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There was silence for a slight moment too long. It struck Sophie as odd. But then again, Ava was in a strange mood. Her worry about Olivia was obvious.

“Yeah, she loved them. She’s resting now or I’d put her on to say thanks.”

“I’ll catch her tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Try not to worry, Aves. Liv’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’ll be okay.”

Ava disconnected the call without responding, and Sophie silently echoed her sister’s desperation. For while Olivia was sensible and intelligent, she was also wild and impetuous, and it was very, very possible that she’d bitten off far more than she could chew.

Only time, of course, would tell.

THE END

Seduced by the Italian Tycoon

Copyright

All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.

All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

First published 2015

(c) Clare Connelly

Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/Masson

Contact Clare:

http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

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Prologue

The bill was bright red

and rather imperious in nature. Worse, it was accusing. See! You thought you could do this, it screamed, alongside the overdue amount in the corner. You actually thought you’d be able to live in London, and raise a child, and make ends meet. But you were wrong. You failed.

Emily folded it over, then over again, and slipped it into the side of her handbag. Visions of the weekend in Brighton she’d been planning to surprise Andrew with for his eighth birthday evaporated. Their vapour fumes were added to the collection of ‘could have been’ memories that lived in a small, rarely dwelled-on corner of her brain.

The life she could have been living was not worth focussing on.

It served no purpose to indulge in melancholy.

She pressed her black shoes together, noticing the slight scuffing on the toe of one of her ballet slippers. She pulled a tissue from her bag, hastily moving her fingers past the folded up bill, and reached forward to wipe at the scuff.

Some of the other housekeepers allowed themselves to wear uniforms that weren’t ironed, or stockings with small holes (heaven forbid!) but not Emily. Her grandfather had been a man of his generation. Every Saturday morning, all the shoes in the house had been lined up for him to polish and shine. Her grandmother Milly had spent that same time ironing and starching clothes. Clean shoes, neat hair, short nails. The list of requirements had been drummed into Emily so many times they were now as much a part of her as her mane of auburn hair or the sprinkling of freckles that ran mischievously across her pale nose.


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