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Switch Me On
Jule McBride
Some girls are made for the citySuccessful voice-over artist Ari Madden has been planning her escape from Blackwater Inlet for years. In three more weeks, she's making tracks–away from her cloying family, the gossip mill and her rep for rejecting local men who threaten her dreams. So it's defnitely the wrong time for a total stranger to start delivering sexy shocks to her lady-circuits.Bruno Brandt meant to unwind in his new getaway cabin in Podunkville, not get recharged by a red-hot woman with small-town blues. Outrageous, sultry Ari sparks him like a live wire, though, convincing him their fling will never be enough. He's a world-class whiz when it comes to anything electric, but can he do what no man ever has before–jump-start Ari's desire to commit?
Some girls are made for the city
Successful voice-over artist Ari Madden has been planning her escape from Blackwater Inlet for years. In three more weeks, she’s making tracks—away from her cloying family, the gossip mill and her rep for rejecting local men who threaten her dreams. So it’s defnitely the wrong time for a total stranger to start delivering sexy shocks to her lady-circuits.
Bruno Brandt meant to unwind in his new getaway cabin in Podunkville, not get recharged by a red-hot woman with small-town blues. Outrageous, sultry Ari sparks him like a live wire, though, convincing him their fling will never be enough. He’s a world-class whiz when it comes to anything electric, but can he do what no man ever has before—jump-start Ari’s desire to commit?
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)
For John Edward, my superhero!
Dear Reader,
While growing up in our small town, my girlfriends and I could never hear enough about the big city, and Cosmopolitan magazine was our source for learning just about everything—from how to do our makeup to secrets about dating that our mothers were never going to tell us. As an adult, I moved to Manhattan, but I still have a soft spot for small-town living, as well. Maybe for that reason, since I began publishing romances with Mills & Boon in 1993, my books have often explored the country versus city themes that are close to my heart.
With Switch Me On, I took a risk, hoping editors would go for a small-town setting in a Cosmo Red-Hot Read from Mills & Boon, and I was thrilled when they did. It just goes to show that girls like heroine Aribella Madden are Cosmo Girls mostly because of their insides, not outsides, and due to their sensibilities, not town of birth.
Like me, Ari has a soft spot for the world she was born into, but is destined to land elsewhere—and soon! The only real question is whether red-hot, sexy Bruno Brandt will be in tow when she leaves to pursue her dreams. I do hope you’ll have fun reading Ari and Bruno’s story!
Enjoy!
Jule McBride
Switch Me On
Jule McBride
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon
www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)
Contents
Chapter One (#uf268cc7d-8e33-562d-846b-519b0204c80c)
Chapter Two (#ue6cc9b36-251b-53cc-80ca-b99c576653d9)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Because Bruno Brandt designed big city power grids, he thought he knew everything about electricity, but the current that jolted through him when he saw the woman in Boondocks made him feel like Frankenstein being hit by lightning. It was 2:00 a.m. and he hadn’t slept his usual four hours the previous night. He’d red-eyed from the west coast, then flown himself from Raleigh-Durham in his helicopter, landing down the road at his cottage in Blackwater Inlet. Back-water Inlet, locals called it. He hoped it didn’t start snowing this far south, the way they kept predicting, because it would ruin his travel schedule, and he wanted to make his upcoming meetings in Chicago. So much for global warming. Plowing to the bar, he yelled for another drink since the first hadn’t done jack to warm him.
Not so the dental hygienist. She was hotter than live wires. Well...tonight she was a DJ, not a hygienist, go figure. She had the sexiest voice he’d ever heard. Star quality. Leaning on the bar, he knocked back a second drink, letting the couple next to him do the small talk. That was the cool thing about small towns, everybody was so damn friendly. In one night, he could meet more people in Blackwater Inlet than he’d met in D.C. in a lifetime. Robby Shoemaker and his wife, Alice, were not shoemakers by trade, as it had turned out, but owned the only shrink practice in town.
