was.

So what was she doing?

When he’d noticed the strange car parked in the Juliette Lowell’s driveway as he’d headed home from the stables, Ethan decided to investigate.

Juliette was in San Antonio facilitating one of those fancy weddings people paid her good money to plan. That was why Ethan had decided to stop and investigate.

His neighbor kept him apprised of her travel schedule and that’s why he knew damn good and well no one was supposed to be in this house tonight.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, waiting to hear what she said before he dialed the sheriff. “You want to tell me what you’re doing in here, sis?”

The woman stared back at him silently. Those huge eyes of hers—were they blue or green?—still locked with his.

“No?” he asked. “Okay. Maybe you’d rather talk to the cops?”

That broke her silence. “No, don’t call the police. Please.”

Did she have an accent? He couldn’t tell. Might just be nerves.

She held up her hands surrender-style.

“Well, then you’d better start talking—and fast. Are you alone?”

Aw, hell. He was such an idiot. She could have accomplices. They might already be in the house. She could’ve been the lookout. Albeit, a noisy one. But still...

Ethan glanced in the mirror, which provided a side view into the dim hallway, and listened hard, trying to detect sound or movement, anything that indicated they weren’t alone.

He didn’t hear a thing.

Yeah, wouldn’t it be just like him to meet his maker after being distracted by a pretty face. It wouldn’t be the first time. Well, figuratively, anyway.

As a safeguard, he placed the call to 911.

“No! Please don’t. My name is Chelsea—Chelsea Allen. I’m here to visit my friend, Juliette Lowell. Please don’t call the police. I can assure you that’s not necessary. Just call Juliette. She’ll tell you I’m welcome here. Please. Hang up. We don’t need to involve the officials.”

This time there was no trace of an accent in her voice. He must’ve imagined it before. Because now her words were crisp and enunciated. And panicked.

And she was so pretty.

Oh, for the love of God almighty...

She did know Juliette’s name. Which didn’t automatically guarantee that she was a friend. She might have known the house would be empty tonight and the place would be a good target.

Juliette’s business was just starting to take off. She was even getting some press about it. Who knew what kind of riffraff news of her success might attract? Though Chelsea Allen didn’t look like riffraff.

“Please hang up,” she pleaded again.

Ethan shook his head and gestured to the window behind her. “When you visit friends, do you always enter through the bathroom?”

Her eyes flashed before she glanced over her shoulder in the direction he pointed. “Of course not. It’s just that...”

A frustrated little growl gobbled up the rest of her words. Ethan half expected her to stamp her foot or to turn around and scale the wall in an attempt to leave the way she came in.

But instead, she put her hands on her hips and apparently tried to turn the tables on him. “If Juliette is not at home, what business do you have in her house? Who are you?”

He frowned at her tone. “I’m the one who’s asking the questions here, and as soon as the sheriff arrives, he will take over for me.”

“No! I’m sorry. Please hang up. I mean, you do realize that calling emergency services could keep them from responding to a true emergency, don’t you? Just call Juliette from your cell. If you’re in her house you should have her number. Right? She will tell you that we’re friends and that I’m absolutely welcome here.”

Ethan hesitated. She had a point. But before he could disconnect, the operator picked up.

“This is 911. What is your emergency?”


Chapter Two (#u25f885e7-47d2-57ae-84b7-7f628344ca71)

“Hey, Joyce, it’s Ethan Campbell,” he said. “False alarm on that 911.”

Chelsea finally drew in a breath after she heard him retract the police call. Ethan Campbell. So that was his name. Chelsea racked her brain trying to recall if she’d ever heard Juliette mention him. Campbell... Sounded familiar. But the way he was glaring at her as he talked to the sheriff’s dispatcher addled her mind and made it difficult to remember her own name, much less her college friend’s list of boyfriends past.

“Nope. Everything’s under control, but hang tight. I’ll call you back if the situation changes.”

Pinned by his midnight blue gaze, she stood frozen, weighing her options. At least she had enough sense to realize most of the choices sponsored by the fight-or-flight adrenaline rush weren’t very practical...or smart—like grabbing the phone out of the guy’s hand and tossing it into the toilet or scaling the wall and going out the way she’d come in.

Both plans spelled disaster.

If she did the grab and flush, Ethan Campbell would probably lock her in the bathroom and call the sheriff from Juliette’s landline. The last thing she needed was for the police to show up. Because where the police went, media usually followed.

Of course, if he locked her in the bath, she could climb back out the window. But she wasn’t a gymnast or a contortionist. So she wouldn’t be very fast. She wasn’t even remotely athletic. It had taken forever and every ounce of strength she’d possessed to hoist herself up and climb in the window. Her muscles were still shaky after being taxed the first time. She’d be deluding herself if she thought she was capable of using that route for a speedy and successful getaway.

Bloody hell, if she did escape, where would she go?

A chase would ensue; the cops would be on her heels.

Maybe she could simply push past Ethan and make a run out the front door. That seemed like the least shady option. But there was no getting around him. He was a big guy. Being tackled and held by those rugby-player arms and pinned by those shoulders might have been quite nice under other circumstances. But right now his considerable bulk filled the doorway, blocking the only other viable exit, eliminating that option.

“Yeah, I thought I’d caught the burglar at the Lowell place,” he drawled into the phone.

Burglar? Did she really look like someone who sneaked into homes and robbed people?

“Turns out it’s a woman claiming to be a friend of Juliette’s. Sit tight. I’m going to call her to confirm...No. I don’t need backup. I got this.”

Finally, they were getting somewhere.

