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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2006, 2010, 2020 by Phillipa Ashley

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published as Decent Exposure in 2006 in Great Britain by Little Black Dress, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, London. This edition issued based on the paperback edition published as Dating Mr. December in 2010 in the United States of America by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ashley, Phillipa, author.

  Title: 12 men for Christmas / Phillipa Ashley.

  Other titles: Decent exposure | Twelve men for Christmas

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Casablanca, [2020] | “Originally published as Decent Exposure in 2006 in Great Britain by Little Black Dress, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, London. This edition issued based on the paperback edition published as Dating Mr. December in 2010 in the United States of America by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks”--Title page verso. | Summary: “This smart, sassy contemporary romantic women’s fiction won the Romantic Novelists Association New Writers Award and is the basis for a Lifetime television movie starring Kristin Chenoweth that reruns every year. Emma Tremayne moves to the Lake District looking for peace, quiet-and celibacy. So perhaps it’s not the best idea to help the local mountain rescue team put together a “tasteful” nude fundraiser calendar. Especially since quite a lot of the community is poking their noses into what she’s up to-and most have gotten the completely wrong impression about Emma’s intentions”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020023566

  Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6101.S547 D43 2020 | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020023566

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For John and Charlotte

  with all my love

  Chapter 1

  “Excuse me, love,” said the bearded man in the front row, ever so politely, “did you say naked?”

  Emma Tremayne clutched her folder of proposals tighter and smiled a smile that went no further than her cherry-scented lip gloss. “That’s right, Bob. Naked.”

  Bob, bald, ruddy-faced, and fiftysomething, nodded as if she’d just confirmed the price of a cheese scone in the local café.

  “You mean without any clothes on?” murmured a whippet-like lad whom Emma recognized as a local builder.

  “That’s the general idea of a nude calendar, Jason, yes.” Smiling sweetly, she fixed her eyes on him, then regretted it as a blush spread to the roots of his hair, competing with his red curls for color.

  Now that was odd, she thought as a dozen faces tried terribly hard not to look in her direction. If she’d known how easy it was to turn a roomful of hard-bitten men into quivering jellies, she’d have tried it years ago. Unfortunately, right now, it was exactly what she didn’t want.

  In front of her, leaning against fading walls, perched on rickety chairs and peeling Formica tables, were some of the most macho men in England. Tall and short, green and vintage, each of them looked like a nervous schoolboy hauled up before a particularly bossy headmistress. You’d certainly never have known they were a mountain rescue team from the look of them. Or that they’d saved over fifty lives in the past twelve months alone and were expert at rappelling and belaying and all kinds of skills that weren’t needed among the sushi bars and coffeehouses and mirror-windowed tower blocks of the city life Emma was used to.

  They didn’t look extraordinary at all. In fact, they could just as easily have been part of a church choir or, admittedly, a rather fit darts team. Which was exactly why this project was going to be such a huge success. It was a good thing, Emma told herself, that as a seasoned PR person, she had already run through this scenario in her head a dozen times. If she didn’t believe in her idea 100 percent, how on earth could she expect them to?

  She smiled even more broadly at Bob Jeavons as he slouched on a broken chair. As team leader of the Bannerdale Mountain Rescue Team, he had the power to crush her project with a single word. Emma wanted to take her jacket off, but she didn’t dare.

  Bob placed his chipped mug, still half-full of tea that by now must have grown cold, on the floor tiles and folded his arms. He studied her for a moment, oblivious to the bead of tea trickling down his beard. “Correct me if I’m wrong, love, but doesn’t that mean everyone in Bannerdale will see us with our kit off?”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” she said airily, ignoring the gasp of horror from Jason. “I really hope so, in fact, because if everyone in Cumbria sees you with your kit off, it will mean that I’ve done my job properly. It will mean,” she carried on, warming to her theme, “that everyone will want to buy the calendar and that we’ll raise heaps of money for a new base. Which, if you don’t mind me saying,” she added, eyeing the paint peeling off the window frame, “you do actually need quite badly.”

  “Not that badly,” said a new voice.

  Emma peered into the gloom of the room. It was difficult to see where exactly the voice had come from, as the late March evening was drawing in and the strip light had flickered and died shortly after they’d come in.

  She looked at a dark figure standing in the doorframe. “Did someone else have a contribution to make?”

  This time, the response was easier to locate. It was a cross between a snort and a harrumph, rather like a rhino in heat—not that she’d ever met one.