Not that Bruno liked being psychoanalyzed. Alice had started the convo guessing he wasn’t married and pointing at his naked ring finger, making him feel like he was on a date with one of the gym-bodied climber-types he knew in D.C. When she’d guessed he’d experienced some sort of loss, she’d hit too close to home. He’d started to leave but the drink hadn’t made him any sleepier yet. He was cursed by many things, including the ability to hold his liquor.
Besides, every time he heard the voice of the DJ, a warm hand grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. Lots of females had whispered dirty somethings to him, but oh, the things he wanted to hear this one say. Even dumb things like, “Oh, Bruno,” where the words alone might sound boring, but the intonation would make it steamy. The voice was strangely familiar, too. He could swear he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t have, because they’d never met. It was deep, but not so throaty that she sounded like Marlene Dietrich chain smoking too much weed.
He studied her half-unbuttoned gauzy white blouse. Nice tits. A little drink dribble on the front sent a certain devil-may-care message, and he heard her say into the microphone, “Come do me, baby.” What she really said was, “At Boondocks, the music never stops.” In D.C., cops would be breaking up the party, but in Blackwater Inlet nobody gave a rat’s ass if the crowd was still slurping daiquiris at sunup.
“Next song up is �Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,’” she continued. Already, Bruno had drunk through “Christmas Tree on Fire” and “I Want an Alien for Christmas,” and since he had plenty of reasons to be glad this particular Christmas was over, the hygienist-cum-DJ was hitting all the right irreverent notes. Everybody was laughing and dancing and shrieking inane shit over the music, detoxing from the holiday just like him. He yelled, “Scotch rocks,” then traced a circle above Robby and Alice’s glasses, buying a round for which they thanked him. The polished wood of the bar reflected his gesture. Like the glitter ball and jukebox, the bar had either been here forever, or was reclaimed from elsewhere, not that Bruno was going to worry himself over which.
He just wanted to unwind after the long meeting day in which his employer, the federal government, had brought in a motivational speaker who’d kept assuring everybody there was no i in team. Everybody already knew Bruno didn’t do team. He’d mind the monkey suit a lot less, too, if the hygienist-cum-DJ assisted him in the suit removal segment of his evening. Well, morning.
She was doing slutty with a touch of class, Bruno’s favorite thing, and he was miles from D.C. It felt like forever since he’d slept with somebody outside his social network, someone totally new. Strawberry-red hair whipped around the woman’s face like escaped electrical wires, and in back, the wild upswept hairdo was held together with something sharp and pointy, knitting needles or chopsticks or something. The dim light was hiding everybody’s flaws, and he couldn’t see unless she was under the glitter ball that hung above the dance floor like a prehistoric artifact. It reminded him of last night, when he’d been channel surfing in the Marriott. He’d seen a spaceship that looked just like the glitter ball on the History Channel, in one of their programs about aliens. That was the downside of globalism. Living out of hotels. He liked the minibars, though.
And meeting women on the road, which was the biggest perk. This one was a revelation. She’d been the first thing he’d noticed when he’d arrived in Blackwater Inlet a week ago, if only because he was a woman watcher. Immediately, she’d come to exemplify every boring thing Bruno was escaping, the whole reason he’d started buying himself toys this year. The helicopter, Road Rover and getaway cabin. He’d learned the hard way that you only go around once, and it had made him commit to a more hedonistic lifestyle.
He’d ascertained the woman was a dental hygienist who worked on the second floor of the mall, the only architectural structure in town that even had an elevator. It was right down the road from one of two trailers he’d been told to call offices while he was in Podunk-ville. For a week, he’d watched her arrive at the mall like clockwork, driving a gray Honda car that was at least a decade old and still showroom. She always parked in the same spot exactly five minutes after his own arrival on the lot. Every morning, she stopped in the coffee shop, as he had done five minutes before her, and he imagined she was buying a corn muffin, no butter, and lukewarm decaf tea without chai spices.
Day in, day out, she’d worn her strawberry hair blown out like all the ambitious, work-a-day females he knew in D.C., board-straight in that tired Jennifer Aniston haircut. Just the kind of woman who could make a man feel like one more working stiff in a sea of gray flannel suits. Every day, she wore a tweed skirt and neutral-toned sweater-set under a bleach-white lab coat. The same diamond stud earrings. At lunch, she was always with her boss, the dentist, officiously carrying his books or clipboards. He was equally bland.