He seemed to be quite familiar with her friend. Against her better judgment, Chelsea wondered why Juliette hadn’t talked about this Ethan Campbell. He was tall and rugged and handsome—if you liked big, brooding, broad-shouldered men with Texas drawls.

And who in her right mind wouldn’t find a guy like him attractive?

He’d be even better if he wasn’t holding her hostage.

She reminded herself of that, and the fact that he seemed to be pretty well connected to the local authorities, which could be a problem. A big problem if he pressed her for personal information. That would mean she’d need to leave again because she couldn’t take the chance of word getting out and Bertie tracking her here. Celebration was too small of a town to hide from a bloodhound like him. She was running out of options of where to go. Unless she wanted to hole up someplace alone. If she blew it here, it meant she’d have to go home.

That wasn’t an option. At least not right now.

“If her story doesn’t check out, I’ll call you back and have you send the sheriff out.”

Ethan was nodding at something the dispatcher was saying on the other end of the line.

“Joyce...” More talking. More nodding. “No. Joyce...It’s fine...”

“Yes, I’m sure...No, I don’t see anyone else with her. She’s alone.” He turned his gaze back on Chelsea. “Are you alone?”

Chelsea nodded and instantly regretted it. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. But if she hadn’t they surely would’ve dispatched the authorities.

“Her car’s out in the driveway...No. I didn’t get the license number. It was dark when I got here. I wanted to make sure the perimeter was secured first.”

Was the guy a wannabe cop or something?

More listening. More nodding. Chelsea strained to see if she could hear what the person on the other end of the line was saying, but all she could discern was a low hum of an indistinct feminine voice.

Ethan backed into the hallway and flicked on the overhead light. Now Chelsea could see a collage of black-and-white photographs housed in a multipaned black frame hanging on the wall behind him. One of the pictures was from Juliette’s days at St. Andrew’s, and as if by some miracle, there was a shot of her and Juliette and a group of their schoolmates huddled together at a Sussex rugby match.

“Good idea,” he snarled into the phone. He turned to Chelsea and held out his hand. “Give me your cell.”

“Why do you want my cell phone?” she asked.

Still pressing his phone to one ear, Ethan gestured with his free hand. “Phone.”

Chelsea pointed to the photo behind him. Ethan squinted at her and shook his head.

“Look at the photograph behind you,” she said, nodding in that direction.

When Ethan didn’t immediately turn around, Chelsea said, “There’s a photograph of Juliette and me on the wall over your right shoulder. If you’ll simply turn around, you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

With one last wary glance at Chelsea, Ethan cast a quick look behind him. He did a double take. “Hold on a sec, Joyce. Actually, I’ll call you back if I need you.”

After he disconnected the call, he said, “If you know Juliette so well, why did you break in?”

“She was supposed to leave me a key, but I couldn’t find it.”

He squinted at her. “Where was she supposed to leave it?”

“Under the doormat or someplace. She wasn’t specific, and, as I said, I couldn’t find it. That’s when I saw the open window—”

Ethan held up his hand, silencing her.

“Give me your cell phone.”

“I don’t have it on my person at the moment.”

His mouth twisted in a dubious expression and he grunted. “On your person? I’ve been giving you the benefit of the doubt. If you don’t want to cooperate, I can call Joyce back and we can sort out what’s what down at the station.”

He held out his hand again, this time moving his fingers in a give-it-to-me gesture.

“It’s outside on the back porch in one of my sandals.” Now he was starting to irritate her. “I’m certainly not hiding it.” She ran her hands down the silhouette of her body to emphasize that she was wearing a T-shirt and a rather snug skirt that didn’t leave room for secret pockets.

When she realized that Ethan Campbell’s gaze was meandering the same path her own hands had traced, she regretted issuing the invitation.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over the front of her body. “I tried to call Juliette, but she didn’t answer. I left a message and then I saw the open window. I took off my sandals and set down my phone and car key before I came in through the window. If you’ll check outside, you’ll find everything.”

She shrugged a jerky little motion to indicate her annoyance.

“Wouldn’t it be better to just call Juliette’s number from your own phone, anyway? I’m surprised you’re not afraid that I might call one of my henchmen to come and break me out of here.”

His brow shot up and she realized she’d probably said the wrong thing.

“You have henchmen?”

“That was supposed to be a joke.”

“How about some identification?” he said, obviously not amused.

Great. Just great. If he saw the name on her ID, the cat could very possibly be out of the bag. Especially if he called the police back and gave her name to the sheriff. If they ran her ID through one of those fancy contraptions that compiled reports on people’s backgrounds, she might as well leave right now.

“It’s in my purse, which is in the car. I’m happy to go get it.”

“Nice try,” he said. “If I march you outside to get it, there’s a chance you’ll run. If I leave you alone to go look for it myself, you’ll leave.”

He lifted his phone and started pressing numbers.

“No, don’t. Please don’t—”

“I’m calling Juliette.”

She let out her breath on a sigh. “I thought you were calling 911 again.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed the phone to his ear. She must’ve answered on the first couple of rings.

“Juliette, Ethan Campbell—”

He listened for a moment.

“Sorry to bother you—”

He nodded, opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

Juliette always had been a talker. It was amusing to watch this tall, gruff, take-charge cowboy be silenced by her. How long would it take before he could get a word in?

If anyone else had been there she’d have wagered with them.

Alas, she was alone and had to enjoy the private audience to this amusing show. When Juliette got back into town, Chelsea fully intended to hug her friend just for being her—and, well, okay, for making Ethan Campbell stammer as he tried to get a voice-hold in the conversation.

“Juliette—” he said. “Juliette—Juliette. Juliette—”

He held the phone away from his ear for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. Chelsea could hear her friend babbling on even though she couldn’t tell exactly what she was saying.

