His Shy Cinderella. Kate Hardy
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The real woman behind his rival...
Racing driver Brandon Stone is intent on proving he has what it takes to run his family business. First stop: procuring rival race car designers the McKenzies. But shy Angel McKenzie has no intention of selling up!
Angel has avoided the limelight most of her life. But with her family business under threat, she’ll do anything it takes to save it. Working closely with Brandon ignites feelings she never knew existed—he may be the last person she should ever date, but her heart is telling her to break the rules!
“You’re offering to make coffee?”
“Is there something wrong with the idea of a man making coffee?”
Ouch. Angel had just been sexist and he’d called her on it. Fairly. “I guess not.”
“Don’t make assumptions,” he said softly. “Especially if you’re basing them on what the press says about me.”
Was he telling her that he wasn’t the playboy the press suggested he was? Or was he playing games? Brandon Stone flustered her. Big-time. And she couldn’t quite work out why. Was it just because he was so good-looking? Or did she see a tiny hint of vulnerability in his gray eyes, showing that there was more to him than just the cocky, confident racing champion? Or was that all just wishful thinking and he really was a shallow playboy?
What she did know was that he was her business rival. One who wanted to buy her out. Part of her thought she shouldn’t even be talking to him.
His Shy Cinderella
Kate Hardy
KATE HARDY has always loved books and could read before she went to school. She discovered Mills & Boon books when she was twelve and decided this was what she wanted to do. When she isn’t writing Kate enjoys reading, cinema, ballroom dancing and the gym. You can contact her via her website: katehardy.com.
For Gerard, who answered a lot of very weird
questions about motor racing with a great deal of patience (but I am still not going to a Grand Prix with you!) xxx
Contents
ANGEL FLICKED THROUGH the pile of mail on her desk.
Bills, bills, circulars and—just for a change—bills. Bills she really hoped she could pay without temporarily borrowing from the account she’d earmarked for paying the company’s half-yearly tax liability.
And there was still no sign of the large envelope with an American postmark she’d been waiting for, containing the contract for supplying the new McKenzie Frost to feature in the next instalment of Spyline, a high-profile action movie series. Triffid Studios hadn’t emailed to her it instead, either, because Angel had already checked her inbox and the spam box. Twice.
Maybe she’d send a polite enquiring email to their legal department tomorrow. There was a fine line between being enthusiastic about the project and coming across as desperate and needy.
Even though right now Angel felt desperate and needy. She couldn’t let McKenzie’s go under. Not on her watch. How could she live with herself if she lost the company her grandfather had started seventy years ago? The contract with Triffid would make all the difference. Seeing the McKenzie Frost in the film would remind people of just how wonderful McKenzie’s cars were: hand-made, stylish, classic, and with full attention to every detail. And they were bang up to date: she intended to produce the Frost in an electric edition, too. Then their waiting list would be full again, with everyone wanting their own specially customised Frost, and she wouldn’t have to lay anyone off at the factory.
Though she couldn’t even talk about the deal yet. Not until she’d actually signed the contract—which she couldn’t do until her lawyer had checked it over, and her lawyer couldn’t do that until the contract actually arrived...
But there was no point in brooding over something she couldn’t change. She’d just have to get on with things as best as she could, and hope that she didn’t have to come up with plan B. And she didn’t want to burden her parents with her worries. She knew they were enjoying their retirement, and the last thing she wanted was to drag them back from the extended vacation they’d been planning for years.
She’d grin and bear it, and if necessary she’d tell a white lie or two.
She went through the post, dealing with each piece as she opened it, and paused at the last envelope: cream vellum, with a handwritten address. Most people nowadays used computer-printed address labels, or if they did have to write something they’d simply grab the nearest ballpoint pen. This bold, flamboyant script looked as if it had been written