Innocent On Her Wedding Night

Innocent On Her Wedding Night
Sara Craven

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.Laine waited for her handsome new husband, Daniel Flynn, to come to her on their wedding night…knowing that their marriage was a sham. Daniel didn't love her—he was just fulfilling a promise he'd made to take care of her….So Laine fled—a married woman, but still an innocent!Two years later, broke and vulnerable, Laine has to face Daniel again. And this time Daniel will take the wedding night that should have been his….

Innocent on Her Wedding Night

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover (#u9c2211c8-d0d4-5058-92fb-15a43e431699)

Title Page (#ub317853a-2b97-51f5-9136-1bd44a62d3b0)

About the Author (#u61fc0c92-93c7-5654-829a-1f5ffa91f228)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u3d73b6e8-4152-5301-b598-c1f2c52f063a)

AS THE lift began its journey to the fourth floor, Laine Sinclair put down her bulky travel bag, flexing cramped fingers, and sagged back against the metal wall.

Adrenalin had got her this far, fuelled largely by anger and disappointment, but now, with sanctuary almost within reach, the savage energy was draining out of her, reminding her that she was jet-lagged and that her damaged ankle, in spite of its rudimentary bandaging, hurt like hell.

Home, she thought longingly, raking a hand through her light sun-streaked hair. Home, bath—and bed. Especially bed. Maybe she’d wait long enough to make herself a hot drink. Probably she wouldn’t.

There’d be no one around at the flat. Jamie would be at work, and it wasn’t one of the cleaner’s days. So there’d be no cosseting, however much she might need it.

But there would be absolute peace and quiet, and the opportunity to sleep off some of her stresses and strains before the inquisition started.

She could hear it now. What are you doing back here? What happened to the boat charter business? And where’s Andy?

At some point she would have to come up with the answers to all that, and more, but she’d worry about that when she had to. And that, she thought, was not yet.

And at least Jamie, with his own chequered career, was unlikely to say I told you so.

The lift stopped, and as the doors slid open she hefted her bag on to her shoulder, and stepped into the corridor, wincing as her ankle protested.

She fumbled in her travel belt for her latch key. She hadn’t intended to take it with her. It was to have been left behind, like a symbol of her old life.

Not needed on voyage, she thought, her mouth twisting. And how ironic was that?

She let herself in, put down her bag, and stood, looking appraisingly around her at the big living room which, with the galley kitchen opposite her, formed the flat’s neutral territory. Two en-suite bedrooms faced each other across the shared space, ruled by their own strict privacy laws. A system that worked, and generally worked well.

She noted, brows raised, that the flat seemed unusually tidy for once, with none of the empty wine bottles, crumpled newspapers and takeaway cartons that marked her brother’s normal passage through life when she wasn’t there to prevent it.

Maybe all that persistent nagging had paid off at last. And at least she wouldn’t have to clear a path to get to her own immaculate bedroom.

But on that thought dawned two others. First—that the door to her room was standing open, when it should be closed. Secondly—that she could hear someone moving around inside.

Well, what do I know? she thought wearily. I haven’t been here for over a month. Maybe Mrs Archer’s changed her hours, and that’s why the place is almost hygienic for once.

Her lips parted to call out—to establish her presence and reassure—but the words were never uttered. Instead, her bedroom door was flung wide, and a stark naked man walked out into the living room.

Laine shrieked. Closing her eyes, she took a too-hasty step backwards and stumbled against her abandoned bag, ricking her ankle again, and sending a shaft of pain up her leg which made her teeth ache in sympathy.

The interloper said something that combined blasphemy and obscenity in one gracefully drawled phrase, then vanished back into the room he’d just left.

Leaving Laine standing there as if she’d been turned to stone, a small frightened voice in her head whispering a beseeching No—oh, no … over and over again.

Because she knew that voice. Knew it as well as she knew her own, even though she’d never expected to hear it again.

The body she hadn’t recognised from that brief glimpse, but then she’d never seen it less than partially clothed before.

However, she was in no doubt at all over the intruder’s identity. In which case, she thought shakily, grabbing at her bag, she was on her way out of here.

She was halfway to the door when she heard his voice again, reaching her across the room.

‘Elaine.’ The hated full version of her name, pronounced with a kind of weary disdain. ‘Of all the people in the world. What the hell are you doing here?’