Winning Back His Runaway Bride

  “I know that asking you to marry me felt like the most right thing in my life, that being here with you is exactly where I want to be. Where I need to be. So, trust me on this. Trust me to keep my word. Trust me to make it up to you. All of it.”

  She wanted to, how she wanted to. “I...”

  “Carlotta, cara,” he said, low and intent. “Give me a chance?”

  She was drowning in the intensity of his gaze, and all the reasons, the many good reasons, to stand her ground slipped away as if they had never been. Could things be different? Could she trust him this time?

  Dear Reader,

  Winning Back His Runaway Bride was written and edited during a time when, like most of you I’m sure, I barely left my house except for dog walks, which made me determined to set this book somewhere beautiful, sunny and extra romantic. And where better than the gorgeous, glamorous Amalfi coast and my favorite city, Rome?

  When impulsive, live-for-the-moment Charlie meets sensible tycoon Matteo, opposites attract and after a whirlwind courtship, the couple marry. Reality quickly intrudes and the pair start to realize that despite the sparks and passion, their marriage is failing before it has really begun. Determined to move on and put the past behind her, Charlie walks away—until an accident wipes all the memories of the last year from Matteo and she finds herself falling in love with her husband all over again. But will love conquer all, or are they doomed to repeat the same mistakes again?

  Spending time in Italy, even if just in my imagination, was an absolute joy, and I loved getting to know Matteo and Charlie. I hope you do, too.

  Love,

  Jessica

  Winning Back His Runaway Bride

  Jessica Gilmore

  A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, Jessica Gilmore now works for an environmental charity in York, England. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humor, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes!

  Books by Jessica Gilmore

  Harlequin Romance

  Fairytale Brides

  Honeymooning with Her Brazilian Boss

  Cinderella’s Secret Royal Fling

  Reawakened by His Christmas Kiss

  Bound by the Prince’s Baby

  Wedding Island

  Baby Surprise for the Spanish Billionaire

  Summer at Villa Rosa

  A Proposal from the Crown Prince

  Maids Under the Mistletoe

  Her New Year Baby Secret

  The Sheikh’s Pregnant Bride

  Summer Romance with the Italian Tycoon

  Mediterranean Fling to Wedding Ring

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For Jess, Amelia, Mike and Kaia.

  Praise for

  Jessica Gilmore

  “Totally loved every page. I was hooked right into the story, reading every single word. This book has to be my new favorite. Honestly this book is most entertaining.”

  —Goodreads on Honeymooning with

  Her Brazilian Boss

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Excerpt from Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep by Michelle Douglas

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘WHO WAS IT, CHARLIE?’

  ‘Just the postman.’ Charlotte Samuels looked down at the heavy manila envelope she’d just signed for and hoped the wobble in her voice wasn’t too obvious.

  ‘Oh, is that my new dress? I didn’t think it was going to get here in time.’ Phoebe skidded into the hallway and stopped, throwing Charlie a concerned look. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ Charlie was aware her voice was too bright, too loud, too high, and she forced a smile as she turned to look at her cousin, best friend and housemate, a three-in-one petite but forceful package. ‘It’s just the papers.’

  ‘Papers?’

  ‘The divorce papers.’ She was trying for nonchalant and failing badly.

  Phoebe shot a quick glance at the envelope. ‘Already? It’s only a few weeks since you and Matteo...’ She tailed off and Charlie rushed to fill the awkward silence. If she kept talking, maybe she could convince herself as well as Phoebe that everything was completely fine. Never look back, that was her motto. Now more than ever.

  ‘Yes, well, you know Matteo. There’s nothing he can’t achieve when he sets his mind to it!’ Including, it seemed, helping her achieve a quick divorce. Almost as quick as their marriage.

  ‘That’s good though. Right? You can head off on your travels a free woman.’ Now it was time for Phoebe to offer an unconvincing smile, worry clouding her grey eyes.

  ‘Ye-es.’ She could and she would. Maybe these very official papers would convince her stupid heart to catch up with her head and accept her brief, foolish marriage was well and truly over. ‘Yes. At least, I’m on the way to being free. This is the notification that the judge is happy for us to divorce. Matteo has accepted the unreasonable behaviour cited so I—or my lawyer—need to go back in six weeks to take care of the rest. But if the lawyers act as quickly as they did with this...’ she held up the envelope ‘...by the time I get back it will be as if my marriage never was.’

  And then she could really move on. Because although she was a no regrets kind of girl, walking away from a marriage after less than a year was pretty monumental even by her standards. But she also knew that, no matter what anyone else might think, divorcing Matteo wasn’t one of her crazy, impulsive moves; it was the best, the only thing she could have done.

  Phoebe took another swift glance at the envelope. ‘I’ve got a good idea. Let’s make your leaving party a divorce party!’