Bruno had silently named the woman “Mrs. Secretary,” since it was hard to think of her as something so contemporary as a “Ms.” or “assistant” or “admin.” And anyway, she was a hygienist. She’d probably rinse with peroxide if a guy kissed her. Worse, she always flirted with the dentist, at least that’s what Bruno thought she was trying to do. She’d chuckle as if the dentist was some incredible wit in a late-night romance movie. Bruno had watched way too many of those movies in the Marriotts while munching minibar chips. What kind of couple bonded while holding surgical tools and leaning over John Q. Public’s open mouth? But now...
What a 180. She’d been a living reminder he was at work on time. He was having breakfast in the same coffee shop. His car was in the same parking spot, even if it was a Road Rover. Now she was like boring circuitry that had been rewired to do something extraordinary. Maybe the black nail polish was over the top, but he could get past that, especially this late at night. When it came to the sexpot voice, big jangly earrings and boobs all over the place, Bruno was all in. She’d gone from representing everything he was escaping to everything he wanted to try. From where he was standing, her earrings looked really interesting. Of knotted gold and silver, they seemed of Celtic design. Totally different from the diamond studs she wore by day.
He hadn’t been this intrigued since a mysterious near power outage almost took out Chicago, back in 2012. Should he sleep with her now? Plan to hook up later? Women never said no. Even if they didn’t know about his big career and child prodigy awards and all that crap, it usually only took ten minutes to solicit the “yes.” But with someone as duplicitous as her, he could not imagine TMA: The Morning After. That was as interesting as sex. She wouldn’t stick. He knew that. Girls like her weren’t meant to stick. That was the whole point of them. He used to lie and say he wanted more, but since the tragedy of his past year—the loss that Alice Shoemaker, the shrink, had prodded about—he was done with lies. You only lived once.
What was her game? Finishing his drink, he placed the glass on the bar, said his goodbyes to the Shoemakers, and went to find out.
* * *
“Ari, that snowbird’s watching you like a hawk,” Paulie, the owner of Boondocks, yelled over the music.
“He’s on his way over,” Paulie’s wife, Sally, added. “Don’t run this one off. He’s really cute.”
Aribella Madden playfully swatted Sally, then made her way onto the dance floor, bumping into Larry Carson. With the employees from his jewelry shop, Larry was singing “Deck the Halls with Loads of Money.” Ari flashed on seventh grade when selling diamonds had been a twinkle in Larry’s eye and he’d given her a ring from a bubble gum machine as a promise. Her heart warmed, as it always did at fond memories of men she’d dated, or just hung out with, which meant almost every guy in the bar. It was always easier to remember what she’d liked about her exes in hindsight. Larry’s Unwelcome Incident had occurred when he’d married Sally’s sister, Katie. Quickly, the two of them had made three wee ones, but Larry still called when he received inventory he knew Ari would love, like the earrings she was wearing.
Ari had noticed the stranger, of course, but she was sworn off men again, and he’d been in the darkest part of the bar, over by Paulie’s pride and joy, the vintage jukebox. He’d been talking to Robby and Alice, too. Bad sign. Maybe he knew Robby from Raleigh, since Robby had gone to Duke. That might be interesting, since Ari, herself, was moving to Raleigh the week after the Unwelcome Incident to end all Unwelcome Incidents. The Final Incident, which was twenty-one days away. Just this morning she’d signed a lease on an apartment, and tomorrow, she’d start advertising for a tenant to rent her cottage, providing herself with a new income stream. The inlet had awesome coastal properties, but due to the economy, locals often went to work in nearby cities, then the population doubled on holidays when they boomeranged.
If the guy was visiting Robby and Alice, it really was a bad sign, though. Robby was Ari’s STRE—shortest-term romance ever—and the only one whose marriage had not been an Unwelcome Incident. During their few dates the year before he’d found Alice, Robby had tried to psychoanalyze her, so his was one couch Ari was happy to forget.
