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       Innocent Surrender

       The Virgin’s Proposition

      Anne McAllister

       The Virgin and His Majesty

      Robyn Donald

       Untouched Until Marriage

      Chantelle Shaw

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       About the Author

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       The Virgin and His Majesty

       About the Author

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Untouched Until Marriage

       About the Author

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Epilogue

       Copyright

The Virgin’s Proposition

      Award-winning author ANNE McALLISTER was once given a blueprint for happiness that included a nice, literate husband, a ramshackle Victorian house, a horde of mischievous children, a bunch of big, friendly dogs, and a life spent writing stories about tall, dark and handsome heroes. ‘Where do I sign up?’ she asked, and promptly did. Lots of years later, she’s happy to report the blueprint was a success. She’s always happy to share the latest news with readers at her website, www.annemcallister.com, and welcomes their letters there, or at PO Box 3904, Bozeman, Montana 59772, USA.

      SOMEDAY HER PRINCE would come.

      But apparently not anytime soon, Anny thought as she glanced down to check her watch discreetly once again.

      She shifted in the upholstered armchair where she’d been waiting for the past forty minutes, then sat up even straighter, and craned her neck to look down the length of the Ritz-Carlton lobby for any sign of Gerard.

      There were hundreds of other people milling about. In fact, the place was a madhouse.

      It always was, of course, during Film Festival week in Cannes. The French seacoast town began overflowing with industry moguls, aspiring thespians, and avid filmgoers toward the end of the first week in May.

      By now—three days into the festival—the normally serene elegant area near the hotel bar, where small genteel groups usually met for cocktails or apertifs, was now a sea of babbling people. The usual polite hushed voices of guests had been replaced by raucous cracks of masculine laughter and high-pitched flirty feminine giggles.

      All around her, Anny heard rapid intense conversations rumbling and spiking as producers talked deals, directors

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