Excerpts

Just The Way You Aren't

    She had a wonderful mouth. Full and soft. Lips always moist, slightly parted, like an invitation to sample, to taste, to take what he wanted one more time. And who was he to refuse?
    He propped himself up on an elbow and kissed that mouth, slowly, deeply; breathing in her sigh as he drew the sheet down, exposing milk-white shoulders and small round breasts, the nipples taut and waiting. He smiled and touched his lips to her breasts, her belly, inhaling his own scent on her skin as he moved lower, pushing the sheet ahead of him and stroking her thighs, parting her legs; teasing her with his fingers, his lips. Taking his time and building his own need as much as hers.
    She swallowed hard when he took her close to the edge again and drew away once more. "Bastard," she whispered, making him laugh.
    "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, watching her kick back the rest of the sheet and rise up on her knees.
    He closed his eyes, content to let her take over while a light breeze drifted through the terrace doors beside the bed, billowing the sheers and bringing the distant sounds of the street into the penthouse bedroom -- the plaintive cry of a garbage truck in reverse, the howl of a car alarm, the call of an early morning road crew setting up the first traffic barriers of the day.
    Sunrise in Manhattan. Never peaceful, but never dull either.
    Kind of like sex with Trisha.
    He opened his eyes when she threw a leg over him, straddling his hips while she reached her hands behind her neck, lifting her long dark hair from her shoulders and stretching her arms up over her head; putting on a show that promised a hell of a finale -- and maybe a curtain call or two.
    Trisha Dale was old money with new ambition -- a real break for the Mozart chamber orchestra that had hired her as their publicist. He had met her just over a year ago at the opening of his latest project, the Chicago Concord Hotel. She'd been on the first leg of a tour, he'd been at the end of his stay, but they'd talked, laughed, and ended up spending the night in his room, something they'd been doing on-and-off ever since. Whenever they were in the same city they'd get together, share a few laughs, a bed -- an ideal arrangement for two people with heartache in the past and no illusions about the future. No promises, no expectations, no need to worry about where they'd be spending Christmas or anything else for that matter. Just a good time. She kissed his lips, dipped her tongue in his mouth. A very good time.
    She moved her hips in slow, sensuous circles and raised a brow when he groaned. "You still want to take this slow?"
    He wasn't gentle. Simply grabbed her hips and lifted her up, positioning her exactly where he wanted her. "Up to you," he said, wondering just how long he'd be able to play at this himself.
    She leaned forward, sliding her breasts across his chest. "Come on, then," she whispered, and the game was officially on.
    He held her fast, rose to meet her --
    "Mr. Wolfe?"
    They froze. Both heads turned at the second knock.
    "Mr. Wolfe? It's Duane Nugent. Your new assistant? Head office sent me. I'm here to help, sir."
    Michael let her go and sucked in a long breath, willing his blood to cool and his mind to think while Trish rolled over on her back and laughed.
    Duane Nugent. The name rang no bells, but that wasn't surprising. His last assistant had quit a week ago, claiming they couldn't pay him enough to work for an overbearing, slave driving, sonofabitch -- the usual whine. Michael had told head office he'd find his own replacement this time, but there was a new CEO in charge and with new management came new policies, new procedures, and now Duane.
    "Mr. Wolfe? Are you there, sir?"
    "Of course I'm here. And you're early, Nugent."
    "The files indicated you're an early riser yourself sir. So I took a red-eye. Didn't want to miss a thing. Especially today. I also have an envelope from head office, sir."
    "And so it begins," Trish whispered.
    "What else is new?"
    "Not a thing." She kissed him lightly then threw her feet over the side and grabbed her dress from the floor. "I've got a meeting in a few hours anyway." She plucked her bra from the bedpost and flashed him a smile. "Don't forget to ask me about London later."
    Michael grabbed his jeans from the night stand. No hurt feelings, no recriminations. Just complete understanding.
    How perfect was that woman?

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    Viki saw the flicker of surprise a moment before he cupped her face in his hands, tracing his thumbs across her cheeks, her brow, her lips -- as though she was new to him, as though they hadn't stood together just this way a thousand times before.        
   As though their breaths had never mingled, their hearts never beat in time. And when he slipped his arms around her, she felt the touch of his body against hers like a shock -- sudden and electric, and completely new.
    His eyes were on her mouth, his lips parted, his breath warm, sweet, but he didn't kiss her. Only waited for her to decide yet again. She felt her own hands tremble as his had before; awkward herself now a she reached up, pushing her fingers into his hair and drawing him down, tasting him slowly, deeply. Letting herself take what he offered, if only for tonight.
    Reid unsnapped the huge clip that held her hair, dropping it on the bed as he moved his hands into the silk, tangling his fingers in the curls as he kissed her face, her throat, the ticklish spot behind her ear. ..
    He ran his hand up under her shirt over her breast, feeling her arch into his touch, push against his palm. And watching her frown when he drew his hand away.
    He waited until she opened her eyes, found her footing. And with every cell straining toward her, every instinct urging him to stay, he stepped back. "I'll see you in the morning," he said softly.
    Viki didn't trust her legs just yet, so she stood by the bed watching him turn the knob, step into the hall. "What are you doing?" she whispered, and was shocked when he turned, flashed her that wicked grin, so fond and familiar, and so very Reid.
    "I'm courting you," he said.
    And she was sure the moon laughed as the door clicked softly behind him.

