Page 1 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter One

I plucked my ringing mobile out of my bag which was next to me on the back seat of the silver Mercedes my publishers had kindly sent to pick me up.

We were easing up to a set of traffic lights in London’s South Kensington and the pavements and shop windows were awash with gilded, first-of-July sunshine.

My husband Joe’s infectious smile shone up at me from the screen. ‘Hey, Rosebud. Sorry, but I’ve been held up at the office. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?’

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Joe’s habit of arriving late to everything from dental appointments to my book launches was a running joke between us and even his work colleagues. ‘I’m getting a T-shirt made up with the caption, “Sorry, Rosebud, but I’m running late” printed up for you.’

His laughter rumbled down the line. ‘Blame that new cosy crime writer who’s arguing over his contract. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

I dropped my phone back into my bag and appreciated the brilliant white buildings as we headed towards the Victoria and Albert Museum.

That was where the launch of my new festive, feel-good romance, Snow, I’ll Always Love You, was taking place tonight and I was brimming with excitement. Even though it was still summer, my publishers were keen to drum up some pre-Christmas razzamatazz. That’s why my launch was taking place today, so that we could squeeze in every last bit of promo and marketing in the run-up to the festive season!

Not only had I been able to go crazy with its Christmas content, but it featured two of my favourite characters so far; my witty, bubbly, struggling drama student Bex and my grumpy, sexy theatre critic Nathan, who find themselves snowed in, together with several other guests, at a stately home, where Bex is making ends meet by working in hospitality.

Writing about my favourite time of the year hadn’t been a hardship.

I loved the festive season and I was determined to make this Christmas even more special for Joe and me. We’d both been working flat out, so I’d booked a gorgeous, secluded cottage in the Peak District for the three of us as a surprise, from the twenty-third to the twenty-eighth of December. When I say the three of us, I meant me, Joe and our three-year-old Labradoodle, Bronte. The property came complete with its own outdoor jacuzzi, so we could sip something chilled and gaze across at the moody, lavender and jade hills as they became swaddled in snow. Hopefully.

I nestled back against the dark-chocolate leather seats as the chauffeur, Darren, weaved us past bijoux restaurants with rippling awnings and bespoke designer kitchens made from Italian marble. The early evening summer sky was beginning to morph into delicious shades of tangerine and raspberry, as Darren eased us effortlessly into the kerb.

Gazing out and upwards through the window, I contemplated the stunning, buttery stone-arched entrance to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Darren got out, strode round to my side and eased open the car door. ‘Have a wonderful book launch, madam.’

I eased my bag over my shoulder and clipped onto the pavement in my magenta kitten heels.

‘Thanks, Darren. I’ll try.’ I slipped my hand into my bag, located my purse and plucked a twenty-pound note from it. Darren began to protest but I shook my head. ‘Please,’ I insisted. ‘That should hopefully treat you to a couple of pints, although going by the prices around here, maybe not.’

He grinned and reluctantly took the money. ‘Thank you, madam. That’s very kind of you.’

I watched Darren clamber back into the car, looking dapper in his dark, satin waistcoat as he began to glide back into the traffic.

Then I glanced over my shoulder, hoping that Joe might be barrelling up the pavement towards me.

‘Ready for another book launch then, Rosie?’

My beaming literary agent Mia Covington materialised beside me, having stepped out of a nearby taxi.

‘Of course, she is,’ trilled Lola Sykes, my editor at Jarred Roberts Publishing, who came dashing up.

The three of us exchanged kisses and hugs. I let out an excited rush of air, as the three of us approached the museum steps. ‘I know this is my sixth novel, but I never get tired or bored of seeing my new book baby.’

Mia, her ghost grey eyes glistening, squeezed my arm with one jewelled hand. ‘That’s the way it should be.’

We negotiated the heavy steps towards the golden-illuminated interior of the V&A, our heels clacking in unison.

I tried to calm the butterflies tumbling in my stomach at the sight of the glittering Christmas lights and wreaths festooned everywhere. The publicity team at my publishers had done a wonderful job, turning the interior of the museum into a sparkling, festive cornucopia to complement my book. We were greeted by a sharply-dressed young man from the marketing team, who checked off our names and presented us with fancy name badges made out of sumptuous purple velvet.

We were then directed over to the cloakroom, where a girl with pink, highlighted hair proffered a wide smile and took our coats.

I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder and gazed up at the spiralling crenelations that looked like whipped cream, soaring upwards into the sky.

Mia, with her shoulder-length, dark curls, and Lola, sporting her pale blond hair in a chignon, disappeared for a moment and came sashaying back with champagne flutes and handed me one. I pushed my riot of long, red curls back behind my ears and took a grateful gulp. ‘We’re like a modified version of the Spice Girls,’ Lola joked.