The Return of Mrs. Jones Read online

  The woman he never forgot…

  Of all the places, Lawrie didn’t expect to be celebrating her thirtieth birthday in the seaside town where she grew up. And she certainly didn’t expect to be celebrating it with her estranged husband, Jonas Jones…. But life is full of surprises. His devastating smile and edgy good looks still have the power to send her heart racing!

  Seeing Lawrie again intrigues Jonas—while he hasn’t forgiven her, he can’t say he’s forgotten her, either. And while they may not be teenagers anymore, there’s no denying the sparks that still fly between them….

  “It wasn’t all bad, though. Being a crazy teen.”

  The cream had returned to his voice. His tone was low, almost whispered, and she felt herself swaying toward him.

  “No, of course not, that was the happiest time of my life. The happiest time,” she whispered, so low she hoped he hadn’t heard her.

  Just one little step, that was all it took. One little step and she was touching him, looking up at him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, and just that one small touch set her achingly aware nerves on fire; she felt the jolt of desire shock through her, buzzing through to her fingers, to her toes, pooling deep within her.

  Jonas’s head was tilted down, the full focus of his disconcertingly intense eyes on her. Lawrie swallowed and licked suddenly dry lips, her nails cutting into her palms as she curled them into tight fists, the urge to grab him and pull him close suddenly almost overwhelming.

  “Jonas?” An entreaty, a question, Lawrie didn’t know what she was asking him, begging him for. All she knew was that it was her birthday. And that she hadn’t felt this alive for a long, long time.

  Dear Reader, Have you ever had a second chance?

  Two years ago I was indulging in a little New Year’s karaoke at home and, despite not being gravelly voiced, Welsh or male, found myself scoring so highly on the Stereophonics’ “Dakota” I decided to treat my lucky friends and family to an encore. If you haven’t heard the song I recommend you have a listen; it’s a bittersweet look back at first love in all its intensity. It made me think, What if? What if your first love was The One but you had let them go many years before?

  And what if you came back and fell for them all over again?

  And so Lawrie and Jonas sprang to life. I knew Jonas instantly, hair tumbling over his forehead, wet suit on, surfboard in hand. But there’s a lot more to this laid-back surfer than Lawrie remembers, and finding out just how much he’s changed comes as a bit of a shock. She likes to be in control, but you can depend on a surfer to sweep a girl off her feet!

  I wrote The Return of Mrs. Jones over a very long, very cold and extremely wet winter, so submerging myself in a world of blue skies, light breezes and warm seas all set on the beautiful Cornish coastline was a brilliant way to escape. There’s a lot of my own perfect summer in the book; not only is the sun shining and the cake freshly made, but I’ve always wanted a camper van. I spent far too much time researching them and planning just how I’ll furnish mine if I ever do get one!

  This is my first book for Harlequin—I do hope you enjoy it; I had a lot of fun writing it.

  Love,

  Jessica x

  THE RETURN OF MRS. JONES

  Jessica Gilmore

  After learning to read aged just two, Jessica Gilmore spent every childhood party hiding in bedrooms in case the birthday girl had a book or two she hadn’t read yet. Discovering Harlequin on a family holiday, Jessica realized that romance writing was her true vocation and proceeded to spend her math lessons practicing her art, creating Dynasty-inspired series starring herself and Morton Harket’s cheekbones. Writing for Harlequin really is a dream come true!

  A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and Scarborough-seafront trader selling rock from under a sign that said Cheapest on the Front, Jessica now works as a membership manager for a regional environmental charity. Sadly, she spends most of her time chained to her desk, wrestling with databases, but likes to sneak out to one of their beautiful reserves whenever she gets a chance. Married to an extremely patient man, Jessica lives in the beautiful and historic city of York with one daughter, one very fluffy dog, two dog-loathing cats and a goldfish named Bob.

  On the rare occasions that she is not writing, working, taking her daughter to activities or tweeting, Jessica likes to plan holidays—and uses her favorite locations in her books. She writes deeply emotional romance with a hint of humor, a splash of sunshine and usually a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes.

  This title is also available in ebook format from www.Harlequin.com

  For Dan.

  Thanks for giving me the time to write and always believing that I would make it. I couldn’t have done it without you x

  Special thanks must also go to my amazing critique group, Jane, Julia and Maggie, for three years of pep talks, brainstorming and patience; to Merilyn for making writing fun; and to Fiona Harper and Jessica Hart for all their encouragement and support.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EXCERPT

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘YOU CAN COME in, you know. Or do you city folk wear coffee patches and bypass the actual drinking process now?’

  Lawrie Bennett jumped as the mocking tones jolted her out of her stunned contemplation of the ultra-modern building clinging to the harbour’s edge. Turning, half convinced she had conjured up his voice along with her memories, she saw him lounging against the arty driftwood sign, the same crooked smile lurking in familiar blue eyes.

  ‘Jonas?’

  No, not a ghost. Subtle changes showed the passage of time: the surfer-blond hair was a little shorter, and a few lines round the eyes added new character to the tanned face.