Finally, Chelsea did the only thing she could. “Juliette, it’s Chelsea!” she called in the loudest voice she could muster. “It’s Chelsea Allen. Please tell this man you know me and I’m welcome in your home.”

Even though Chelsea hadn’t been able to understand exactly what Juliette had been talking about a moment ago, she could hear the dramatic silence on the line now and knew Juliette had heard her. She could only pray that Chelsea remembered the code.

Chelsea Allen was the name she’d used back in their university days when she wanted to lay low. Rather than unloading her full name, Lady Chelsea Ashford Alden, which always made people change. They treated humble, unassuming Chelsea Allen like a regular person. Not like the sister of a famous fashion designer or someone whose brother was likely to be the next prime minister. Chelsea Allen was a nobody, and nobody wanted anything from her. Sometimes it was just so much easier to keep things simple. It had been several years since she and Juliette had been out together and she’d played the Chelsea Allen card, but surely Juliette would remember. Of course she would.

Frowning even more pronounced than when he’d first cornered her, Ethan put the phone back to his ear. “Juliette, do you know a woman named Chelsea Allen?”

Juliette was still talking. Ethan’s gaze flicked to Chelsea. As he listened his frown faded to a scowl.

“Yes. She’s right here. Standing in your hall bathroom. Yep...Sure...Yeah. Right here in your bathtub, to be exact...No, she’s not taking a bath...I caught her coming in through the shower window...It’s a long story...No, she’s fully clothed...Juliette, listen to me. All I need to know is whether or not she’s a friend of yours.”

Chelsea couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud.

Buggers, she was still in the bathtub. She steadied herself with one hand on the wall and stepped out of the tub onto the black-and-white-tile floor.

A moment later Ethan held out the phone to Chelsea. “Juliette wants to talk to you.”

She couldn’t resist a smug smile as she took the phone from him.

“Jules? Hi!”

The sound of Juliette’s warm laughter emanated across the line. “Chelsea, oh, no! Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. I was supposed to leave a key for you. I completely forgot to set it out before I left. Obviously, I forgot to close the bathroom window, too.”

“Jules, it’s okay. Will you tell Deputy Dawg to stand down, please?”

“You always did know how to make an entrance.”

“I know, right? But for future reference, I’d rather use the front door than an open window. Scaling walls isn’t my best sport. Please tell Ethan it’s okay for me to be here. He’s about ready to have me hauled off to jail.”

With the phone pressed up to her ear, she brushed past him because she was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic in the bathroom. As she made her exit, her shoulder grazed Ethan’s very solid chest. If she hadn’t found the guy so annoying, she might’ve found the sheer masculine bulk of him quite sexy.

“Oh, Ethan’s bark is definitely worse than his bite. He’s a warm and cuddly teddy bear once you get to know him.”

Warm and cuddly? More like ripped and solid as steel.

“And you’re speaking from experience, I presume?”

Juliette snorted. “Um, no. I’ll tell you all about him later. For now, give him the phone and I’ll tell him you’re welcome to be there. Make yourself at home. Help yourself to anything. There’s tea in the cupboard by the stove and I just froze the rest of a homemade lasagna. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. We certainly have a lot to talk about.”

Chelsea glanced at Ethan, who was not even trying to pretend he wasn’t listening. There was no way she could tell Juliette that escaping from the mess that had become her life was going to be a lot harder than she thought. She’d already been forced into hiding, and on day one of hiding in Celebration, Texas, she’d nearly had a run-in with the authorities.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line and Chelsea could virtually hear Juliette’s wheels turning with unasked questions.

“We certainly do have a lot to talk about. I’ll tell you when you get home.” She locked gazes with Ethan. “In the meantime, will you please tell the teddy bear I’m welcome to stay?”

Ethan snorted. “Teddy bear?” But she ignored him.

“Thanks, Jules. I appreciate this so much.”

* * *

Chelsea Allen was hiding something. That much was certain. Ethan didn’t know what, but Chelsea had seemed jumpier than a box of bullfrogs on a trampoline.

It went beyond being startled after unexpectedly confronting someone inside a house she’d assumed was empty. His gut was telling him that the woman was hiding something, and his gut was rarely wrong.

But after Chelsea had finished talking to Juliette, she’d handed the phone back to Ethan, and Jules had told him in no uncertain terms that Chelsea was not only welcome at her place, but if she wanted to come and go through the bathroom window, too, that was her prerogative. That was the thing about Juliette Lowell; she was sweet and naive and tended to only see the best in people. That was exactly why Ethan intended to keep an eye on this Chelsea Allen.

At least she was easy on the eyes. It wouldn’t be too big of a hardship. But since Juliette had given her blessing for Chelsea to stay, he’d have to continue his neighborly duty from afar.

After he’d hung up the phone, he’d gotten in his truck, called Joyce back and reported that everything had checked out with Juliette. Then he’d headed to Murphy’s Pub. The place he’d been headed to before he’d been waylaid by the strange car in Juliette’s driveway. Tonight the Dallas Cowboys were duking it out with the Miami Dolphins and all he wanted to do was belly up to the bar and watch the game.

As he pulled open the pub’s front door, he was met by the sound of cheers and hollers. He glanced at the big-screen TV over the bar. The Cowboys had landed a first down, setting up a first and goal situation.

He muttered an oath under his breath because he’d missed the play.

He’d intended to get here in plenty of time to order his dinner—the cheeseburger platter with the works and a nonalcoholic beer—before kickoff, but thanks to Chelsea Allen he had missed nearly the entire first quarter.