What did the man approaching her do? Play basketball? He had to be six-four or something, but he wasn’t stooping down to everybody’s level. Exuding raw confidence, he used his hips and shoulders to part the party, not his hands—she always noticed a guy’s hands—and then he stopped in front of her. The music stopped, and her voice sounded a little slurred to her own ears. “Friend of Robby and Alice’s?”
“Just met. Shrinks,” he warned, with a quick shake of his head. “Beware.” He was so tall that he’d had to adapt, evolving an interesting way of bending more with his knees than waist, then he tilted his head sideways and dipped it, so he could peer into people’s eyes. Her eyes. Once he’d arrested her with his vision and convinced himself she was focused solely on him, he lowered another fraction and made the sign of the cross with his fingers.
Her feeling exactly. “On the upside, if you’re a serial killer, or have some truly disgusting fetish, the Siggie Freuds would have figured it out by now and warned me.”
“So much for patient-doctor confidentiality.”
“The only thing worse than shrinks is shrinks who gossip.” Robby Shoemaker had announced to half of Blackwater Inlet that she had issues with intimacy, but that had only been with him! He’d said she had a weird thing for guys’ hands, too. She liked guys’ hands, sure, but why would that be weird?
“There are fetishes that don’t disgust you?”
“Some. And I draw the line at dating serial killers.”
“That’s what I hate about small towns. A guy can’t get away with anything.”
“Girls either.” She’d learned the hard way. “Let me guess. Big city guy.” Due to the daiquiris, it came out sounding like big shitty guy, so she corrected. “City.”
“Shitty on occasion,” he confessed. An index finger, which he seemed to have a habit of raising, pointed into the air, as if to alert her that he needed to clarify. “Never to you.”
All men said that. He did have interesting hands. They were in constant motion. Big and super-masculine, the fingers long, strong and thick, and yet artistic, somehow. Despite their size, she could imagine them working on small, intricate things. Boats in bottles. Keyboards. Female parts that usually stayed hidden in folds of flesh. Not that she wanted to know more about him, she told herself. She’d spent years laying the groundwork for the moves she was making this month, and she wasn’t going to risk some man turning her head. She hated to admit it, but men did have incredible power over her. Could she help it if she was female?
She wished hands weren’t her weak spot. He had awesome hands. Robby had been right about her in that regard. Now the guy was rubbing the sexy hands together in a way that sent a warm thrill through her. Everything in the dim bar became a lumen brighter, the edges around objects sharper. Yes, this guy was definitely tactile. He untwined his fingers, then pressed his palms together again. Using the thumb of one hand, he massaged the webbed area between a thumb and index finger. Nicely trimmed nails, but not too fussy. She hated obvious manicures.
Because she’d been studying the hands intently, she missed something he said. Before she could ask him to repeat it, jukebox music tidal-waved over them, and a finger circled his ear to indicate he could no longer hear. Bending, he leaned closer, probably to ask if she’d like to dance, but before he could, something took hold of her, either hormones or instincts or alcohol, and she shot him a game grin and simply yelled, “Yes!” For a second, he had made her want to say yes to anything.
“That’s a record,” he yelled.
As his hips and shoulders rocked to house music, she decided there was something really edgy about this guy. Easily, he could have seemed too geeky, but he was oh so not. Like how he was still wearing a suit this late on a Saturday night, and hadn’t bothered to undo the tie. Most guys would have loosened the knot, at least. Instead of looking out of place, he seemed like he didn’t care what he wore or what anybody thought of him, and she envied him that.
“A record?”
Not breaking dance stride, he brushed back his sleeve, practically forcing her eyes to follow his index finger as he swiped it across the watch. It was as if he’d sensed her attraction to his hands and kept them moving on purpose. Like the suit, the watch looked expensive but utilitarian. She couldn’t decide if everything he wore was custom, or if a female did his shopping, or if he hated shopping but was so hot that he’d look awesome in anything. Tilting his head, he angled it until he’d positioned his eyes in her line of vision again, so she wasn’t staring at his expansive chest.
