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The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn
Kathleen O'Brien
Ex-con Matthew Quinn has plenty of trouble in his life right now. He doesn't need to take on more. And there's no question that Natalie Granville–with her crumbling mansion and her canceled wedding–is capital-T trouble. But that doesn't stop him from accepting a job from her.He can handle it. All he needs to do is follow some rules:Remember she's your boss, nothing else.Don't start letting the arrangement get all cozy and domestic and personal.Don't notice, don't want, don't feel and definitely don't touch.But apparently, when it comes to Natalie, rules are meant to be broken….
Natalie Granville’s
TOP TEN THINGS TO DO ON YOUR NON-WEDDING DAY
10. Avoid pitying phone calls from your concerned friends and relatives. (Especially when you’re the “jilter,” not the “jiltee.”)
9. Avoid visits from your concerned friends and relatives. (As above.)
8. Find a useful alternative for that never-to-be-worn gown. (Dressing up garden statuary is de rigueur this season.)
7. Don’t wear white—unless it’s decidedly not wedding gear. (That bikini will do the trick just fine.)
6. Drink whatever you want to calm those non-wedding jitters. (Leave the champagne cocktails for the misguided fools who do want to get married.)
5. Never let anyone tell you you’re bitter. (Remember—you broke it off because you were getting married for the wrong reasons.)
4. Return all the presents given to you by your wealthy former fiancé. (You don’t want anyone to accuse you of gaining anything but experience from this sad affair.)
3. Break all the rules you want. (After all, everyone in town is already talking about you.)
2. Celebrate your narrow escape. (You really did do the right thing.)
And the number one thing to do on your non-wedding day: Hire the gorgeous guy with the mysterious past who shows up at your door looking for work….
Dear Reader,
What a potent concept the past is! I’ve known people who cling to it, people who slide it under a microscope, people who run screaming from it and even a few who rewrite it. I’ve never met anyone who is indifferent to it.
I’m no exception. I loved being seven, eighteen, twenty-five. I revere my oldest friends, because when I say, “remember when,” they do. My house is full of nicked chairs my grandmother bought. My conversations are decorated with my father’s pearls of wisdom, and my conscience is buckled in tight with my mother’s admonitions.
I’m free to love my past, because I’m also free to tell it to get lost. Sometimes I give away the chair that doesn’t fit. Now and then I string my own pearls. Occasionally I even blow my mother a mental kiss, salute her for teaching me to think for myself, and do the thing she said I mustn’t.
But what if you couldn’t? What if your past owned you—instead of the other way around? That’s what happened to Matthew Quinn. He’s just been released from prison, but in his heart he’s still locked away. He can’t forget his past, not even long enough to fall in love.
It’s going to take a special woman to redeem him. But Natalie Granville is a prisoner of her past, too. She’s shackled to Summer House, a moldering old relic she doesn’t want, can’t afford and yet feels a duty to preserve.
The Redemption of Matthew Quinn is the story of how they finally manage to come to terms with the past—and to fall in love with the future. I hope you enjoy making the journey with them.
Warmly,
Kathleen O’Brien
The Redemption of Matthew Quinn
Kathleen O’Brien
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Kathleen O’Brien
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
927—THE REAL FATHER
967—A SELF-MADE MAN
1015—WINTER BABY* (#litres_trial_promo)
1047—BABES IN ARMS* (#litres_trial_promo)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u85e4b40e-876b-5504-857e-1fdeefb4c7a3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u962d2a8c-8ef0-5a02-b590-a90b702d3fc7)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7b9156d5-7fe4-546e-8309-a7dbd978ba9a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ubbccd67d-5808-5f76-bd02-f9c411dcd658)
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)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
AT HIGH NOON when she should have been saying “I do,” Natalie Granville was lounging on the cracked porch of her maggoty mansion, wearing nothing but a bikini, a smile and a light coating of perspiration.
Through the open double doors to the parlor, she listened to the answering machine. At least ten people had already called to check on her. Their messages ranged from the carefully indirect— “Hi, Nat, just wondering if you felt like talking”—to the blunt growls of her elderly cousin Granville Frome— “Dammit, girl, where are you? If you’re holed up somewhere crying, I’m going to break that bastard’s nose.”
