Tempted by Her Fake Fiancé, page 1
Charlie looked at the woman who was sitting opposite him, taking notes.
She wasn’t the Ellie Newton he’d known ten years ago, the shy girl who kept to herself at school. She’d even changed her name to Elle—sophisticated and glamorous, to match the way she looked. Though he couldn’t think of her as anyone other than Ellie.
Right now, she looked like all the women in his old life, wearing a smart office dress, high heels and her dark hair in a high-maintenance pixie cut. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her makeup flawless—and the bright red lipstick she wore made him very aware of the curve of her mouth. For a mad second, he found himself wondering what it would be like to feel that mouth against his own, sweet and teasing and utterly seductive...
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Apart from the fact he wasn’t in the market for any kind of relationship—it would feel like a betrayal of Jess—this meeting was all about business.
Dear Reader,
Fake fiancé is my absolute favourite trope—so I’ve been a little bit indulgent with both the subject and the setting in my one hundredth title. It’s set in the bit of the world where I live, complete with bluebell woods, and there’s a scene at the beach where my husband took me on our first Saturday date.
So we have marketing guru Elle, who’s convinced she’s a city girl and avoids the farm where she grew up, and Charlie, widowed tragically early in London and who’s gone from a banker to an ecologist, turning Elle’s family farm into a rare breeds/rewilding sanctuary.
When Elle nearly loses her job and her boss gives her a month to learn how to be family oriented, she asks Charlie to be her fake fiancé on social media in return for sorting out the farm’s marketing. Knowing they want completely different things out of life, they think they’re safe from falling for each other—but their hearts have other ideas!
Can they find a compromise? Read on to find out!
With love—and thank you for being with me on this journey to one hundred books.
Kate Hardy
Tempted by Her Fake Fiancé
Kate Hardy
Kate Hardy has been a bookworm since she was a toddler. When she isn’t writing, Kate enjoys reading, theatre, live music, ballet and the gym. She lives with her husband, student children and their spaniel in Norwich, England. You can contact her via her website, katehardy.com.
Books by Kate Hardy
Harlequin Romance
A Crown by Christmas
Soldier Prince’s Secret Baby Gift
Summer at Villa Rosa
The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire
Reunited at the Altar
A Diamond in the Snow
Finding Mr. Right in Florence
One Night to Remember
A Will, a Wish, a Wedding
Surprise Heir for the Princess
Snowbound with the Millionaire
One Week in Venice with the CEO
Crowning His Secret Princess
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To my family, friends, readers and editors who’ve been with me on the journey to my one hundredth Harlequin book—thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you! Xx
Praise for Kate Hardy
“Ms. Hardy has written a very sweet novel about forgiveness and breaking the molds we place ourselves in...a good heartstring novel that will have you embracing happiness in your heart.”
—Harlequin Junkie on Christmas Bride for the Boss
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM UNBUTTONING THE TUSCAN TYCOON BY MICHELLE DOUGLAS
CHAPTER ONE
‘ELLE, YOU’RE GOOD with shoestring budgets,’ Rav said. ‘I’ve got a project I want you to handle.’
Even though Elle had a ridiculous workload at the moment—because she’d been pushing herself harder ever since the head of the agency had announced a restructure that would mean a new senior account manager, a job she really wanted—she smiled at her boss. ‘Sure. Do we have a brief and a pitch meeting scheduled?’
‘Not quite,’ Rav said. ‘The client’s already seen your work and liked it. He happened to be in London this morning, so he wanted to meet you and talk over the brief for the marketing campaign himself.’
‘That’s fine.’ If she worked through lunch—again—she’d be able to juggle her deadlines; Elle was pretty sure she could carve out enough time to get herself up to speed on the client’s current marketing and his competitors before the meeting. ‘What time’s he coming in?’
Rav coughed. ‘He’s waiting in the meeting room, right now.’
Oh. So she wasn’t even going to have time to check out the client’s website, let alone come up with any ideas. ‘Just as well I can think on my feet,’ she said dryly.
‘It’s a skill we’re looking for in the new senior account manager,’ Rav said.
Her heart skipped a beat. Was her boss hinting...?
‘Hugo’s delighted with what you’ve been doing lately,’ Rav said. Hugo, the head of the agency, was notoriously difficult to please. He could spot the most minor fault at a thousand paces, and his door-slamming abilities were legendary. ‘We were talking about the restructure yesterday, and whether we should recruit internally or externally. We’re both of the same mind. Get this campaign going viral, Elle,’ Rav added, ‘and the senior account manager job’s yours.’
That wasn’t a hint: it was explicit. All the hours she’d put in were finally going to pay off, provided she got the campaign to go viral; and Elle intended to pull out all the stops to make absolutely sure it did. ‘Thank you, Rav,’ she said quietly.
‘I’ll take you in to meet the client,’ Rav said.