  Embarrassment, guilt, humiliation. Lawrie could take her pick of any of that ugly trio. Being caught hanging around outside her ex-husband’s business like a gauche teenager with a crush was bad enough. To have been caught by her ex-husband really was a fitting end to what had been a truly terrible few weeks.

  Trying to summon up an illusion of control, Lawrie switched on her best social smile—the one that had seen her through numerous meetings and charity balls. But her eyes hadn’t got the ‘cool and collected’ memo, and flicked quickly up and down the lean body facing her.

  The black tailored trousers and short-sleeved charcoal shirt were a startling change from the cut-off jeans and band T-shirt uniform of her memories, but the body underneath the sharp lines was as surfer-fit as she remembered. He still looked irritatingly good. And even worse—judging by the smirk that flared briefly in the cool eyes—he was fully aware of both her perusal and approval.

  So much for control.

  Jonas quirked an eyebrow. ‘So, are you...planning to come in?’

  How, after all this time, could his voice be so familiar? It was such a long time since she had heard those deep, measured tones tempered with a slight Cornish burr. Yet they sounded like home.

  ‘I was just wondering if I was in the right place,’ she said, gesturing at the wood and glass building behind him; so shiny and new, so unfamiliar. ‘Everything’s different.’

  And that, Lawrie thought, was the understatement of the century.

  ‘I’ve made some changes. What do you think?’ There was pride in his voice underneath the laid-back drawl.

  ‘Impressive
,’ she said. And it was. But she missed the peeling, ramshackle old building. The picturesque setting for her first job, her first kiss. Her first love. ‘Did you demolish the boathouse?’

  Her heart speeded up as she waited for his answer. It mattered, she realised with a shock. She hadn’t set foot in the small Cornish village for nine years. Hadn’t seen this man for nine years. But it still mattered.

  It was her history.

  ‘I had it relocated. It was the start of everything, after all. Demolishing the old girl would have been pretty poor thanks. And we kept the name and brand, of course.’

  ‘Everything?’ Was he talking about her? Get a grip, she told herself. Walking down the hill and along the harbour might have sent her spinning back in time, brought all those carefully buried memories abruptly to the surface, but by the look of the building in front of her Jonas had moved on long ago.

  ‘So, are you coming in or not?’ He ignored her question, pushing himself off the sign with the languid grace only hours balancing on a board in the rough Cornish sea could achieve. ‘The coffee’s excellent and the cake is even better. On the house for an ex member of staff, of course.’

  Lawrie opened her mouth to refuse, to point out that the building wasn’t the only thing to have changed—that, actually, she hadn’t touched caffeine or refined sugar in years—but she caught a quizzical gleam in his eye and changed her mind. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Besides, clean living hadn’t got her very far, had it? This enforced time out was about new experiences, trying new things. There were worse places to start than a good cup of coffee brewed the way only Jonas could.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.

  ‘This way, then.’ And Jonas moved to the double glass doors, holding one open for her with exaggerated gallantry. ‘And, Lawrie,’ he murmured as she walked past him, ‘Happy Birthday.’

  Lawrie froze. Just half an hour ago she had reached the sad conclusion that you couldn’t get more pathetic than spending your thirtieth birthday on your own—not unless you were unemployed, single and alone on your thirtieth.

  Lawrie was all three.

  Adding an encounter with her ex really was the cherry on top of the icing on her non-existent birthday cake. She should have listened to her instincts and stayed indoors and sulked. Damn her conscience for pushing her out to get fresh air and exercise. Both were clearly overrated.

  ‘This is where you say thank you.’

  He had moved away from the door and was leading her towards a small table tucked away at the back, clearly at his ease.

  ‘Sorry?’ What was he talking about? Maybe she was in some surrealist dream, where conversation made no sense. Any second now she’d be viewing the world in black and white, possibly through the medium of mime.

  ‘I know you’ve been in the city for a while...’ there was an unexpected teasing note in his voice ‘...but back in the real world when someone wishes you a Happy Birthday it’s usual to acknowledge them—often with a thank you.’

  For the first time in over a week Lawrie felt the heaviness lift slightly, a lessening of the burden. ‘Thank you,’ she said with careful emphasis. ‘Of course I might be trying to forget this particular birthday.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the big three oh.’ He laughed as she grimaced. ‘It’s really no big deal, once you get used to the back ache and the knee twinges.’

  ‘I hoped it might be like the tree falling in the woods—if no one knows it’s happening then is it real?’

  ‘I know,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Thereby foiling my cunning plan.’

  A smile curved the corner of his mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes. They radiated concern. For her. She didn’t need the stab of her conscience to tell her she didn’t deserve his concern.

  ‘Well, now it’s out in the open you have to celebrate. How about a slice of my signature carrot cake with chocolate icing? Unless, now you’re a Londoner, you prefer elaborate cupcakes? Pretty frosting but no real substance?’

  Lawrie looked up sharply. Was that some kind of cake metaphor?

  ‘Or would you rather wait till your fiancé joins you?’

  And just like that the heaviness engulfed her again. Lawrie searched for the right words, the right tone. ‘Hugo and I parted ways. It seemed time for a new beginning.’

  ‘Again?’