“Sometimes it takes me a full ten minutes to get the girl to say yes,” he yelled. “Usually she tries to find out what she’s agreeing to.”
“Bet you’ve made better time than ten minutes.” He was pretty slick. As he smiled yes, the crowd got hit by something electric and pulsed, pushing her into his arms. Unprepared for the jolt that hit her when his hands settled on her waist, she felt it zip through her, positively electric. All the fabric between her skin and his fingers seemed to vanish. A fireball shattered near her solar plexus, exploding and sending darts of pleasure to all her extremities. For the space of a heartbeat, everything seemed suspended. She could swear those hands were strumming her sides, causing the ripples of vibration, and all at once, she felt really drunk, as if she was staggering, not dancing.
“You can tell me your name,” he yelled.
No way, she thought, urging Hot Hands under the glitter ball to get a better look at him before they went one dance step further. Another sizzling jolt of heat pulsed through her veins, this one higher voltage, leaving her nerves jangling. He had more sculpted facial bones than she’d realized. Knitted eyebrows as dark as his hair made him look totally unnerdy, way more calculating. The splash of blue in his gray eyes was more visible now. Whoa! Another fuse ignited, and a line of fire raced through her veins and ended at her heart, making it stutter.
Not that she could afford any entanglements. In twenty-one days, she’d be out of Blackwater Inlet. Nothing was going to change that, especially not some sexy stranger dragging her toward the steamiest, darkest abyss at the edge of the dance floor and yelling, “Let’s get sweaty, baby.” She wasn’t sure how many songs played before he’d pulled her under the light again, both of them panting hard, but by then, perspiration was coating every inch of her skin, tickling all the crevices.
He yelled, “Do you have a name?”
He was still fishing. When she caught a whiff of Boondocks’ most expensive scotch mixed with testosterone and mint, the grain alcohol of the male cocktail, she knew she’d better avoid this guy the way an alcoholic avoided a drink. He’d said, the girl usually says yes in ten minutes.
“The Girl will do.”
“What will she do?”
“Remains to be seen,” she yelled. “And that’s annoying.”
“Summing people up by their function?”
Her mother, Mom Mad, short for Mommy Madden, did it all the time. She nodded. The man’s hands were on her waist again. She could feel the itch in the fingers, which were trailing where her hips flared. Drums sounded and she danced away, writhing to the beat, but then some yahoo slammed the guy. For that instant, the whole world was reduced to jumbled impressions. His thigh muscles rippling beneath his slacks; her cheek bouncing off a rock hard chest.
She should have known the culprit would be Hunter MacKenzie. He probably thought he was helping her out by pushing her into a man’s arms. Hunter Mac still had a warm spot for her, although they’d only kissed a few times in high school, and his Unwelcome Incident had been one of the first. She’d been a bridesmaid.
The stranger was still trying to steady her. From cheek to toe, they touched all the way down, her breasts cushioned against a chest carved out of granite. She shut her eyes in bliss, feeling all those straining, bulging muscles. It wasn’t overkill, either, like with body builders, just nicely honed. And there was so much tension inside him that when she looked up, into his gray-blue steelies, she felt woozy. Maybe she even tripped. She wasn’t sure. His grip tightened and she suddenly wondered exactly how much she’d had to drink.
“You okay?”
No! She was jittery all over! He did the unique, lean-dippy thing he’d evolved due to his height, not stopping until his eyes found hers like laser beams. Chalk one up to Darwin.
He mouthed, “I’m sorry!”
“It was Hunter MacKenzie’s fault!” she yelled. She was going to kill him for that stupid body-slam.
The guy looked frustrated. “I don’t think I can call you The Girl.”
“Sure you can. You’re The Boy.”
He smiled. “I can keep that straight.”
Whoa. He was looking at her with frank sexual interest. It was sort of a relief. She did do the physical part of relationships really well. Kissing, anyway. She’d had sex, too. Not tons, but enough. It was okay, just never the fireworks she’d hoped. No big explosions, and she hated the predictable letdown. In a second she’d feel...yes, there it was. A tug of longing that said this guy would be different, followed by a rush of warmth. The feeling was like a sweet promise that always turned out to be The Big Lie. Not that she was inorgasmic or anything, but sex was supposed to be at least as interesting as a vibrator, right?
