Page 3 of 2 Books in One Bundle

Connie was harassed. She always was at these events. Ideally, she wouldn’t be here at all—she’d be at home with her grandmother. But apart from cleaning the two holiday cottages next to her grandmother’s, the only work she could take on was in the evenings, when Mrs Bowen from across the way was happy to come over and sit with her grandmother.

And evening work meant either putting in a stint at the local pub in the village or, as tonight, up at the Big House—Clayton Hall—where another fancy wedding was taking place. Wedding work was always stressful, but it paid better than the pub, and she was in no position to turn money down. Especially now.

Connie’s stomach pooled with cold dread. What on earth were they going to do, she and her grandmother? The cottage they’d rented for decades had recently been sold, and the new owner wanted to make it a holiday let, like the two next door, which would bring in far more money than a permanent tenant.

But where can we go?

The question circled in Connie’s head, finding no answer. More and more landlords were turning their properties into lucrative holiday lets here in the West Country. She’d applied to the council, but had been told that local authority accommodation would mean a pokey flat in town. Even worse, they had suggested her grandmother going into a care home.

Now the cold in Connie’s stomach felt like ice. Her heart squeezed painfully. No, she wouldn’t put her grandmother in a home—and nor would she move her into an upstairs flat with no garden, in unfamiliar surroundings. People with dementia—the dread disease tightening its grip on her grandmother with every passing day—needed familiarity, or their distress only mounted.

Oh, please can she see out her days in the cottage that has been her home for all her adult life?

That was the heartfelt prayer Connie made every day—but it looked as if it was not going to be answered.

Because how could it be?

How could it possibly be?

She pushed through the service door into the now deserted hall, scooping up the used glasses left on side tables. Tray full, she hurried past the door leading off the hall just as it was yanked open and someone exited, careering right into her. She gave a shocked cry, the jolt unbalancing her level hold on the heavy tray, and half a dozen of the stacked empty glasses slid to the edge and plunged off, smashing on the tiled floor.

Another cry broke from her—dismay.

Simultaneously a voice exclaimed behind her.‘Accidenti!’

It sounded angry.

She dropped down, placing the tray on the floor and frantically gathering up as much of the broken glass as she could see.

Suddenly there was another pair of hands doing likewise. ‘Mi dispiace—my apologies.’

It was the voice again, but not angry this time, merely impatient.

Connie glanced sideways. A pair of powerful thighs hit her eyeline, trouser material stretched taut, and she blinked and lifted her gaze slightly to take in the rest of him.

Her eyes widened. The man hunkering down beside her was, quite simply, out of this world. Dark hair, dark eyes and a face... Oh, a face that looked as if it should be on a movie screen! For one timeless moment she could only gaze, aware that her mouth was falling open and she had turned completely gormless. Then, with a mental start, she resumed gathering up the broken shards.

Another voice spoke—not impatiently, but rather with a drawling quality. Though it was hard to tell as Connie realised he was speaking Italian, so she had no idea what he was saying. The man with the movie star looks straightened, then said something back in Italian to the other man.

Connie grabbed the final shard of glass and got to her feet, lifting the tray somewhat precariously as she did so.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said automatically, her gaze anxious.

‘It was not your fault,’ the Italian movie star said. He glanced down at the floor at her feet. ‘There is a fair amount of liquid from the glasses—you will need a mop, I think.’

Connie swallowed. ‘Oh, yes—yes, of course. Um...’

She didn’t know what to say, standing there flustered and nervous, knowing that her brain was in meltdown because a stunning man was speaking to her. The other one, whose looks were saturnine rather than drop-dead fabulous, was saying something—in English this time.

‘A mop?’ he prompted.

His tone was dismissive, like the look he gave her. She felt herself flush, shoulders hunching self-defensively, and fled towards the service door. She was used to dismissive looks and comments. Particularly from men.

And a man who looked like that would be even more likely to make them!

She frowned slightly. Except that it had been the other Italian who’d given her the usual kind of glance, not the one with the incredible movie star looks—the drop-dead gorgeous one who’d been so nice to her about the dropped tray and smashed glasses.

She gave a faint sigh and didn’t know why. Then, with a mental shake, she walked through the service door and went off to find a mop.

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