Murphy’s was crowded tonight, but there were still a few open spaces at the bar. A lot of people had turned out to see the game. On football nights, Murphy’s ran specials on beer and their very own signature Cowboy burger. Ethan claimed the closest seat and settled in, raising a hand in a quick greeting to Jack Murphy, who was at the helm of the bar.

“Hey, bro,” Jack said. “I was wondering where you were tonight. Be right with ya.”

Murphy’s Pub was one of Celebration’s best-loved community gathering spots. It was a casual place and one of Ethan’s favorite haunts. It was the kind of place where he could get out and be among people yet not really feel obligated to interact or explain why he was drinking sweet tea or nonalcoholic beer at a bar on a Saturday night rather than imbibing like the rest of the drunken fools.

The long teak bar ran the length of the wall to the left of the entrance. Murphy’s bartenders prided themselves on their ability to mix any drink known to mankind, plus several originals that had been invented on the premises and named after local notables.

One quirk of the joint was they were proud of the fact that they only stocked a standard offering of American beers. None of those frou-frou microbrew abominations that seemed to be sprouting like mushrooms everywhere you looked these days. Ask Pop Murphy for something like that and he was likely to direct you to the local cantina Taco’s or to a trendy start-up in Dallas.

But it didn’t matter to Ethan since he had been sober for two years, three months and one week to the day. All he needed was his favorite brand of nonalcoholic beer, which the Murphys always kept in stock for him.

Even though he couldn’t say staying sober today was any easier than it had been the first day he’d made the decision to go cold turkey and turn his life around, each day he stayed out of the bottle and in control of himself was its own victory. He wasn’t about to break his winning streak now.

Some who knew of his struggles thought he was crazy to hang out at a place like Murphy’s. They thought he was making it extra hard on himself by surrounding himself with the poison.

No. He had a handle on the drinking. Everything was under control. He didn’t have to give up going out. He’d worked damn hard to get here and he had no intentions of sliding back into that dark hellhole he’d landed in after his divorce.

He was a recovered alcoholic. That didn’t mean he had to be a shut-in, too.

One day at a time. The AA slogan had been his mantra when he was going through the hardest times. Now that he was stronger, now that he was sober, he liked to test himself by sitting at Murphy’s bar, watching everyone else tip back a few too many. The smell of bourbon might tempt him, but it would never break him. Never.

Jack came back with an open bottle of fake brew and set it down on a napkin in front of him.

“Thanks, man,” Ethan said and ordered his dinner.

Jack Murphy wrote it down and walked the ticket over to the kitchen window at the far end of the bar.

“Order,” he called to the cook as he hung the green ticket on a clothespin strung at the ready in the order pass-through window between the bar and the kitchen.

Family owned and operated for more than a century, Murphy’s was an institution around here. It was one of the oldest businesses in downtown Celebration, and had occupied the same spot since the Murphy brothers had opened their doors in the early 1900s. Not only had it survived prohibition, it had also expanded into abutting spaces over the years and had grown into the place it was today.

As Ethan nursed his drink, he squinted at the television, trying to catch up on what he’d missed of the game. It was still scoreless, but the Cowboys were making good use of their turn and were inching closer to a touchdown. At the very least they should get out of this with a field goal.

At least Chelsea Allen hadn’t made him miss anything important. As he took a long draw from the amber bottle, he wondered what she was doing in that house all alone tonight. But before he could swallow, he reminded himself that it wasn’t his business. Juliette had said she was welcome. Chelsea and whatever she was hiding wasn’t his concern. If he knew what was good for him he’d put her out of his mind.

Juliette was due home tomorrow afternoon. Since Ethan was watching her dog, maybe he’d help her out and take Franklin home and make sure everything was still copacetic, that Chelsea Allen hadn’t worn out her welcome.

It was the least a good neighbor could do.

When the TV network took a commercial break, Ethan relaxed. Inhaling the scent of booze, stale beer and fried food, he let his gaze sweep the joint to see who’d come out tonight. As he suspected, it was the regular crowd. Most of them had come to Murphy’s to watch the game and grab some dinner like he had.

Some had no interest in sports and danced to the music that played from the jukebox in the adjoining room. Others were crowded around tables, laughing and talking. Another subset, like his friend Aiden Woods, had come out to shoot pool. Looked like Aiden was beating Miles Mercer. Aiden’s wife, Bia, the editor-in-chief of the Dallas Journal of Business and Development, sat at a nearby table with Miles’s wife, Sydney, sipping red wine and sharing animated conversation.

All the other pool tables, which took up a good portion of the front room, were occupied. They always seemed to be in demand. As usual, Murphy’s was rocking with a good cross section of people from the Celebration community who kept the place buzzing with good energy.

“Hey, Campbell, I hear you caught the burglar.” Zane Phillips slid onto the empty bar stool next to Ethan and ordered a shot of bourbon, neat.

Good news traveled fast around this town. Since Zane had heard, that meant Ethan was going to be the butt of a few good-natured jokes for a while, but he still wasn’t sorry for making sure Chelsea was on the up and up.

“Yep.” Ethan took another long pull from his drink. “And she was hot.”

Zane’s right brow shot up. “I guess being the self-appointed neighborhood watch captain has some perks, after all.”

These days, everyone in Celebration was a little jumpier since the break-ins had started three months ago. Now neighbors were extra vigilant and took even more care to look out for each other. It was the decent thing to do, even if it meant calling in the occasional false alarm. Better safe than sorry.

“Just being neighborly,” Ethan shot back. “I told Jules I’d keep an eye on her place while she’s out of town. I saw a strange car in the driveway. I let myself in with the key she gave me and checked it out. No big deal.”