Tonight, she wasn’t going to unwrap the package. She’d enjoy the pretty paper, bow, and greeting card, but she wasn’t sticking around to watch another late-night rerun of her floundering love life, season umpteen. Lifting his wrist to show him his watch, she decided to tell him his time was up, and make some joke about his ten-minute track record—they’d been dancing way more than ten minutes—but when her finger grazed his wrist, she felt his pulse leap. Heat flared like fire on a match. She guessed all the sweaty dances had worked their mojo. The heady elixir of man-sweat had taken his scotch, testosterone and mint cocktail to a whole new level, too. Give me the garnish! Kick it up a notch!
She was reminded of old advertisements she’d spent hours studying—the Marlboro Man, Old Spice and Irish Spring. He was all of them rolled into one. His hand turned deftly in hers, and as his wrist moved, she figured he had to be double jointed or something, then her mind went blank, the whole bar fuzzy at the edges. His strong hand was in hers, palm to palm, and she simply felt lost. When he twined their fingers, it seemed more intimate, somehow, than if he’d just ripped off all her clothes. The Big Lie talking. She’d been here a million times before.
Old Smashing Pumpkins was playing, making her think she’d better start worrying about pumpkins turning into carriages. Dropping his hand, she danced away, but he seemed confident she’d boomerang back. Just like whatever was passing between them, the beat was raw and thumping, and when he found her, they were dancing in earnest. Jumping. Shaking. Vibrating. Getting down and dirty with some bumps and grinds. She lost him, he found her again, and by then she realized there was no escape.
“Awesome!” she conceded.
“You’ve got the sexiest voice I have ever heard,” he yelled.
El dudes always mentioned her pipes. “I know.”
All he was really saying was that he wanted to get laid. After a few more songs, she finally took pity because he kept fishing for the personals, and she yelled that she and Paulie, the owner of Boondocks, had hung out together in the tenth grade, long before his Unwelcome Incident with Sally. Back then, Ari’s dream had been to work in radio, and since Paulie now kept a DJ setup for ladies’ nights, he insisted she spin songs when she came in.
“You know everybody here.”
“You’re the only guy I haven’t slept with. Small town, you know.”
“So you’re not The Girl. You’re The Girl With a History.”
“Okay. Maybe not everybody,” she conceded.
“Definitely not everybody.”
“How would you know?”
“You haven’t slept with me.”
She’d never been so glad to hear heavy metal. For Ari, it conjured images of old men in leather pants eating bats on stage before they destroyed their own guitars, but this guy could dance to anything. What a workout! She was suddenly glad Paulie didn’t allow anything touchy-feely on his jukebox because this guy might suddenly announce he could freaking waltz.
He was reaching for his tie now, too. A bad sign. It should have meant something red with exclamation points like Wrong Way! Or Stop! Instead, it was just turning yellow and flashing, saying Trouble Up Ahead. And who didn’t know that already? “You are formal for Paulie’s,” she yelled as those maddening, fluid hands tugged off the tie in a seamless gesture, looped it around her neck and used the ends to pull her to him.
Suddenly, she wished they’d met in work mode when she looked more respectable. Then she kicked herself for wanting to impress him. That was this guy’s appeal, right? He seemed too at ease with himself and living for the moment.
“I don’t usually party like this,” she suddenly screamed, but the words were lost. “I’m trying to be good!” There it was again, her approval seeking. It meant something deep inside her, something over which she had no control, was responding to this guy, and she wanted him to...like her.
“You aren’t going to be good in that outfit, sweetheart.”
Sweat beaded and slid down her cleavage, and when he used an end of the tie to dab at it, she wound up yelling more nonsense about the holidays, her nutso family, the new place in Raleigh and her workload, and of course, next month’s Unwelcome Incident. The Final Incident.
Frowning, he yelled, “You like your work?”
“Love it!”
