Married Under The Mistletoe

IN HIS wildest fantasies, if he were given to such things, Daniel Stephens had never expected to be here, doing this. He shifted the heavy canvas duffel bag from his shoulder to the pavement in front of the beautiful, light-washed building, slicked back a damp clutch of hair and gazed up at the Knightsbridge Bella Lucia Restaurant. London pulsed around him, the genteel hum of the Élite, the roar of buses, the swirling, thick moisture of a damp October night, all both familiar and foreign after so many years away. This was his birth family's restaurant. One of three, if he understood correctly. Fabulously successful. Exclusive. Expensive. His nostrils flared. Outward faÇades never impressed him much. To his way of thinking most were lies, like his own childhood, covering a multitude of sins. But he had to admit, the Valentine family had style. A chic woman stepped out of a taxicab beside him, tucked her designer bag beneath her arm, and sailed past without a glance to enter the glass double-doors of the restaurant. Soft jazz wafted out briefly, then was sucked back inside as the doors vacuumed shut. Daniel had blood here. Blood that hadn't claimed him or his twin until now when it no longer hurt so much to have no father, no extended family, no one to care. Now his father wanted him. Or so he said. People like John Valentine generally hid ulterior motives. If Daniel waited around awhile, he'd find out what his father was really after. The notion of claiming John Valentine as father still rankled as much as Mrs Valentine's demand for a DNA test to prove it. He'd refused her request during his brief visit a week and a half ago and, furious, had returned to the familiar call of Africa. But his twin brother Dominic had obliged, proving once and for all that the father who had abandoned them before birth was a rich and respected man. Now that his troublesome temper had cooled and he'd thought the matter over, Daniel was back. Not that he wanted anything from the family he didn't know or trust. Not at all. But he did want something he couldn't get in Africa. Money. Lots and lots of money. But first, he needed a place to live. His father--and he used the word loosely--had all but insisted he stay here in the flat above the Knightsbridge restaurant. Light rain patted against his cheeks. His lips twitched an ironic smile. Water. The most precious commodity on earth. One so abundant here in his native country and so desperately scarce in his adopted one. He'd spent his entire career trying to rectify that problem, but project funds always ran short at the worst possible times. Now he was determined to use his skills and contacts in the UK to change all that. Life's inequities had always bothered him. He lifted the heavy duffel bag back onto his shoulder. Might as well go up. Introduce himself to the American restaurant manager who had somehow been persuaded to share her lodging with him. He still wondered how John had worked that one out, but the old man had assured him that the woman was not only in agreement but was delighted with the arrangement. After all, the flat was large and roomy and there was some sort of problem in the restaurant that might make a woman alone uneasy. He hadn't added, though Daniel was no fool, that the flat also belonged to the Valentine family and that Miss Stephanie Ellison had no real choice in the matter. If not for his determination to sink every shilling he had into the new business and ultimately into the Ethiopian water project, he might have felt badly about intruding upon the restaurant manager. He might have. But he didn't. Obsessing. Stephanie Ellison was obsessing.And she had to get a handle on it fast. She glanced at the stylish pewter clock above the sofa. Five minutes. "Oh, Lord." The pressure against her temples intensified. She paced from one side of her flat to the other, stopping to straighten every pieGoodnight, Linda is the author of 'Married Under The Mistletoe', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373182664 and ISBN 037318266X.