Praise for Jessica Hart
‘Sweet and witty, with great characters and sizzling sexual tension, this one’s a fun read.’
—RT Book Reviews on Honeymoon with the Boss
‘Strong conflict and sizzling sexual tension drive this well-written story. The characters are smart and sharp-witted, and match up perfectly.’
—RT Book Reviews on Cinderella’s Wedding Wish
‘Well-written characters and believable conflict make the faux-engagement scenario work beautifully … and the ending is simply excellent.’
—RT Book Reviews on Under the Boss’s Mistletoe
‘Hart triumphs with a truly rare story … It’s witty and charming, and [it’s] a keeper.’
—RT Book Reviews on Oh-So-Sensible Secretary
About the Author
JESSICA HART was born in West Africa, and has suffered from itchy feet ever since, travelling and working around the world in a wide variety of interesting but very lowly jobs—all of which have provided inspiration on which to draw when it comes to the settings and plots of her stories. Now she lives a rather more settled existence in York, where she has been able to pursue her interest in history—although she still yearns sometimes for wider horizons.
If you’d like to know more about Jessica, visit her website: www.jessicahart.co.uk
Also by Jessica Hart
The Secret Princess
Ordinary Girl in a Tiara
Juggling Briefcase & Baby
Oh-So-Sensible Secretary
Under the Boss’s Mistletoe
Honeymoon with the Boss
Cinderella’s Wedding Wish
Last-Minute Proposal
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
We’ll Always Have Paris
Jessica Hart
For Isabel, dear friend and research advisor,
with love on her own Chapter Ten.
CHAPTER ONE
Media Buzz
We hear that MediaOchre Productions are celebrating a lucrative commission from Channel 16 to make a documentary on the romance industry. MediaOchre are keeping the details under wraps, but rumours are rife that an intriguing combination of presenters has been lined up. Stella Holt, still enjoying her meteoric rise from WAG to chat show host, says that she is ‘thrilled’ to have been invited to front the programme, but remains coy about the identity of her co-presenter.
One name being whispered is that of the economist, Simon Valentine, whose hard-hitting documentary on banking systems and their impact on the very poorest both here and in developing countries has led to a boom in micro-financing projects that is reputed to be revolutionising opportunities for millions around the world. Valentine, a reluctant celebrity, shot to fame with his crisp analysis of the global recession on the news, and has since become the unlikely pin-up of thinking women throughout the country. MediaOchre are refusing to confirm or deny the rumour. Roland Richards, its flamboyant executive producer, is uncharacteristically taciturn on the subject and is sticking to ‘no comment’ for now.
‘No,’ SAID Simon Valentine. ‘No, no, no, no, no. No.’
Clara’s cheeks were aching with the effort of keeping a cheery smile in place. Simon couldn’t see it on the phone, of course, but she had read somewhere that people responded more positively if you smiled when you were talking.
Not that it seemed to be having an effect on Simon Valentine.
‘I know it’s hard to make a decision without having all the facts,’ she said, desperately channelling her inner Julie Andrews. The Sound of Music was Clara’s favourite film of all time. Julie had coped with a Captain and seven children, so surely Clara shouldn’t be daunted by one disobliging economist?
‘I’d be happy to meet you and answer any questions you might have about the programme,’ she offered brightly.
‘I don’t have any questions.’ Clara could practically hear him grinding his teeth. ‘I have no intention of appearing on your programme.’
Clara had a nasty feeling that her positive smile was beginning to look more like a manic grin. ‘I understand you might want to take a little time to think about it.’
‘Look, Ms … whatever you’re called …’
‘Sterne, but please call me Clara.’
Simon Valentine ignored the invitation. ‘I don’t know how to make myself clearer,’ he said, his voice as tightly controlled as the image that stared out from Clara’s computer screen.
She had been Googling him, hoping to find some chink in his implacable armour, some glimpse of humour or a shared interest that she could use to build a connection with him, but details of his private life were frustratingly sparse. He had a PhD in Development Economics—whatever they were—from Harvard, and was currently a senior financial analyst with Stanhope Harding, but what use was that to her? You couldn’t get chatty about interest rates or the strength of the pound—or, at least, you couldn’t if you knew as little about economics as Clara did. She had been hoping to discover that he was married, or played the drums in his spare time, or had a daughter who loved ballet or … something. Something she could relate to.
As it was, she had established his age to be thirty-six and the story of how he had quietly used his unexpected celebrity to revolutionize the funding of small projects around the world. So great had been the uproar in response to the programme he had written and presented that the big financial institutions had been forced to rethink their lending policies, or so Clara had understood it. She had read lots of stories from small collectives in sub-Saharan Africa, from farmers in South America and struggling businesses in South East Asia, as well as in the more deprived parts of the UK, all of whom had credited Simon Valentine with changing their lives.
It was all very impressive, but Simon himself remained an elusive figure. As far as Clara could see, he had been born a fully fledged, suit-wearing economist who had no interest in celebrity for its own sake.
There were no snaps of him staggering out of a club at four in the morning, no furtive shots of him shopping with a girlfriend. The ideal, of course, would have been some cheesy shots of Simon Valentine showing his ‘lovely home’ in the gossip mags, but Clara wasn’t unreasonable. She had known that was a long shot, but she had thought she might at least find a picture of him at some reception, glass in hand.
But no. All she had was this corporate head and shoulders shot. He had the whole steely-jawed, gimlet-eyed thing going on, which Clara could sort of see the appeal of, although it didn’t do much for her. His tie was straight and rigidly knotted, his jacket stiff, his shoulders squared. The guy had some serious control issues, in Clara’s opinion.
Come to think of it, he had a definite Captain von Trapp quality to him, although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Christopher Plummer. Obviously. Still, Clara could imagine him summoning his children with a whistle.
Hmm. The thought gave her a definite frisson. Perhaps a rousing rendition