  “I’m sorry, but does someone have a cold?” she asked, with more than a trace of irony.

  “No. But someone needs their head examined if they think this is a good idea.”

  The owner of the voice stepped into the room
, and her heart seemed to stop. Will Tennant. She might have known. She’d only met him once before, a few weeks ago when she’d suggested the team get some rather funky promotional merchandise to sell at festivals and open nights. He hadn’t been amused then and he certainly didn’t look amused now.

  As he rested his six-foot-plus, nearly two-hundred-pound frame against a spare patch of wall, Emma felt herself grow even warmer. That superstrength antiperspirant might be good for trekking through a steamy jungle, but it was no protection at all against a man who had all the charm of a grizzly bear.

  “I know it seems a bit…radical,” said Emma defiantly, trying not to be intimidated. She couldn’t quite see Will’s face in the dimness, and anyway, she’d forgotten her contacts, but she knew what his expression would be. Patronizing, sarcastic, or hostile, possibly all three.

  “Radical?” said Will, crossing his arms.

  God, that man was massive, thought Emma, momentarily distracted by the muscles in his forearms.

  “Is that what you call it? I’d have said bloody ridiculous. We’ll be the laughingstock of all the teams, you know.”

  “You might, mate,” laughed Jason, giving Emma a small victory. Hmm…she thought, a little phallic competition might not be a bad thing. With all this testosterone around, it could be a very good thing.

  “You need the funds for a new base, and you need them quickly,” Emma explained patiently. “Donation cans and stalls at the village festival are all very well, but you need to do something really dramatic these days to attract attention.”

  “We don’t need that kind of attention,” growled Will. “There are other ways of getting the money without fancy PR gimmicks.”

  Emma’s blood approached boiling point. At this rate, the idea of a nude calendar would be thrown out without a meaningful debate, and she’d worked so hard on the proposals—for nothing too. Helping the local mountain rescue team with their fundraising wasn’t exactly in the description for her new job with the tourist board. She was here out of the goodness of her heart and, she might have added, was offering them a free consultancy that back in London would have cost them hundreds of pounds.

  As the water tank on the old slate roof gave a temperamental shudder, she sighed.

  She definitely wasn’t in London now.

  “It would all be very tasteful, of course,” she went on breezily, feeling very exposed herself. “No one would actually see anything.” She halted, not quite knowing how to put it. “Well, I mean, you’d have things to cover your decency, of course.”

  “What things?” asked Phil, a wiry-looking guy with a ponytail.

  “Well…props. You know, tools of the trade. Helmets…”

  Emma didn’t get any further. As the room erupted, she caught the eye of the only other woman in the room and wished she hadn’t. Suzanne Harley, the squad doctor, was visibly shaking, and Emma could see her trying to stop herself from spluttering cookie crumbs all over Bob. Emma frowned hard at her. She needed all the allies she could get, and if even Suzanne wouldn’t take her seriously, there was no hope.

  “It’s entirely up to you, of course, but I have put together some proposals. Here’s the design we did for an air ambulance charity,” she said, holding up a glossy calendar. The cover had a shot of twelve men posing in front of a helicopter. Granted, they didn’t leave much to the imagination, but it was all very classy and stylish. In fact, she was rather proud of it.

  Suzanne giggled. Jason’s mouth drooped cavernously. Will shook his head in despair.

  Emma ignored them and held up an Excel spreadsheet. “Actually, I’ve also brought a detailed breakdown of the money we raised. With the calendar sales, corporate sponsorship, fees from magazine interviews, and the extra cash from the ensuing publicity, it came to over fifty-six thousand pounds. That should make up the difference between the donations you’ve already accrued and the total required for the new base.”

  Suddenly, people sat up straighter in their seats. Eyebrows were raised. Someone let out a low whistle. Only Will looked unmoved.

  “And you’re sure about this?” asked Bob after a pause. “You’re sure people will want to look at a bunch of hairy blokes? I mean, some of us are well past our sell-by dates.”

  “Speak for yourself, Bob,” said Jason.

  Emma wanted to hug him and mentally put him down for Mr. January. She handed him a calendar to look at. “Believe me, every woman in Bannerdale would love to find you in her stocking on Christmas morning,” she said, crossing her fingers.

  Emma knew she sounded far more confident than she looked. Even though her charity campaign for the helicopter medics had been a huge success, she had to admit that her recent track record had been…well, barely short of disastrous. Which was why she was up here, working as public relations officer for the tourist board, not directing a glitzy campaign from the lofty heights of Rogue Communications, the London PR consultancy.