  ‘A divorce party?’ Charlie wrinkled her nose. ‘Isn’t that a little bit tacky?’ To say nothing of the fact that for once in her life she didn’t want to party. She wanted to slink out of the country and hope that by the time she returned her failed marriage would no longer be the number one item on the village grapevine and she could go to the village shop without everyone staring at her as if she were some latter-day Miss Havisham, wandering the aisles in her wedding dress.

  ‘Not at all,’ Phoebe said staunchly. ‘You deserve to get something out of this marriage after all, even if it’s only a party. I still think you should have taken the settlement.’

  Charlie sighed. She knew Phoebe wasn’t alone in thinking she was an idiot to walk out of her marriage with nothing but the handful of things she had taken into it. After all, Matteo had more than enough money to keep numerous ex-wives, just as his father had—and did. But she hadn’t married Matteo for money; she had married him for love. Maybe in the end love hadn’t been enough but that didn’t mean she wanted to profit from her shattered dreams.

  ‘I couldn’t, Pheebs. It would have felt like I’d been bought off. I want him to know that some things and some people are not for sale.’

  ‘I hope your principles keep you warm at night,’ Phoebe said and Charlie laughed at her cousin’s disapproving tone.

  ‘It’s not like I’
m destitute and starving. Thanks to Gran I have a home...’ even if still living with her grandmother at twenty-eight might seem a little pathetic ‘...and there’s always supply teaching if I can’t find something permanent for the start of term. I don’t need millions. I never did. I didn’t really feel like me in that lavish life. I guess that was part of the problem.’

  Not the whole problem. Matteo’s continual absences, his workaholic tendencies, his habit of throwing money at each and every bump in the road had in the end been too much for her. But Charlie was self-aware enough to admit that her own discomfort in his gilded world hadn’t helped. Too many people she’d met had seemed superior and superficial; she’d never settled in Matteo’s expensively and sparsely designed Kensington mansion, never been comfortable spending the equivalent of a week’s salary on clothes. Reverse snobbery, Matteo had called it. Maybe he’d been right.

  ‘Just a small party,’ Phoebe wheedled. ‘A few friends and some drinks and nibbles to see you on your way and celebrate the start of your new life.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A divorce party was probably the kind of response most people would expect from her, but Charlie had always preferred the unexpected. ‘Let me think about it.’ She scooped up the rest of the post and took it through to the bright, welcoming kitchen which ran across the back of the cottage. She’d always loved this sunshiny room with its bright yellow walls, the wooden cabinets a soft green, the tiles a riotous rainbow of colour matched by the curtains and cushions. She couldn’t imagine a greater contrast to the sleek silver and grey kitchen she’d left behind her in Kensington. She had still been discovering mysterious gadgets and cleverly disguised drawers the week before she’d left.

  Charlie sank into a battered but supremely comfortable armchair, her grandmother’s ginger cat immediately joining her, turning round and round on her lap before settling. Charlie stroked it absently as she grimaced at her cousin.

  ‘“Marry in haste...” Gran said, you said, everyone said. I need some leisure to repent. Maybe when I get back from travelling, when the divorce has been finalised, I might be ready to have some kind of gathering. But for now I just want to slink off to Vietnam, join Lexi and her friends, and try and forget the last year ever happened.’

  The cat butted her hand, demanding more attention, but Charlie’s focus returned to the envelope. She should be—she was—glad that, thanks to Matteo’s contacts and willingness to be cited as the guilty party, the divorce looked as if it might be almost as speedy as their whirlwind wedding. But although she knew most people thought her wedding another of her madcap schemes, when Charlie had looked into Matteo’s eyes and promised to love and honour him she’d meant it. She’d hoped to spend the rest of her life with him, hoped to start a family with him. But it took two to make a marriage work and so here she was, barely a year on from the day she’d first set eyes on Matteo Harrington, starting to figure out how to begin her life all over again.

  A buzzing from the kitchen table alerted her to a call and she reached out for her phone, squinting at the unknown number. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Charlotte Samuels?’

  ‘I...yes. Who is this?’ Dread stole into her chest at the grave official tone. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident...’

  * * *

  ‘Matteo Harrington?’ Charlie gasped at the reception desk and turned, wild-eyed, as the receptionist motioned to a doctor standing behind her. ‘Doctor? Matteo Harrington? How is he?’

  ‘Charlotte Samuels? Hello, I’m Dr Lewis. We have Mr Harrington in a private room through here. He is very lucky; he’s got a severe concussion and a couple of broken ribs but it could have been a lot worse. Here, sit down.’ And the doctor guided the suddenly dizzy Charlie to a chair.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’ Now. She hadn’t realised how tense, how overwrought she had been until she heard the words very lucky. ‘But I don’t understand. Why is Matteo here? I thought he was in London. What happened?’

  ‘The police will be able to tell you more, but I understand he swerved on a bend, maybe to avoid something.’

  ‘He’s a very good driver; he wouldn’t speed,’ she said mechanically. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry, he looks worse than he is, but he needs to be kept quiet, no sudden upsets or noise. But he’ll be pleased you’re here. He’s asking for you.’