But no introductions were necessary.
The second Elle walked into the room, she recognised the man sitting at the table. Charlie Webb’s stunning blue eyes were unmistakable: the colour, she thought, of the bluebells in the wood at the edge of her family farm. Despite the fact that he was wearing a business suit, he looked more like the presenter of a TV nature programme, with his dark hair brushed back from his forehead. The tan he’d got from working outside really suited him, and she’d just bet that the expensive material of his suit hid some serious muscles.
She damped down the little frisson of attraction that bubbled through her. Charlie Webb was completely off limits. Apart from the fact that he was her dad’s business partner, when they’d last met she’d sobbed her heart out on Charlie’s shoulder. Prom night, ten years ago, had possibly been the worst episode in her time at high school.
Not that it was relevant now. She’d moved on from the unhappy, bullied teenager she’d been back then, reinventing herself as hotshot marketer Elle Newton. She fitted in with her colleagues, the way she’d never been able to fit in at school, and she knew she was good at what she did.
‘Good morning, Charlie,’ she said brightly.
‘Hello, Ellie,’ he said.
Of course he’d use her old name. Her parents did, too, though she didn’t quite have the heart to correct them: because that would lead to too many questions she didn’t want to answer. Instead, she gave him a polite smile. ‘Actually, nowadays I go by Elle.’
‘You two know each other?’ Rav asked, looking surprised.
For a moment, adrenaline pumped through Elle’s veins. How much was Charlie going to divulge? The last thing she wanted was her life in London colliding with her old, hated life in Norfolk.
‘Yes. Ellie—Elle,’ Charlie corrected himself, ‘was in the same year at school as my little sister.’
Elle had to stop herself from physically sagging with relief, but inwardly she still felt like a half-set jelly. This was too close for comfort. She didn’t want her boss to see the vulnerable girl she’d once been; she needed him to keep seeing her as she was now. Confident and capable. The woman who’d make a great senior account manager.
Rav looked delighted. ‘As I don’t need to introduce you, I’ll leave you to it.’
Elle waited until Rav had closed the door behind him. ‘Rav said you wanted us to work on a marketing campaign for you, because you’ve seen my work and liked it.’ But why on earth would Bluebell Farm need a London marketing agency’s help? Had Charlie got another job and left her parents in the lurch? She took a breath. Jumping to conclusions would be the quickest way to lose this brief—and her promotion. ‘I assume,’ she said, careful to sound neutral rather than judgmental, ‘that you’re leaving the farm and you’re here for something to do with a new venture?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m here for Bluebell Farm.’
She sat down, frowning. ‘Sorry, Charlie, but I don’t quite understand.’
‘I’ve managed the farm for the last two years,’ Charlie said.
‘I know.’ And she still felt guilty about it. The job she knew her dad had always wanted her to do: take over Bluebell Farm and manage it until she was ready to hand it over to the next generation. A job she couldn’t bear even to th
She also knew that two years ago she should’ve offered to give up her life in London and go home: but she simply couldn’t force the words out of her mouth. As a child, she’d loved the farm; as a teen, she’d grown to hate it. Her association with the farm had made her life at high school utterly miserable. The popular crowd had called her ‘Smelly Ellie’ from her first day at high school, claiming that she smelled of cows—even though she knew she didn’t, because she’d always showered after milking and before she went to school, and she also used copious amounts of body spray to mask any lingering bovine residue. The bullies had gleefully homed in on her insecurity; it was made worse by the fact that ‘new’ in the local accent was pronounced ‘noo’, and it was an easy step from there to ‘moo’. Smelly Ellie Moo-ton. Hurgh, hurgh, hurgh. They’d been so pleased by their wit. Got a face on her like sour milk, geddit?
Even the ones who weren’t part of the popular set had joined in, grateful that they weren’t the ones on the receiving end of the constant teasing and sniping. It hadn’t helped that Elle had been plump as a teenager, despite the physical work she did on the farm; if they weren’t calling her Moo-ton it was Heifer.
She’d vowed not to set foot in the place any more often than she had to, once she’d escaped to London. At eighteen, she’d reinvented herself as Elle Newton, worked hard at university, made her mark with internships during the university holidays, and ended up with a glittering career in a high-profile industry. She loved London, she loved her job, and she loved her life here. And she’d been really relieved two years ago when her dad had suggested hiring Charlie—who’d just finished his MSc, after doing a project on the farm—as his new farm manager.
‘Do Mum and Dad know you’re here?’ she asked.
‘Of course. We’ve been talking about the marketing for the farm, and they agreed you were the obvious choice for the job.’
And that was the bit that really flummoxed her. ‘Charlie, I really don’t get it. Why does Bluebell Farm need a London marketing agency?’
‘Because we’re moving things forward.’ He paused. ‘As you’d have seen for yourself, if you ever came back to the farm.’