  Not that anyone knew that. Not yet anyway.

  Someone passed Will a calendar. He rifled through it for a nanosecond and shook his head. “So it’s come to this. A serious organization made a mockery of.”

  Emma felt all trembly and terribly close to hating him. Which wasn’t good. She’d hated quite a few people recently, and it was getting to be a habit.

  “Actually, I respect a man who speaks his mind, so perhaps you should discuss it among yourselves and then put it to a vote,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “You might feel less inhibited with me out of the way and”—she stared right at Will, whose designer stubble made him look more like a grizzly than ever—“more able to say what you really feel.”

  He stared back at her, his brown eyes cold. “Actually, Emma,” he said sarcastically, “I think you’ll find we’ve always been able to speak our minds up here. In fact, we were managing perfectly well before you came.”

  “Now, Will. I know I’m one for plain talking, lad, but that’s a bit much. I think it’s a cracking idea, lass. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all,” cut in Bob, smiling at Emma. “You need to give us a bit more time to get used to it. Ignore Will. He’s just a miserable bugger.”

  Emma would very much have liked to ignore Will, but right now, he was making it pretty difficult. “I’ll leave this stuff with you, and you can let me know your decision later,” she said, picking up her untouched mug from the table. “Now, shall we all have another cup of tea? I’ll make it.”

  * * *

  Alone in the tiny kitchen, Emma poured out the last of the tea into a cup with no handle, wincing at the sight and smell of the rusty liquid. This was only her second visit to the base, but she already knew they liked their tea as up front and plainly spoken as everything else. She’d been terribly careful not to talk too much about spin and profiles and target audiences. She’d even wondered if she should have turned up in something more casual than her work suit, but that would have been going too far. She liked looking smart, even if everyone else lived in a fleece. Besides, she could no longer afford a whole new wardrobe, so sticking out like a sore thumb would have to do for now.

  “They’ll come around, you know.”

  Looking up from her undrinkable tea, she found Suzanne Harley carrying a tray of empty mugs.

  “Well done, Emma. You’ve really got them going. That joke about the tools and helmets was a masterstroke.”

  Emma thought of admitting it was a slip of the tongue but decided against it. Didn’t she look like enough of an idiot already?

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think some of them are going to take a lot more persuading before they buy into the idea.”

  She handed Suzanne her cup, but the doctor shook her head and wrinkled her freckled nose.

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Emma. And I shouldn’t think you have anything too serious to worry about, given the reaction from young Jason. In fact, he seems worryingly enthusias
tic about getting his clothes off. And you have Bob on your side, which counts for a lot.”

  “What about Will Tennant? He seemed unreasonably annoyed at the whole idea of a calendar. Somehow, I feel like I’ve wronged him in a previous life.” And why should he bulldoze her idea when the others seemed almost ready to come around, she thought. Just who did he think he was?

  Suzanne sighed. “Will is always happiest when he has something to be angry about. He’s not that bad, really, Emma, underneath the sarcasm and the rudeness and the bloody-mindedness…”

  “You make him sound so charming.”

  Suzanne let out a laugh of derision. “No one in their right mind could ever describe Will as charming—though he doesn’t seem to have any problems with the opposite sex. Look, give him time to come around. Don’t try and persuade or push him. Just leave him to stew for a while. You never know. He might be more receptive than you think.”

  Emma pulled a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. The dust really was terrible in here, and she didn’t believe Suzanne for a moment. “I don’t think he’ll ever be receptive to a fancy PR guru from the evil fleshpots of the metropolis,” she sniffed.

  “Hmm. It must be a bit of a shock for you, moving up here,” said Suzanne with a wry smile. “There’s hardly much action beyond the local pubs and the Conservative club.”

  “It’s not too bad,” said Emma. “There’s a talk by the Herdwick Sheep Society next week, and the community hall is showing old Bond films on Saturday nights as long as there isn’t a Young Farmers’ event. It says so in the parish magazine.”

  Suzanne feigned shock. “The parish magazine, eh? Well, even though I’m supposed to be a pillar of the community, I haven’t resorted to that for entertainment. What on earth made you leave your job and move to Bannerdale?”

  It was the question Emma had been dreading. And one that, in the past few months, she’d been lucky to avoid. Fortunately, like the professional she was—correction, once was—she had her answer prepared.

  “It was a fantastic opportunity, a unique environment, new challenge…”