“But she was hot, huh? Are you calling dibs?”

Ethan slanted a sideways glance at Zane. Dibs? What kind of lame-ass question was that? Besides, Zane had a girlfriend. Granted, the relationship was probably nearing its expiration date. Zane was a serial monogamist. He tended to date one woman at a time, but he never could make a permanent commitment.

When Jack set a platter heaped with a bacon-mushroom cheeseburger and onion rings down in front of Ethan, he trained his focus on his meal.

“So, who is this chick?” Zane asked as Ethan bit into his burger.

He took his time chewing and swallowing. “An old college pal of Juliette’s, apparently.” Ethan turned his attention to the game on the big screen. He’d come to Murphy’s tonight to watch the game, not talk about Juliette’s houseguest. “You want to meet her? Go knock on the door.”

Zane Phillips was one of his best friends. They’d grown up together and Zane had even stood up for him as best man when he married Molly. He wasn’t sure why the thought of the guy getting his grubby paws on Chelsea rubbed him the wrong way. He signaled Jack for another round and hoped Zane got the hint that he didn’t feel like talking.

“All kidding aside, it’s too bad you didn’t catch the bastard,” Zane said in a rare moment of sober good sense. “Whoever has been committing these break-ins is still out there. We have to make sure everyone is still on their guard.”

Ethan nodded. The Cowboys scored and the place erupted in a cacophony of shouts and cheers.

“On another note, Rachel over at Bistro Saint-Germain said Lucy says she’s finally going to open that party barn she’s been talking about.”

Lucy was his baby sister. Since she’d moved back home from California last year, she’d been threatening to turn the old barn down on the lower forty of their family’s farm into an events venue.

Since she seemed to approach life in fits and starts, going gung ho until she lost interest on the project du jour, this idea had become known as the party barn.

“Yeah?” Ethan said, taking another bite. He’d stopped expending too much energy on his little sister’s whims. It was hard to take her seriously after the fourth or fifth time that she’d jumped into something with both feet, only to move on to the next big thing.

“Sounds like she’s serious about this,” Zane said. “Maybe the twelfth time’s a charm. I told her to invite me to the grand opening party.”

Ethan harrumphed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

He wasn’t worried that the party barn might actually become a reality. In all fairness, Lucy wanted to make the place a venue for weddings and other swanky events. She’d latched on to the idea after Juliette’s wedding planning business had grown legs and had become a runaway success. Juliette had offhandedly mentioned that the closest wedding venue to Celebration was the Regency Cypress Plantation and Botanical Gardens, which was on the northern edge of Celebration. Lucy swore their grandparents’ old barn was an untapped gold mine. Ethan didn’t get it. The dilapidated pile of kindling needed to be burned down, not cobbled back together.

It wasn’t that he didn’t support Lucy. She and their brother, Jude, had inherited some money and equal interest in the family’s 900-acre ranch. Since Jude was living the high life on the Professional Bull Riders’ circuit, he and Lucy had left Ethan with the task of reviving Triple C’s once floundering horse-breeding business. Ethan had worked hard to turn it around and breathe new life into it. Since the breeding arm of Triple C was all his doing, the siblings had mutually decided to divvy up the land, each claiming a specific 300-acre area. Ethan got the land with the stables and the home where they’d grown up. Lucy had chosen the plot with their grandparents’ old house and the barn. Jude’s was untouched acreage.

Lucy could do whatever she wanted with her piece of land. She was perfectly within her rights to turn it into an events venue. Hell, she could turn it into a zoo if she wanted. It was her call. However, over the past three years she’d had the attention span of a fruit fly. She’d already blown through every cent of the money she’d inherited after their parents died and she’d maxed out her credit cards and was left with the debt.

Ethan had helped her out financially until she could find a job with a steady paycheck that allowed her to start paying off her cards. As far as Ethan knew, she was still paying. Now that she was supporting herself, he wasn’t going to enable another whim. When she’d asked Ethan to cosign for a loan so she could have some party barn start-up money, he’d declined.

If he was completely honest, his refusal wasn’t just tough love. Ethan had often worried that his siblings might have the same alcoholic gene that had almost gotten the best of him. It ran in their family. In fact, it had cost their father his life. Their dad had been sauced the night of the car crash that had killed him. For a while it had been touch and go for their mother, who had landed in the ICU.

She’d lived, but she’d come out of the accident a paraplegic because of damage to one of the lower thoracic nerves. She passed away about a year later.

The disease hadn’t hooked its claws into Jude, who seemed to have his act together—even if he never did come home. Ethan still worried about Lucy. She was only twenty-five. She had done some things in the past—like getting caught drunk skinny-dipping in the pond out back of old man Jenkins’s hunting lodge—that made him question whether or not she was immune to alcohol’s hereditary choke hold.

For some ridiculous reason completely out of left field, Ethan found himself wondering if Chelsea Allen, the woman who’d already proven herself capable of breaking into houses, had ever been skinny-dipping.

As he chased away the inappropriate image with a sip of his beer, for a split second he craved a shot of something a hell of a lot stronger than nonalcoholic beer.

After Ethan’s own hard-traversed path to sobriety, he worried that being in a party environment—even if it would be mostly wedding receptions—wouldn’t be good for Lucy.

Sure, she was a grown woman, but she would always be his little sister. She and Jude were all the family he had left. His stance against the party barn stemmed from simply wanting to protect her. Jude may have been the prodigal brother, but Ethan was the protector. As any good big brother would, he wanted to hold back the tide and keep it from drowning her.