  He is? She managed not to voice the question. Under the circumstances she thought she might be the last person Matteo would want to see. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  A nurse led her through the long corridor with its distinctive hospital aroma of disinfectant and boiled food until she reached a closed door and nodded at it. ‘In there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Charlie took a moment to collect herself before turning the handle and walking in. The room was dim, the blinds half closed, lit up by the lights on several machines clustered around the hospital bed, the silence punctuated by a reassuringly constant beep. She took a step closer to the bed and stifled a half gasp, half sob as she saw Matteo, propped up on pillows, eyes closed. It was very unfair. Even unusually pale, his forehead bandaged, Matteo managed to look absurdly handsome, the sharp lines of his jaw accentuated by dark shadow, his hair, for once, allowed to fall naturally, tousled over his brow. Charlie swallowed, aware of her own heart beating in time with the beep of the monitor.

  Cautiously she approached the bed. Matteo looked so peaceful, all the stress and strain wiped as if it had never been, more like the man she had married than the one she had left. She nudged a chair a little closer and slipped into it, watching his chest rise and fall and doing her best not to think about how it would have been, how she would have felt, if he hadn’t been very lucky.

  ‘Hey.’

  She startled at the rasp of his voice, turning her gaze to his face to find his eyes half open, a small smile playing about his sensuous mouth and, despite everything, her heart missed a beat, her treacherous pulse responding to him like it always did.

  ‘Hey yourself. I just spoke to the doctor and she said you are going to be just fine.’ She stopped, wanting to rush on and tell him that she was still his next of kin, for the next six weeks at least, that of course she had come, they were still friends, weren’t they? But the doctor had said to keep him quiet and a rush of excuses didn’t seem like the best way to do that. ‘But you gave us quite a fright.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Slowly but determinedly he moved his arm, taking Charlie’s hand in his. His touch shuddered through her, familiar and yet forbidden. ‘I don’t know what happened. A rabbit maybe, or a bird.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘What were you doing?’ There was no reason for him to journey down to Kent, not any more. Not that she knew of anyway. Already there were things, places, people in his life she didn’t know; she was no longer part of his present or his future.

  She was his past, but it was her he’d asked for, her number he’d given to the doctors. Charlie tightened her grip on his hand.

  ‘I missed you, Carlotta.’ Her stomach tightened at the pet name only he used, a nod to his Italian DNA. ‘I know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but...’

  Wait? What? ‘Wedding?’ she whispered and his face twisted in confusion.

  ‘How long have I been here? We didn’t have to cancel, did we?’

  ‘But Matteo, the wedding was nearly a year ago. We’re already married!’ And about to get divorced, she nearly added, but stopped as she saw the shock on his face. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  * * *

  Matteo Harrington scowled at the determinedly pleasant doctor. ‘I know who the Prime Minister is and I can count to ten. There’s nothing wrong with me. I am just missing a few memories, that’s all.’

  A few crucial memories. Like getting married. Like being married. How could it be June already? Over a year since he had swept Cha
rlie off her feet. He’d known the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. They’d known. Even though the vivacious girl in her bright clothes and the rainbow stripes in her hair was completely unlike his usual type, she’d felt like coming home, warming him with her smile and enthusiasm for life, and by some miracle she felt the same way. Matteo had never believed in fate before.

  But he couldn’t remember a thing about their marriage. Not how Charlie had looked as she’d walked down the aisle, about the small, intimate reception at her local pub, attended by just a few close friends and her grandmother and cousin. Not the honeymoon...

  A man should remember his honeymoon!

  ‘What happens now?’ Charlie asked, her face white, lips bloodless no matter how much she worried her usually lush bottom lip. ‘Will he get his memories back?’

  The doctor sighed. ‘Amnesia is a lot rarer than the soaps would have you believe and every case is individual. In time, yes, most localised amnesia like this does resolve itself and I see no reason why this won’t—but there are no guarantees.’

  ‘So he may never remember?’ Charlie whispered, even paler if such a thing was possible.

  ‘It’s unlikely but can’t be discounted. More worryingly, Mr Harrington has suffered a severe concussion, no doubt a contributory factor, and the combination of the two means he needs to be kept quiet and allowed time to recover. No work, no sudden shocks. Peace and quiet is my prescription. Let his memory return in its own time.’

  ‘No sudden shocks...’ Charlie repeated, her voice pensive, but Matteo didn’t have time to dwell on why that particular instruction had struck her; instead he homed in on the most important part.

  ‘No work? Impossible. I’m the deputy CEO of Harrington Industries, Dr Lewis, I can’t just rest and leave it to look after itself.’

  ‘You want to get better? Then no emails, no work calls, no contracts. I suggest seclusion and no distractions until the concussion is healed. Longer. Give those memories a chance to come back on their own. My very strong recommendation is that you go on holiday. Take it easy. Or you might make things a lot worse.’