CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

EXCERPT FROM MY ONE-NIGHT HEIR BY NATALIE ANDERSON

PROLOGUE

AS FELICITY CORNING picked up the wastebasket from beside the client’s writing desk, a glint of gold script on glossy ebony caught her attention.

You are invited to attend London’s premier Benefit for the Arts Gala

The gala was being held at a swanky art gallery in Chelsea two weeks from now.

This is the way, the devilish dreamer on her shoulder whispered. That voice was delusional, always telling her to keep trying...find a way.

Given how many obstacles the universe had put in her way, she was ready to throw in the towel on her fashion-design aspirations. She was only twenty-four, but after two years of knocking on fashion house doors that remained firmly closed, she was growing disheartened.

She understood that dropping out of her degree—and having books and books of sketches with only a few physical samples—meant she wasn’t seen as a viable candidate for even an unpaid intern position. The designers needed to see more commitment to her craft, but she couldn’t help feeling like she had already missed the boat.

If you could show them what you’re capable of, the voice persisted, someone might finally take you seriously.

“No,” she said aloud.

Risking her current job was not the way to go about it. Housekeeping might not be the most glamorous job in the world, but the agency catered to wealthy clients. That was why she had taken it. She often got to put away samples, shopping, and dry cleaning from top designers. Aside from the occasional post-party apocalypse, the work was basic and physical but undemanding. The pay covered her bills. More or less. London was obscenely expensive.

Felicity actually lived a penurious existence. Most artists did. She didn’t mind going without lattes or streaming services so she could spend her scant disposable income on bolts of silk and high-end notions, though. Building out her collection was her way forward. It was her passion. It was the only entertainment she needed.

However, her life had fallen into a rut. Every day was a grind that only seemed to entrench her deeper into a place she didn’t want to be. She had been thinking of going back to school to finish her degree, which she had waffled her way through the first time round. She had been persuaded by her grandmother into thinking a practical business degree was the way to go, then later switched to visual arts before knocking off to take care of Granny until she had passed away.

Going back to school would create the Catch-22 of having no time outside of her classes and day job to sew. Plus, most fashion houses were looking for a post-graduate degree. It would be years before she was remotely “qualified” in the eyes of top designers.

With a sigh of frustration, Felicity carried the wastebasket into the housekeeping closet, but she didn’t immediately empty it into the larger bin. First, she plucked out the invitation and set it on the shelf of cleaning products.

She wasn’t taking it, she told her squirming conscience. She was merely not throwing it away.

Maybe the owner of this three-bedroom townhome—a well-known supermodel—had tossed it by accident. She had recently been cast in a blockbuster movie and was out of town. That was likely why she had discarded the invitation despite the message on the back.

Delia Chevron and date, courtesy of Brightest Star Studio

The studio must have picked up the ticket price for her. How nice to be so rich and famous you could throw away a dinner worth a few hundred pounds. Such a waste. A crime, really, when good people went hungry every day.

People like you, the voice whispered.

“Shut up,” she hissed.

But when Felicity left for the day, she told herself she was only taking the card as inspiration. Someday she would be invited to an event like this—or one of her gowns would, she thought wryly.

But she knew better. She knew she would take a risk that could go horribly awry.

On the other hand, it could change her life.

As it turned out, it did both.

CHAPTER ONE

SAINT MONTGOMERY WOULD have been ushered down the red carpet with or without a date, but he was solo tonight, so he chose the less conspicuous side entrance where he was funneled like a steer for branding past a thinner bank of photographers. He couldn’t avoid the barrage of questions on his recent breakup, however.

“Saint! Are you and Julie still speaking? What happened?”

He should have brought a date. A new face would have changed the narrative, and God knew he was tired of this one.

Historically, his romantic liaisons were casual and pleasant and ended without conflict. If asked about a particular breakup, he would claim “artistic differences” or some other facetious explanation.

His affair with Julie, however, was the gift that kept on giving. Or taking, as it turned out.

He’d caught her trying to break into his laptop. She’d claimed to be the jealous type who’d suspected him of an affair. He had assured her he was the possessive type, especially when it came to his proprietary software.

Saint wasn’t surprised she’d had a mercenary motive in sleeping with him. Most people operated in their own self-interest, including him, but this experience had shaken his already jaded view of his fellow human beings.

When he had begun seeing Julie, he had taken her at face value, believing she hadn’t needed anything from him beyond affluent companionship. She was the daughter of a famous sportscaster in the US and stood to inherit millions. She had recently broken up with a star athlete and had told Saint she wasn’t ready for anything serious again. She wanted marriage and children “someday” but not today. She had fit seamlessly into his social circle of tycoons and celebrities, flirting and charming wherever she’d gone.

She had seemed an even match for Saint, who always promised monogamy, but little else. He had dropped his guard more than he normally would, never suspecting that Julie had a gambling addiction. Or that she would attempt industrial espionage to pay down her debts.

She could have cost him billions if his bespoke security software hadn’t alerted him to her attempt to clone it. He hadn’t pressed charges. He’d gone easy on her, expelling her from his life while offering to pay for a treatment program.

She had petulantly refused, then gone on every damned talk show in the English-speaking world, literally selling a tale that he had wronged her.

This story was well past its shelf life. Saint was beyond ready to change the channel.

“You can wait for your party over there.” Ahead of him, the greeter waved a woman into purgatory on the far side of the single door and invited the group ahead of him to come forward.

A kick of desire arrested him as he ate up the vision in blue.

Who was she? She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. More eye-catching in an undiscovered, wallflower way. Most women had arrived dressed to compete with plunging necklines and tiaras and capes made of ostrich feathers. This one’s makeup was muted. Her brunette hair fell in subtle waves from a side part. Rather than an ice cap’s worth of diamonds, she wore a pair of gold hoops and a thin chain with a locket. Her gown was a simple halter style that tied behind her neck before cradling her ample breasts in soft gathers above a high, wide waistband. The skirt fell in a solid curtain off her wide hips, leaving her legs and shoes hidden.

He let his gaze return to those lovely breasts sitting heavy and relaxed in the gathered cups of silk. No bra. He would swear it on his life. Her nipples were leaving a subtle impression beneath the sheen of fabric. One soft swell lifted and moved without restraint as she brushed her hair back from her cheek.

He swallowed. Saint was a healthy man with a strong sexual appetite, but he rarely felt need. Not like this. Not hunger that was immediate and intense and specific.

Her unease was palpable as she pressed a self-conscious smile onto her lips and eyed the bank of photographers. They were ignoring her in favor of new arrivals at the end of the line.