But Natalie ignored them all. She was a Granville, and by heaven she didn’t need anybody’s pity.
She hoisted herself onto the wide marble banister and lay back carefully, so that the sun could bake her entire body. She slathered sunscreen across the bridge of her nose, where those annoying freckles liked to pop up, balanced her bottle of Jack Daniel’s on her stomach, and went on enjoying the heavenly day.
The would-have-been wedding day. Above her, the hot blue sky wore white lace clouds. Around her, the air sparkled like diamonds. The birds were singing schmaltzy romantic ditties.
Actually, she admitted to the bottle, trying to be honest— Granvilles were unflinchingly honest—it would have been a lovely day to get married.
Then she grinned, though her lips felt a little bit numb. Aw, who was she kidding? It was an even lovelier day to not get married.
Oops. Her grandfather wouldn’t like that split infinitive. Granvilles always used perfect grammar. She raised the bottle over her head and, without turning her head, apologized to the glowering portrait that hung on the parlor wall.
“Sorry, Gramps. I guess I’m breaking all the rules today.”
She wouldn’t have called him Gramps, either, if it hadn’t been for the Jack Daniel’s. And the fact that he’d been dead for five years.
“Um, hello. Miss? Excuse me.” A man’s voice floated up to her from the driveway, which sloped away beside the terraced garden. “Sorry, but I have a delivery for Natalie Granville?”
She maneuvered herself upright carefully, straddling the banister as if it were a marble horse. “I’m Natalie Granville,” she said politely. Darn, this position felt kind of awkward—the man was looking at her very strangely.
And she couldn’t quite decide what to do with the Jack Daniel’s. She didn’t want the bottle to fall off and break. She hugged it to her side, but that didn’t seem very hospitable, so she held it out. “Want some?”
The man—more like a boy, really—flushed. “No thanks,” he said quickly. He held out a very large, flat box. “I just need your signature for this.”
Natalie stared at the package, which looked familiar. Not the sort of thing she received for the nursery business she ran from the greenhouse, though. Too flat. Too feminine, with its shiny white corners.
Hmm. She frowned. Jack Daniel’s might taste wonderful, but it didn’t exactly help you to think clearly. Had she been expecting a delivery?
“I— Can you sign? It’s for you. It’s from Apple Blossom Bridal.”
Aw, shucks. Natalie’s shoulders sagged. The wedding dress.
“I don’t want it,” she said, closing her eyes and waving the half-empty bottle vaguely. “Could you maybe just throw it away as you leave?”
“Um…not really.” The kid sounded downright nervous now. “I’ll leave it here, okay?” He set the box on the banister, moving in slow motion, as if he had discovered it contained nitroglycerine. “Just right here.”
Natalie sighed and had another swallow of Jack Daniel’s, which, taken straight like this, was muscular enough to etch its initials in her esophagus. She shivered, loving it.
“Okay.” She wiped her mouth and smiled at him. “If you have to.”
Tucking the bottle under her elbow, she reached over, signed his clipboard, and then began unwrapping the box.
“It’s my wedding dress,” she said conversationally. “Or I guess it’s technically my non-wedding dress. Today is my non-wedding day, you see. I told them I didn’t need the dress anymore, but they wouldn’t give me my money back. Don’t you think that’s mean? I was only getting married in the first place because I needed money so badly, and now—”
But the deliveryman was already gone. Natalie looked at the empty yard around her, the acres and acres of once-beautiful gardens, and sighed. He hadn’t even waited for a tip. Didn’t he know Granvilles always tipped beautifully? That was why they were constantly broke. Well, that and the gambling. And the women.
And the house. Always the house. This crazy, crumbling, hungry monster of a house.
She unfolded her gown and shook the creases out of the soft white cotton lace. It was an okay dress—not great. She’d bought the cheapest one in town, although they’d all been absurdly expensive. That was the problem with living in a community of millionaires. Price tags came in only three sizes: Big, Bigger and Downright Astronomical.