  There was a lifetime of history in that one word. More than Lawrie could cope with this day, this week. At all.

  Coming back had been a mistake. But she had nowhere else to go.

  Lawrie hadn’t exactly spent the last nine years planning how she’d react if she bumped into her ex-husband, but if she had spent time imagining every possible scenario she doubted—short of falling at his feet—that she could have come up with a situation as humiliating as this.

  She looked around, desperately searching for a change of subject. ‘The café looks amazing.’

  It really did. She was standing in an open-plan space, with the driftwood counter along its far end and the blue walls a reminder of the ever-present sea. The real thing was a stunning backdrop framed through dramatic floor-length windows. It was all very stylish—beautiful, even—but once again Lawrie felt a pang of nostalgia for the small, homespun bar she had known.

  The season was not yet fully started, but the café was buzzing with mothers and small children, groups of friends and the ubiquitous surfers. There were no menus. The day’s choices were chalked up on boards displayed around the spacious room and notices proclaimed the café’s values—local, organic and sustainably sourced food.

  A flare of pride hit her: he’s done it—he’s realised his dreams. Long before celebrity chefs had made local food trendy Jonas had been evangelical about quality ingredients, sourcing from local farms, and using only free-range eggs in his legendary fry-ups.

  ‘I’m glad you approve. So, what will it be?’

  For one second Lawrie wanted to startle him, order something he wouldn’t expect. Prove that actually she had changed in nine years—changed a lot. But the temptation to sink into the comfort of the past was too much. ‘Skinny latte with cinnamon, please. And if you have the carrot cake in...?’ She peered up at the menu board, running her eyes over the long list of tasty-looking treats.

  ‘Of course I have it in.’

  Jonas turned away to deliver her order, but Lawrie could have sworn she heard him say, ‘It is your birthday after all.’

  *

  She was still there. Jonas tried to keep his concentration on the screen in front of him but all his attention was on the cake-eating occupant at the small table below.

  The mezzanine floor that housed his office was situated directly over the kitchens, shielded from the café with blue-tinted glass that gave him privacy whilst allowing him to look out. Some days he was so busy that he completely forgot where he was, and he would look up and notice the chattering people tucking in below in complete surprise. There were bigger offices at his hotel but he preferred it here. Where it had all begun.

  ‘Jonas? Are you listening to me?’

  He jumped. ‘Of course,’ he lied.

  ‘You didn’t even hear me come in! Honestly, Jonas, if I want to be ignored I’ll stay at home and ask my husband to clean.’

  ‘Sorry, Fliss, I was engrossed in this email.’

  Fliss peered over his shoulder. ‘I can see why. It’s not every day you get offered a million pounds just for letting somebody borrow your bank account, is it?’

  Damn spam. ‘The spam filter should be picking these up. I was just wondering why it’s not working.’

  She shot him a sceptical look. ‘Delete that and turn your formidable mind to a real problem for a change. Suzy has been ordered to keep her feet up for the rest of her pregnancy and won’t be able to project-manage Wave Fest for us.’

  ‘Pregnancy?’ He looked up in shock. ‘I didn’t know Suzy was expecting.’

  ‘I expect she was keeping it a secret from you, knowing your less than enligh
tened views on working mothers,’ Fliss said drily.

  Jonas raised an eyebrow for one long moment, watching her colour with some satisfaction. ‘I have no view on working mothers—or on working fathers, for that matter, I just expect my employees to pull their weight at work—not be at home with their feet up. Damn! There’s only a month to go and we’ll never get anyone to take over at this short notice. Fliss, is there any way you can take this on?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The petite redhead was contrite. ‘I still have a lot to do with the last café you bought, and if you do take over The Laurels I’ll need to start on the rebrand there too. I can help with the PR—I usually do most of that anyway—but I cannot project-manage an entire festival. Suzy has all the information written out and timetabled, so at least all we need is someone to step in and run it.’

  Jonas acknowledged the truth of Fliss’s statement. Her workload was pretty full-on right now. He pushed his chair back and swivelled round, staring down sightlessly on the room below. ‘Think, Fliss—is there anyone, any summer jobber, who’s capable of taking this on?’

  She stood lost in thought, concentration on her face, then shook her head. ‘Nobody springs to mind.’

  Jonas grimaced. ‘We’ll just have to bite the bullet and get a temp in—though that’s far from ideal.’

  It had been hard enough handing the festival over to Suzy when it and the rest of the business had got too big for him to manage comfortably alone, even with Fliss’s support. Letting a stranger loose on such an important event was impossible to imagine.

  But he couldn’t see another way.

  Fliss was obviously thinking along the same lines. ‘A temp? That will take at least a week, and cost a fortune in agency fees.’

  ‘Bringing outsiders in is never easy, but it looks like we have no choice. You and I will have to keep it all ticking over until we find somebody. We managed the first three, after all...’

  She flashed a conspiratorial grin at him. ‘Goodness knows how. But we were young and optimistic then—and they were a lot smaller affairs; we are victims of our own success. But, okay, I’ll let Dave know I’m working late so he’d better come here for dinner. Again. We were going to come back for Open Mic Night anyway.’