Even if the jury was still out on whether or not she was susceptible to the alcoholic gene, her previous, half-baked business ventures indicated she might not possess entrepreneurial instincts, either.

Obviously, she’d been talking about the party barn enough that word was starting to get around town. She hadn’t mentioned any more about it to him. But really, was that so hard to believe? Sometimes he felt like he was the last to know anything. Such as how he’d had no idea that Juliette had such a beautiful friend. Whether or not that friend was hiding something or hiding from something, Ethan couldn’t deny that she’d been front and center in his brain all night. He hadn’t had this kind of reaction to a pretty woman in a very long time.

He’d definitely stop by Juliette’s tomorrow and see what Chelsea Allen was up to.


Chapter Three (#u25f885e7-47d2-57ae-84b7-7f628344ca71)

The next morning when Chelsea’s eyes fluttered open, it took her a moment to remember that she was safe in the sanctuary of Juliette’s spare bedroom, where there was enough floral damask to rival Queen Mary’s gardens at the Regent’s Park. There were roses everywhere: on the duvet, the curtains, the wingback chair and tufted ottoman. It was so Juliette and it warmed Chelsea from the inside out.

She luxuriated in a long, slow, full-body stretch and then squinted at the clock on the nightstand to check the time. It was after nine o’clock. She should get up and get a wiggle on. Really, she should, she thought as she sank deeper into the warm bed.

Her body and mind had needed the rest. It dawned on her that this was the first time she’d slept through the night without waking since her life had blown up in the press last week, when she’d been humiliated and reduced to being the subject of lewd jokes and perverted voyeurism. Her ex-boyfriend had recorded them without her permission and released the footage, yet she was the villain. Her siblings couldn’t look her in the eyes. Her parents didn’t even want to see her face, much less help her solve the problem. They had made it perfectly clear that it was her problem. She needed to make it go away—or at least go away until it had passed.

Recently, it had been the last thing she’d thought about before she went to sleep and the first thing on her mind when she’d awoken. Until today.

This morning the first thought that had crossed her mind was flowers.

She felt safe here. Not that the press couldn’t find her in Celebration, Texas. But with neighbors looking out for neighbors and scaring away those who didn’t belong the way Ethan Campbell had last night, it would certainly make it more difficult for anyone to sneak up on her the way the reporters had in London.

Chelsea pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, determined to exorcise the media demons. She drew in a measured deep breath, held it for a few beats and exhaled.

Visions of the reporters went away, but thoughts of Ethan Campbell remained.

In the light of day he didn’t annoy her as much as he had last night. Of course, she was rested this morning and that made the whole world look better.

She took another healing breath and reminded herself everything would be okay.

Eventually.

She would put her life back together and maybe even look back at this time and laugh. Well, perhaps not laugh. That was pushing it, but she was resilient and she would be fine soon enough.

In the meantime, she had a lovely place to stay and the company of a good friend with whom she looked forward to catching up.

She’d have to figure out how to be helpful and not get under foot. She and Jules had roomed well together at university because they understood each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. She knew Juliette well enough that she was confident she would be able to size up how her friend felt about Chelsea’s invasion the moment she walked through the front door.

Chelsea would not outstay her welcome—though deep down she hoped Juliette would be just as happy to see her as Chelsea was to reconnect with her.

But she was getting ahead of herself. First, tea. Before that could happen, she must get up and put the kettle on. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood and pulled on her fuchsia yoga pants.

After Ethan had grudgingly growled off and left her alone last night, Chelsea had made a mad dash outside to get her handbag and suitcase out of the car. She’d managed to make it back inside without drawing any more attention to herself. Or, who knows, maybe Ethan had informed the town that Jules was cool with her being there. She hoped he hadn’t told too many people. Juliette had lamented before that people in her hometown could be rather nosy. Some considered it close-knit and neighborly. But Jules had confessed that sometimes, despite good intentions, having the entire town in your business felt a little stifling. As Chelsea drew water and set the kettle on the stove, she hoped they wouldn’t be in her business—or, more aptly, in Chelsea Allen’s.

As she waited for the water to boil, she had a nose around Juliette’s cottage. It was cozy and neat as a pin. A mix of old-world charm with modern accents, it was as posh and unique as Juliette herself.

The overstuffed sofa was piled with throw pillows in luscious jewel tones and rich floral patterns. The rough-hewn parquet floor was laid in a herringbone pattern that looked as if it had been lifted from a Belle Époque Paris apartment. The walls were painted a warm, welcoming shade of pale blue, which set off the white crown molding that hugged the tiptops of the home’s tall walls. An antique Persian rug anchored the room and presented an interesting contrast to the modern wood-and-glass coffee table.

Chelsea had studied interior design at university and had even done a short stint at a high-end London firm. She loved what Juliette had done with the place. It was as spot-on as any project Chelsea might’ve planned.

She picked up a small obsidian elephant from an end table and traced a finger over its smooth, curved surface. She’d brought it back from Africa for Juliette.

A year out of university, she’d landed a great job with a design firm, but then she’d learned about the international aid organization Voluntary Service Overseas and its world aid efforts.

She’d grown up so privileged it seemed the perfect way to give back. Everyone thought she was crazy when she made the decision to leave her design job, which her sister, Victoria, had helped her land, in favor of shipping off to Africa.

Despite the rolled eyes and reproach she’d received from her family and their accusations that she refused to grow up—and this sojourn was just an excuse to put off true responsibility—she maxed out her time in Africa helping to further the organization’s poverty-ending efforts.

She’d been changed by her experience.