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    Sam rose, taking her with him. "Then surprise me again. Come swimming."
    Max pushed him away with a laugh. "Are you crazy?"
    He started to undo his shirt. "Probably. But the water's warm and it would be a shame to waste this beautiful night."
    She slapped her hands over his, stopping him on the second button. "You can't be serious. All those people are still up there. My mother, Delia--"
    "And the party is still going strong." He lifted her hands, kissed each palm, and started in on his buttons again. "Chances are, they haven't even missed you yet."
    "Thanks a lot."
    "It's not an insult, just a faint hope that we've got a bit of time left before they start hollering your name from the porch."
    She nodded, knowing they would definitely holler as she watched the vee at the front of his shirt grew wider, deeper, hinting at well-defined muscles and a mist of dark hair that led her eyes down, down...
    She jerked her head up. "I have to leave."
    "You're blushing aren't you." He turned his back and pulled his shirt out of his jeans. "Okay, this time, no one looks." He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. "Do you mind?"
    She swung around, smiling at the path. He was right about it being a beautiful night, and the water was indeed warm. And it wasn't as though they'd left a trail of crumbs for anyone to follow.
    She gave her head a shake and folded her arms. "I am not doing this."
    His breath was hot and unexpected against her ear. "Then how come you're still here?"
    She snapped her shoulder up, but had no answer as he dropped his shirt into a soft puddle by her feet. She listened to the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle loosening, and knew that in another moment he'd be naked. Sam wasn't the type to play games or start something he didn't intend to finish. He meant to swim, to cool off in the pond. She could join him or not, it was that simple.
    But what about her? What was she starting? "And what about Peter?" she whispered, realizing too late that she'd spoken out loud.
    "He can join us when he gets here."
    She heard the smile in his voice and wanted to smack him. "And what exactly would I tell him? Hi honey, the water's fine.   Just jump right in with me and this naked man--"
    "Friend."
    "Sam please. I think we passed that point a while back. Which is exactly why I have to go."
    "Max," was all he said, but she knew he wasn't smiling anymore. "Go if you want, but first be honest. You've never been skinny dipping have you?"
    "Of course I have," she said, the very soul of indignation. But the effect was lost since he wasn't looking, and she felt her shoulders sag with the truth. "Alright, so my childhood was lacking."
    "And what are you going to do if Peter never calls."
    "I'll go home," she said, the answer coming quickly, easily because she'd already accepted the possibility that Delia was wrong. That Peter was neither miserable nor distracted, just busy. And he might keep on thinking forever.
    "So either way, you'll leave," Sam said. "Go back to your apartment, your studio, your work."
    She shrugged. "Life as usual."
    "And you still will never have skinny dipped." He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, if you ask me, that seems like a terrible waste of a beautiful summer evening."
    She looked down, watching a bug skate across the surface of the water. Then froze, listening to the unmistakable sound of a zipper lowering. "So," he said as his jeans hit the floor. "Do you need a hand with that dress?"
    "Just keep your back turned," she said, laughing as she tugged the dress over her head and dropped it on the pile of clothes at their feet.

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The Wedding and the Little White Lie

    More curious than nervous now, Eden stood back and studied him openly. He wasn’t a man who would immediately be called handsome-his cheeks were too broad and his chin too narrow for that. But his eyes were perfect, heavy-lidded and fringed with thick dark lashes, while his mouth was full and sensuous.
    She’d figured him for a nosy neighbor at first, but now she wasn’t so sure. There was nothing at all settled or domestic about him. Nothing to suggest he spent his Saturdays pushing a lawnmower or cruising garage sales. And he certainly didn’t look like a member of any Historical Society that she’d ever met.
    If anything, the word that came to mind was cowboy. Not the aw-shucks, easy to handle kind either. But rather the sexy bad boy type who always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed, and not necessarily his own. Which only confirmed what friends had been telling her for weeks. It was definitely time to go cold turkey on the country music videos again.

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Perfect Fit

    “A dream.” Rachel tugged at the camisole that had knotted itself around her neck, shoved her hair out of her face, and touched the switch on the radio.
    The room was suddenly, eerily quiet, as if under a spell. "Dream," she repeated, louder this time, to make herself believe it. Then she lifted the corner of her pillow, pulled out a small round pillbox, and sighed deeply as it all came back to her.
    The Bain/Miller Wedding: Scarlett O'Hara hoop skirts catching on the doors, the groom's brother dancing her out to the terrace and Granny Miller cornering her by the dessert table.
    Rachel set the box in the palm of her hand and smiled, remembering the way Granny had pulled her to one side, and hushed her with a finger to her lips. "I'm only going to tell you this once," she'd whispered, her thick Scot's brogue giving weight to her words. "So listen well."
    But it wasn't until they'd huddled behind a pillar near the rose-covered arch that Granny had finally opened her hand, revealing the little tin box. Green it was, with a hand-painted rose on the lid, and she'd checked over her shoulders before pressing it into Rachel's palm.
    "In this tin is a piece of the wedding cake. Only a crumb it's true, but more than enough on night with a full moon.” She closed Rachel’s fingers around it, and gave her a wink. “Put that under your pillow when you sleep tonight, and sure as you live, you'll dream of your one true love."
    Rachel had opened her hand and stared at the box. "This is so cute. I mean, I've seen cameras, flower arrangements, even beer as keepsakes, but never anything like this." She'd smiled at Granny. "Do you need some help giving them out?"
    Granny's mouth pinched. "It's no a keepsake and I'll no be giving any more away."
    Rachel held out the box. "So this is just for me?"
    Granny slapped her hand over it and nodded briskly.
    Rachel stared at the old woman's earnest green eyes. She'd heard of the old custom, of course. It used to go hand-in-hand with catching the bouquet and having someone's Neanderthal cousin slip the garter on your leg, but she'd never known anyone to carry out any of them, until now. Rachel moistened her lips. "Let me get this straight. There's a room full of single women here, but I'm the only one who get's the cake?"
    Granny nodded again.
    Rachel leaned closer. "Why?"
    Granny patted Rachel's arm, her eyes grown soft and dreamy. "Because dear. You look like a woman who believes."

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