Holiday with the Millionaire(3)

By: Scarlet Wilson

If he’d been firing on all cylinders he would have noticed immediately the glowing television on the wall, the sweet wrappers and wine bottle on the living-room table and the duvet on the sofa. His sofa.

Instead, all he noticed was the flash in the corner of his eye and the thudding pain at the back of his head. As he made contact with the floor and looked upwards all he could see was something pink and fuzzy.

Then everything went black.

* * *

She couldn’t breathe. There was a tight strap across her chest and her heart was thudding wildly in her ears.

One minute she’d been lying half-dozing on the sofa, watching Saturday night TV, the next she’d heard footsteps walking across the entranceway. She’d gone into autopilot—years of watching too many TV shows—and picked up the nearest thing to hand. It was one of Caleb’s awards and it was currently lying broken on the floor next to the burglar in black.

She picked up the phone and dialled the police. ‘Emergency services. Which service do you require?’


‘Police, how can we help you?’

‘There’s a burglar. In my house. I’ve hit him.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Lara. Lara Callaway.’

‘Can you give me your address, Lara?’

‘Seventeen Crawford Square, Belgravia.’

‘Where is the suspect now, Lara?’

She gulped. ‘At my feet.’ Police, she’d asked for the police. Maybe she should have asked for an ambulance?

‘Lara, what do you mean, the suspect is at your feet? Are you in any danger?’

Her mouth was suddenly dry. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk all that wine? ‘No. I don’t think so. He’s unconscious. I hit him.’

The operator spoke slowly. ‘Without putting yourself in any danger, can I ask you to check that he’s breathing? I’m adding an ambulance to the dispatch call.’

Lara bent her knees and squinted at the guy on the floor. He was lit only by the TV glowing on the far wall. His chest was rising and falling slowly.

She took a deep breath. For a man who was breaking into people’s homes he was actually very handsome. He didn’t have that furtive, shady look about him. There was a hint of suntan under the shadow along his jawline. He gave a little groan and she jumped back.

‘Yes, yes, he’s breathing. But I think he’s going to wake up.’

‘Lara, take yourself to a safe place. The police are on their way and will be at your address in under two minutes. Keep this phone with you. You can keep talking to me if you’re scared.’

She backed off out of the room and headed to the front door. Her head was starting to throb. This was turning into a nightmare.

Maybe this was her fault. This was a prestigious London address—of course they would be at risk of housebreaking. The house had a state-of-the-art alarm system—which she hadn’t put on yet. She would have done on her way to bed. She just hadn’t got that far yet.

Something struck her as strange. How had the burglar got in? The front door was still closed. None of the windows seemed open. What if he’d damaged the house somewhere? Through the window the glow of blue lights in the distance made her breathe a sigh of relief.

How was she going to explain this to Addison?

* * *

This was the worst jet-lag ever.

‘Sir, can you open your eyes for me, please?’

And why was this bed so hard?


‘Yeow!’ Someone had nipped the soft flesh on his hand. He sat bolt upright, ignoring the pounding headache.

Wow. He swayed. Dizzy. That was a new experience for him. He hadn’t been dizzy since that time he’d been knocked out while playing football ten years ago.

Knocked out. He narrowed his gaze as the pieces started to fall into place. Two policemen. Two green-suited paramedics—one male, one female. And another female dressed in a pink fuzzy pyjama suit with her blonde hair in some kind of weird bundle on top of her head. She looked like some kind of giant kid’s toy.

He lifted his hand to the back of his head and winced. ‘Someone want to tell me what on earth is going on here?’ He frowned and turned to face the pink teddy bear. ‘And who the hell are you?’

The teddy-bear face looked indignant. He could tell she was trying to place his Irish accent, which got thicker the angrier he was. ‘Who am I? Who are you? You broke into my house!’

One of the policemen stepped forward but Reuben held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute—you’re not Addison. This isn’t your house.’

He stood up and dusted himself off. ‘And I didn’t break in anywhere. I have a key...’ he pulled it from his back pocket ‘...because I am supposed to be staying here. So who are you exactly?’

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