He looked a little appalled, which was strange. Most men saw dollar signs when she said she liked work, but he only waved a hand as if to say, to each his own. The tie he was using to clean up her neck was pure silk, and suddenly she gasped. The fingers tracing her neck, skin on skin, felt even more silken than the tie.
Bending, he yelled, “I don’t know if I’m staying here.”
Relief flooded her. He wanted her to know he wasn’t up for LTR. Good. But why was he here? Because Ari hadn’t had time to get her hair done, she hadn’t talked to Mrs. Eli who owned the salon, and who would have filled her in on the town’s latest gossip.
“In town for the night?” She couldn’t hear the response, and by the end of the next song, he’d danced her into the darkest, most isolated corner, between the bar and jukebox. The next conversation started with a super long leg pushing between hers, guiding them apart, bringing a sweeping sensation of warmth. Glancing around, she leaned against the jukebox. No one was watching. He was whispering something, but she didn’t know what, just something every bit as dark as it was promising. And it was only a promise. The Big Lie. Already, she was imagining the morning after when she would admit he wasn’t going to be The One. Already, she was telling herself it was the twenty-first century and nobody was looking for The One.
Teeth caught her earlobe in a bite that was a little painful, yes, but oh so pleasurable. A playful tug, then a quick, hot, flicker all the way down her neck, turning into teasing kisses just inside the collar of her blouse. Suddenly, her nipples tightened, aching as her blood raced, and she was imagining kisses in places more intimate. Her breasts, yes. But mostly right where the hard ridge of thigh was creating such steady pressure. Her chest rose, her breasts swelling, as if for his touch, and she gasped as he responded, his arms tightening, wrapping around her chest, stealing her breath. Shuddering, she had no doubt he could unbutton complicated garments with his teeth, and in her mind, she was imagining him doing it. Her blouse was falling to the floor, her bra opening, those hands stroking...
Then he kissed her on the lips. The firm hard pressure felt heavenly. It was just the kind of kiss she craved. The kind that said, I’m the boss, I’m the man, and I’m going to make you come whether you want to or not. He was all tongue now. All creamy, hot, wet flutters pushing her toward the edge of a cliff, making her teeter on a precipice. She fought not to respond, but she had to, just a little, to relieve herself on that blessed ridge of thigh. It was just one stupid kiss not some vista over a canyon! Not some precipice! She was just imagining the stupid, freaking canyon! It was The Big Lie again! She didn’t even know him!
The ministrations of his tongue inside her mouth were pushing her into a smoky space, where everything was like the music, thumping and pulsing. She was tumbling into nothingness, until suddenly, everything came to a halt, and she thought, Don’t stop! Not now!
He left her hanging, wanting it so bad...until she was wondering what else he could do if he could make her feel this way with only one kiss. With a next liquid dart of his tongue came the explosion of butterflies in her belly, and the jitters shook her until she was achy all over, the pang at the apex of her thighs clamoring. Feeling strangely helpless, she curled her hands around his shoulders and squeezed, then she moved her hips again, gasping at the sweet friction.
She knew he could feel the burst of liquid heat through his slacks, her tights and panties the only other barrier. Nobody was spying on this dark, back corner, but it wasn’t the right place to melt onto the warmth of some stranger’s thigh, or to be swept into his embrace.
Some jerk turned on the lights.
It was sort of a relief. But also just as she’d predicted. The Big Lie. The broken promise. The coitus interruptus. This new man, this stranger, this prince had been so promising. Ready to take her by storm and make her believe in fairy tales again. No matter what heights she attained in other areas of life, maybe she’d never stop craving the fantasy of being swept away by sensual pleasure.
“The harsh light of reality,” she whispered hoarsely. Dammit, her short-lived attractions to men were legendary, but this had been the most promising first kiss coupled with the fastest letdown. She realized she’d probably ruined her voice tonight, too. She couldn’t afford to do that, she really couldn’t.
He whispered, “Shut your eyes. It will help you reenter the fantasy.”
So, he was a mind reader, too. Possessed by her usual demons, she followed the recommendation. Picking right up where he left off, his mouth claimed hers, his tongue plunging, her mind catapulting over high bars and landing in a hazy state of brownout bliss. She opened her eyes and realized he was probably the only person left in Boondocks who looked even better in harsh light.