He’d hit the bullseye of her guilt. Not that she was going to let him know it. ‘My life’s in London, now, not West Byfield.’ The back of beyond: a small market town in Norfolk where everyone knew everything about everyone else, mobile phone coverage was still spotty, broadband speeds meant you were two seconds behind everyone else on a video-call, and there were four buses a day to Norwich and none at all on Sundays. If she went back now, it’d be like being in the same glass box as her teen years, unable to join in and knowing that everyone was mocking her.
Absolutely no way.
Even though Charlie was being a bit judgemental right now—a far cry from the nice guy who’d rescued her, that horrible night—having a fight with him wasn’t going to help this project. She’d worked hard for a promotion; this project was going to clinch it for her, and she had no intention of losing out. Which meant being her professional self and unruffling his feathers, rather than escalating the argument. She gave him her best professional smile and said, ‘Tell me about the project.’
‘We’re rewilding the farm,’ he said.
‘Dad said you’ve switched from dairy farming to raising rare breeds.’
‘There’s no money in dairy farming,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s at the point where it costs more to produce the milk than the customer pays for it. A developer offered to buy your dad out, last year, but he refused.’
That was something her dad hadn’t mentioned to her, but Elle pushed down the sting of hurt. She could hardly complain about being shut out from anything farm-related when she’d been the one to walk away. ‘Accepting an offer like that would’ve meant he could retire,’ she said.
‘What, and see a massive housing estate built on the land his family had farmed for generations?’ Charlie asked, his tone deceptively mild.
If he could play the guilt card, so could she. ‘It could’ve been affordable housing for local people,’ she countered.
Charlie shook his head. ‘That’s not what those developers were about. And their plans were the complete opposite of what we’re doing.’
‘So there’s money in rare breeds?’
‘It’s important,’ he said.
In other words, there wasn’t any money in rare breeds, either.
She knew Charlie had bought into the farm a few months ago; was his money financing the rewilding and keeping the farm afloat? she wondered. And what would happen to Bluebell Farm when his money ran out?
‘Conservation saves species from extinction and preserves heritage,’ he said.
‘What sort of species?’ she asked.
‘We have a small herd of British White cows, a small flock of Norfolk Horn sheep, a flock of Norfolk Grey chickens and a couple of goats,’ he said. ‘We might be getting a Suffolk Punch and a donkey, in a couple of weeks.’
Donkeys definitely weren’t rare breeds. ‘Surely farming rare breeds is an expensive hobby rather than a money-making business,’ she said.
‘Not necessarily. This is where you come in,’ he said. ‘We want to raise the profile of the rare breeds and the rewilding project. The farm also needs to support itself a bit better, so we also need to raise awareness of what we offer.’
‘Which is?’
‘School visits, a farm café and shop, guided nature walks, a few relevant classes—we have an art teacher and a photography teacher, and a woman who runs spinning classes.’
For a mad moment, Elle had a vision of a barn full of exercise cycles, with an instructor at the front encouraging clients to pedal harder. But of course Charlie meant spinning as in wool, not spinning as in one of her usual gym classes. ‘Right,’ she said.
‘We have holiday accommodation,’ he said, ‘and people can choose to help with the rewilding project and the animals, or just use it as a base for exploring the area.’
‘You’ve converted some of the barns for the accommodation?’ she asked.
‘No. There are the two farm cottages—I live in the third—plus I bought three shepherd’s huts. Purpose-built luxury boutique huts with a comfortable bed, a decent shower and a kitchen, and a private space for sitting out with a wood-fired hot tub. They’re available for stays of two nights or more.’
No more large dairy herd. No more living in muddy wellies and sludge-coloured boiler suits. No more harvesting at all hours in the summer when the weather was right and the corn was ripe; Elle remembered taking dinner out to her dad in a box because he refused to come indoors until the light was too poor for him to work. It was how things had been for her entire life, and she couldn’t quite get her head round the idea of the farm being so different, now.
‘Got it,’ she fibbed. ‘So it’s education and rewilding plus glamping and the shop and café, basically.’
‘We’re also planning to start hosting weddings; we’ve already got the licence, so we were thinking of holding the ceremony itself at one end of the largest barn, and the wedding breakfast and dancing at the other end.’
‘Four different audiences, then. OK.’
* * *
Charlie looked at the woman who was sitting opposite him, taking notes. She wasn’t the Ellie Newton he’d known ten years ago. The shy girl who kept herself to herself at school because the popular kids jeered at her; the teenager who’d sobbed on his shoulder when she’d literally run into him and he’d taken her to one side, thinking how easily it could’ve been his sister fleeing from the prom in tears. She’d even changed her name to Elle—sophisticated and glamorous, to match the way she looked. Though he couldn’t think of her as anyone other than Ellie.
