3e-cb35-5bf0-971f-918174c0db55">
CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written more than 140 books for Harlequin Mills & Boon®. Carole has four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie called Merlyn. She says, “I’m happily married to Peter senior. We’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship.”
His Christmas Eve Proposal
Carole Mortimer
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘JUST leave the coffee on the side, Donald, thanks.’ Hawk called out from his bathroom to his English factotum, after he’d heard the other man knock on his bedroom door before entering. ‘I’ll be out in a couple of minutes,’ he added, as he continued to towel-dry his hair after taking his morning shower, not expecting an answer; Donald Harrison was efficiency personified, and Hawk congratulated himself once again for having found the man ten years ago.
He continued humming to himself as, draping the towel about his shoulders, he took a couple of seconds to contemplate the view from his bathroom window, relishing the blanket of snow that swept across the whole of the foothills towards the Canadian Rockies, which he could see towering majestically in the distance.
Home. It was a stark contrast to the warmth he had left behind in Los Angeles yesterday; he’d been able to feel the biting cold as soon as he stepped out at Calgary airport last night. But Hawk had dressed with the Canadian weather in mind, his sheepskin jacket, faded denims and the boots that had seemed so out of place in Los Angeles ideal for the refreshing coldness that he’d known he would find here.
He instantly felt part of the impending festive season now that he had the weather to go with it. It was unthinkable for him to even contemplate spending Christmas anywhere else but here. No matter where he was in the world, he always flew back to what had once been the family home for the holidays.
His parents now lived in Florida, as the warmth there was much kinder to the arthritis his father suffered after years of working on the land. They would arrive in three days’ time at the five acres and house that were all that remained of the family farm. Hawk’s younger sister and her husband—the city slicker—would fly in from Vancouver at the weekend, with their two young children.
No doubt the scores of female fans who avidly followed the movie career of Joshua Hawkley would find his family Christmas a pretty tame affair, probably imagining him instead to be on some Caribbean island, soaking up the sun on a golden beach and drinking piña coladas with a half-naked female at his side!
The half-naked female didn’t sound half bad, but the rest of it could take a hike.
He turned to study his reflection in the slightly steamed-up mirror over the sink, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin as he debated whether or not to shave. He decided not; he had three more days before the parents arrived to just wind down and relax after all the razzmatazz that had gone along with attending his latest movie premiere last weekend, and not shaving was part of that process.
No doubt his mother would have some comment to make about his longer hair, though, he acknowledged ruefully as he looked at the dishevelled damp locks that rested on the broad width of his shoulders. He was due to start filming the longawaited sequel to The Pirate King next month, and had grown his dark hair in preparation for the part.
If they could find a replacement leading lady, that was. A five months pregnant female pirate captain wouldn’t exactly look right, and Hawk’s schedule was such that filming couldn’t be delayed until after the baby’s birth.
Oh, well—that was the director Nik Prince’s problem, not his. Hawk shrugged dismissively to himself as he strolled through to his bedroom.
‘Donald, I think I might—who the hell are you?’ Hawk rasped. He came to an abrupt halt in the bathroom doorway to stare across the room at the young woman standing in front of the window and drawing back his bedroom curtains.
There was no mistaking that she was a woman. Her long red waist-length hair gave that away, flowing down the slenderness of her spine the colour of rippling fire against a body-hugging black sweater.
But even without the hair it was impossible not to recognise that the tall, leggy figure belonged to a female. Her skin-tight black denims were doing everything they could to prove the point, Hawk saw with a frown.
At the same time he knew there shouldn’t be a female—tall and leggy or otherwise—within several miles of here!
Rosie had turned at the first sound of the unmistakable, sexily husky voice of the actor Joshua Hawkley, taking in a sharp breath as she found herself gazing upon his nakedness.
Joshua Hawkley, thirty-five years old, the most sought-after film star in the world for over a decade, was standing in front of her—gorgeously, gloriously and magnificently naked!
Her throat felt dry, her lips and tongue numb, as she continued to stare at him with wide green eyes.
She had never been the sort of teenager—had never been allowed to be the sort of teenager!—who’d hung posters of pop and film stars on her bedroom wall. But if she had, this man would definitely have had pride of position!
Joshua Hawkley—or simply Hawk to his friends—at a height well over six feet, had a body Adonis would have been envious of: his shoulders were wide and muscular, and dark hair grew on the broadness of his chest and down over the flatness of his stomach to—
Wow.
Gasp.
Whoa!
A sudden rush of saliva moistened her throat and mouth as she found it impossible to remove her gaze from his perfect manhood.
As if becoming aware of the avidness of her gaze, Hawk moved one hand to casually pull the towel from his shoulders before draping and fastening it about his waist.
Rosie blinked, as if waking from a spell, before dragging her eyes back up to his face. Colour warmed her cheeks at the knowing smile curving those sculptured lips in a face that could have—should have—been carved by Michelangelo. A face dominated by cobalt-blue