She held the pearled bodice up against her chest, trying to imagine herself wearing it. She couldn’t.
She climbed down off the banister and tried again, letting the layered skirt fall all the way to her ankles. She dipped and swayed, trying to capture the dreamy, princessy feeling she used to get as a kid, when she’d rummage through the attic trunks, pretending to be a damsel in distress. She had shuffled to the attic window, antique lace dragging behind her, and surveyed her flowering kingdom.
In her ten-year-old imagination, she had always witnessed the galloping arrival of her handsome prince, her gallant knight, her brave cavalier. Or, her personal favorite, her Pair of Moors—a phrase she’d heard the grown-ups use, though she had no idea what it really meant. A few years later, when she’d learned what a “paramour” actually was, it had been a crushing disappointment.
Still pressing the gown to her chest, she moved back to the balcony and gazed down over the ruined Summer House grounds, all the way down to where the mountain ledge overlooked the tiny kingdom of Firefly Glen.
But no prince was fighting his thorny, perilous way up the mountain path. Nothing. Not so much as a speck on the horizon. Even the deliveryman’s truck had long since disappeared.
She held out the wedding dress and scowled at it. It might be a five-hundred-dollar gown, but the darn thing didn’t possess five pennies’ worth of magic.
“Nat, are you there?” The answering machine was at it again. It was Stu. He’d called three times already. “Want me to come over and take you out to lunch? I don’t want you lying around feeling sorry for yourself.”
She stuck her tongue out at the machine, then knocked back another swig of Jack Daniel’s. How dare he? She was enjoying her afternoon alone, that was all. Granvilles didn’t feel sorry for themselves.
So this would have been her wedding day. So what? She’d called it off two weeks ago. She’d told Bart Beswick to take his rough hands, his wet kisses and his big bank account and get lost. She was a Granville, and Granvilles didn’t sell themselves to the highest bidder.
Bart had been surprised, but not heartbroken. He’d wanted her name and her house, and he’d been pretty sure she would count herself lucky to get his money in return.
But he must have forgotten what exactly that grand old name he lusted after really meant. Granvilles chose freedom. Exhausted, overworked, penniless freedom. Granvilles might secretly hope that someday, somehow, the long-overdue prince would still find his way up the mountain, but they certainly didn’t stand around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for it to happen.
“Feeling sorry for myself? Ha!” She slurred the s in “sorry” just a little, but no one could hear her. In a minute or two, she was going to go inside, drink some strong coffee and get back to peeling the mildewed wallpaper from the Blue Bedroom. She was going to see if anyone had answered her “Handyman Wanted” ad.
She might even practice spackling, which was actually much harder than it looked.
Yep, she was going to get busy. In a minute or two. Or three.
But she sighed, dreading it. Her dress draped over her arm, she leaned her elbows on the pitted marble banister and stared down the long, empty slope of terraced gardens.
And then, because she was a Granville, she forgot about going inside. Because she was a Granville, she kept staring, dreaming, seeing flowers where no flowers had bloomed in ten neglected years.
And because she was a Granville, she closed her eyes. And as she drifted off, she could almost hear, over the birdsong and the breeze, the distant rumble of galloping hooves.
MATTHEW QUINN peeled the perforated address strip off the “Handyman Wanted” sign and studied it carefully before putting it in his pocket.
Summer House, it said in a frilly, but shaky, calligraphy— 717 Blue Pine Trail. And a telephone number.
Summer House. Looking at the calligraphy, Matthew pictured the owner as an eighty-year-old, silver-haired widow who would make weak tea and cookies for the handyman, but would never invite him into the musty, cluttered twilight of her Victorian sanctum.
Especially not if she knew he’d just been released from prison.
She had tacked the notice to a community bulletin board outside Firefly Glen’s red brick Town Hall. The other notices on the board described a pure Norman Rockwell weekend: the Firefly High Astronomy Club stargazing seminar, the fly fishermen’s annual casting contest, the Firefly Girls’ Saturday car-and-boat wash, the Congregational Church chicken barbecue and white elephant sale.