When the cost of a frivolous designer throw pillow could feed a starving family for a month, decorating the homes of the überwealthy seemed wrong on so many levels. After she aged out of VSO, Chelsea couldn’t bring herself to go back into the design business. Instead, she took a job with the non-profit End Hunger London, which garnered more familial huffs and eye rolls because it wasn’t one of their chosen charities. However, because of her family’s connections, she was able to draw a respectable amount of recognition and support to the organization.

Even though she never sought personal attention, for a short while, the press deemed her an angel. Until they grew bored with that and they decided to turn her into the devil.

The minor tabloid attention had actually worked in her favor for a while. After she’d helped get End Hunger London up and rolling, she was ready for a change. The prestigious London firm Hargraves Designs had courted her and hired her as a designer. It was the time for a change. She’d worked for the greater good—and would continue to volunteer and use her high-profile status to raise awareness. It just seemed like the right move. But everything fell apart after Hadden’s revenge.

Hargraves wanted edgy, not skanky. They’d let her go, without even giving her a chance to defend herself.

Determined not to turn loose of her good mood, Chelsea returned the elephant to its place and pushed the memories from her mind. She spied several other things that Juliette had purchased when the two of them had traveled together during school—a hand-blown vase from Murano, a beautiful mirror made from vintage plates by Austrian designer Christine Hechinger. The memories made her smile.

But the thing Chelsea found the most endearing, and the most interesting by far, was the plethora of pictures her dear friend had scattered about the place in frames on the walls and on easels as centerpieces of shelf and tabletop arrangements.

Chelsea didn’t have to look hard to find several pictures of herself with Juliette. But she couldn’t locate a single photograph of Jules with Ethan Campbell. Not that she was looking—or at least she hadn’t realized she was looking until it registered that she found his photographic absence strangely satisfying.

On the phone, Jules had denied anything but a platonic, neighborly friendship with Ethan, but they’d only spoken about him for a moment. Then again, Juliette certainly wouldn’t have used that opportunity to regale Chelsea with details of a friends-with-benefits arrangement with her hunky neighbor. Not with Ethan standing right there.

Actually, it might’ve been better if she knew that Juliette had hooked up with Ethan, even casually—especially casually—because according to the friendship code that would make Ethan off-limits.

And how ridiculous was that thought? But wait...wasn’t that guy, that professional bull rider that Juliette had a thing for, named Campbell, too? John... No... Was it Jude? Jude Campbell. Yes. That was it. She hadn’t heard Jules mention him in ages. She made a mental note to ask about the connection when Juliette got home.

In the meantime, Chelsea didn’t dwell on either of the Campbell men as she soaked in the rest of her best friend’s home, focusing on what a treat it was to be there at last.

Though Juliette was born and bred in Celebration, the United Kingdom had always held a special place in her heart. Chelsea used to tease her about being an anglophile because she had loved everything British. Jules had, of course, returned to Celebration, and that was where she had started her business, but her friend had infused enough of England into her Texas home that she had taken the culture with her. The best of both worlds, Chelsea mused as she lifted a frame containing a photo of a corgi puppy. Ahh, this must be Franklin. Juliette had been so excited when she’d texted with the news that she was adopting a puppy from a litter of a corgi that belonged to a local friend.

She was eager to meet the little guy. Since Jules was away, someone must’ve been watching him. Too bad she couldn’t go pick him up and have him here when Jules got home. She’d do just that if she knew where he was, but she didn’t. And she didn’t want to call Juliette and risk interrupting her at work. But she could text her, and Jules could answer at her convenience. After a momentary hesitation about whether or not it was smart to venture out, she made up her mind that while she would mostly keep a low profile, she had no intentions of sequestering herself while she was here. Nothing said sketchy like a guest who holed up in the house. Plus, she wanted to see where her friend lived.

When they were at university together, Chelsea had wanted to visit Juliette’s hometown—she used to joke that she wanted to meet a real cowboy—but Juliette had always steered away from spending their holidays here and they had opted for more exotic locales such as Paris, Milan and Ibiza. After they graduated, though they’d taken care to keep in touch, they both had gotten so bogged down with life after university—Chelsea going to Africa and Jules putting all her time and resources behind her wedding planning business—that they hadn’t seen each other in person in three years. If there was one upside to this scandal pushing her away from London, it was this chance to reunite with her best friend.

She sent the text and the kettle whistled. Chelsea returned to the kitchen, turning off the burner. She opted for the Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Gold from the selection of fine loose tea in Juliette’s cabinet and spooned two teaspoons of the leaves into the mesh strainer, set it in the cup and poured steaming water over the top.

Her tea hadn’t even had time to steep properly before Chelsea heard keys rattling in the front door.

What in the world?

She wasn’t expecting Juliette until this afternoon—possibly even early evening. If Ethan was back, letting himself in without even the common courtesy of a knock, she would have several choice words for him. He might have a key, but that didn’t mean he was free to use it and enter at whim while she was here alone.

She left her tea on the kitchen’s marble-topped counter and walked into the living room, steeling herself to make it clear she wasn’t pleased. She’d had it up to here with guys who thought they could push their way in and—

“Chelsea!” Juliette stepped into the living room, leaving the door wide open as she rushed toward her friend. “You’re here! You’re really here. I’m so happy to see you.”

For the tiniest fraction of a second something that resembled disappointment zinged through Chelsea. But it wasn’t disappointment. How could she be disappointed that Jules was here and she wasn’t going to get the chance to tell off Ethan Campbell when the last thing she wanted was him barging in?

And she was elated to see Juliette, whom she was so busy enfolding in a warm hug that Ethan Campbell completely left her mind.

Well, maybe not completely.

“It’s about time you got here,” Chelsea said, holding Juliette at arm’s length to look at her. “You’re just as gorgeous as ever.”

And she was. With her perpetually tanned olive skin, long, dark hair and sky blue eyes, she had always been an exotic beauty. Only now she seemed more...grounded. More sure of herself. And why not, with her business booming?

“I left early so I could get back as fast as I could. Now that you’re here I may never let you leave. But what’s going on? What the hell has Hadden Hastings done now? You know I never liked him.”

Why wasn’t she prepared for this? She knew she was going to have to tell Juliette the whole story. But she struggled to find the words.

“You must be exhausted,” Chelsea said. “Why don’t you kick off your shoes? I just boiled some water. While you’re getting comfortable, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“That sounds heavenly.” Juliette gave Chelsea another quick hug before she disappeared down the hall. “But I want to hear everything. Every last detail.”

That was what she was afraid of.

When Juliette returned, she’d traded in her business suit for a soft-looking pink tracksuit.

“You were in San Antonio?” Chelsea asked, hoping to distract her by changing the subject.

Juliette nodded as she plated a couple of muffins and set them and the two mugs of tea on a wooden tray.

“It was a gorgeous wedding. The daughter of a big family that made a fortune in the spice trade.”

“The spice trade? What is this, the fifteenth century?”

“Believe it or not, I think that’s when they started the company.” The two went into the living room and settled themselves on the couch. “But enough about them. What’s going on?” Juliette sipped her tea. “Is your mother being impossible again?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Chelsea ducked her head. “So I take it you haven’t heard?”

“What’s going on?” Concern overtook Juliette’s face. “You said something about a video Hadden sent to the media. Is everything okay?”

As hot tears began to burn her eyes, Chelsea shook her head. She tried to console herself with the thought that if Juliette hadn’t heard about the scandal, maybe it hadn’t made its way across the pond.

Juliette reached out and put a hand on Chelsea’s arm. “Honey, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Hadden’s quite proud of himself, I’m sure.”

Chelsea drew in a deep breath. She just needed to say it. It was like jumping off the high dive; if she thought about it too long she would paralyze herself.

“Before Hadden and I broke up, he filmed us having sex. Once word got out that Thomas might be a contender for prime minister, Hadden gave the tape to the media.”

Juliette nearly snorted her tea and was overcome by a coughing fit. When she finally regained her composure, she said, “Are you kidding me?”

Chelsea shook her head. She couldn’t force words around the lump of shame that always swelled in her throat when she tried to talk about this.

“That little turd. You could sue him. You could sue him and the media that released it. They didn’t have your permission.”

“No, they didn’t have my permission. I would’ve never allowed it. I would’ve never allowed Hadden to record us if I had known. The problem is, I don’t have solid proof that Hadden was the one who released the footage. Obviously, you and I both know it couldn’t have been anybody but him. There was no one else in his flat while we were intimate—”

Her voice broke and she stared at her hands in her lap. She was so ashamed. Even telling her best friend in the world made her feel as vulnerable and dirty and humiliated as the moment she first found out.

“How dare he?” Juliette railed. “It’s called slut-shaming, you know? God, I hate that term. It doesn’t do the female gender any favors. Even though it’s not intended to be derogatory toward women, it sounds like it is. It is a misnomer. It should be sex-shaming. Please know I am not by any means calling you a slut. You’re not. You’re the victim here. Don’t you see that? This is the epitome of double standards.”

“I appreciate your support. I feel pretty crummy right now. I feel shameful and dirty, but I will never allow Hadden to force me to play the victim. You know me better than that. However, my family thinks they are the victims. They want me to disappear, just go away—” she made a shooing motion with her hand “—until this whole ugly mess blows over. I am officially a liability to Thomas’s future. So I have been cordially invited to get lost. Thank you for taking me in. I couldn’t think of anywhere else I wanted to go.”

Juliette threw her arms around Chelsea and enveloped her in another of her famous bear hugs. “I am so glad you’re here, honey. Though I wish it were under different circumstances. This isn’t your fault, Chels. Hadden is a misogynistic pig. He’s a creep. Why is he getting no flack and you’re taking all the heat? Why are we not prosecuting him?”

“Because he blurred out his face in the footage. No one can prove it’s him.”

“And the fact that you dated him for over a year never entered into the tawdry equation?”

“Of course people have speculated, but there’s no proof.”

Her face burned and she buried it in her hands. Juliette reached out and rubbed her back.

“I am just incensed about this. I mean, I know you would never willingly open your bedroom door. It’s such a violation of privacy. But here’s one thing I don’t get. Why is it still so shameful for a woman to embrace her sexuality, but a man gets points for dipping his wick?”

“That’s the age-old dilemma,” Chelsea mused. “One would hope that by now we’d evolved beyond that pathetic double standard. But times like this prove it’s alive and well because everyone has branded me a slut and seems to be taking great pleasure in shaming me.”

“But you are not a slut! I know the tabloids went to town on you a few years ago when you worked for End Hunger. They tried to turn you into the poster child for party girls. What was that creep’s name who kept hounding you?”

“Bertie Veal. He’s still up to his antics. He’s the one who broke the news about the tape. I just hope he doesn’t get wind that I’m here. If he does, I’ll have to leave because I don’t want him to start bothering you. Let’s hope he doesn’t remember we were university roommates.”

“Bertie doesn’t remember me. I was never on his radar. But he was pretty obsessed with you. Actually, I think he had a crush on you, but he knew you were out of his league. It’s like the playground bully who pulls a girl’s ponytail when she won’t pay attention to him. Bertie needs to get a life.”

“Sadly, selling stories to the paparazzi is his life. After Hadden sold him the tape of us, Bertie has been insufferable.”




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