He said, “I don’t think you should drive.”
She wasn’t proud of it, but she wanted to stay here forever. Exhaling on a shudder, she brushed the dark hairs near the throat of the shirt. Not too silky, not too wiry, but just right. Exactly how a man’s chest hairs ought to feel.
“I’m going to give you a ride.”
Her riding him. That’s what she was thinking about it. Uh-oh. But she couldn’t drive herself home. Eli Jones had been sworn in last year as sheriff, and while he’d never jail Ari for a minor infraction like being tipsy inside Boondocks, driving under the influence was another matter. Glancing at the stranger’s open shirt, she added indecent exposure to her list of crimes. Since Eli’s Unwelcome Incident, he hadn’t so much as sniffed at her—not in a boyfriend way—but he’d happily see her safely home in his cop car if she called him. Especially since she was on such good terms with the Mrs. Eli, who did hair for all the Madden women.
She could call Urgent Care, for that matter. Doc Dickerson would send the ambulance. He always credited his attraction to medicine to Ari, saying he’d found his true calling the day they’d played doctor in the sandbox when they were five, and their mothers were trading casserole recipes.
“I don’t even know you.”
“You can get to know me on the way.”
He made it sound so reasonable.
Paulie yelled, “Pack it in, homeboys.”
Not-a-homeboy started kissing down her neck again. The wet pad of his tongue conjured everything a female was supposed to feel when her sex drive took over, and nothing existed except the hot, handsome man making her climb to an explosive release. He wasn’t saying any dirty words, and he didn’t have to. The slow pressure of his mouth said it all. Obviously, he’d clocked as many practice hours as she when it came to first base.
“Let’s go home.”
He looked so persuasive. “Are you a lawyer or something?”
“I deal with electricity.”
Despite how he’d made her body tingle all over, or maybe because of it, she giggled. “I could have told you that.”
He smiled. “I work with currents, surges, hubs, switches.”
No power failure here. He was hard enough that she could feel his shape and size and heat. He was a big man all over, every inch.
“I get it,” she whispered, her voice raspy. He’d found the switch labeled common sense and flipped it off ages ago.
His voice was as husky as hers. “The lights in here are too bright.”
“Too bright for what?”
“You know. And don’t start analyzing. Those shrinks left an hour ago.”
“Okay, Mr. Electricity,” she said. “But the last thing I need right now is another boyfriend, so you’d better man-up and take me straight home.”
Chapter Two
“My house looks...different.”
Her warm, almond-brown eyes were squinting against the harsh overhead light of Bruno’s kitchen, making her look like Bambi in the headlights. She wasn’t really mad, she was just trying to sound that way.
“That’s because it’s mine.”
She was propped against a French door that led to the back porch, next to a column of stacked boxes. He hadn’t been able to find her jacket, so she was wearing his coat, which had been a gift. Bruno had thought Burberry only made trench coats, but this Burberry was of camel’s hair, the exact color of some of the blonder streaks in her strawberry hair. He decided the hint of dark roots was kind of sexy. Actually, everything about her was. Usually black nails went in the too-trashy column, but something sweet in her personality undercut the aggregate effect, probably because Bruno had seen The Other Her. The boring Alter Ego.
He eyed where his shoulder seams hit her upper arms.
“Sh...” she whispered, then giggled.
It was awfully quiet. He had an iPod and dock somewhere, but he wasn’t wasting time rummaging for noise when they could make their own. The do-me voice was all the noise Bruno needed. Her voice turned questions like “Is this your car?” or “Can I turn on the radio?” into hardcore. Now she waggled a finger at him so he leaned against her, put the finger in his mouth and suckled. She tasted creamy and salty and just plain good.
“I think you missed some road signs, Mr. Electricity.”
While it was true the Road Rover’s GPS had not led Bruno to the exact coordinates she’d offered, he hadn’t missed any important signs. His two PhDs might not be in breathing, but he was still an expert in sighs, pants and whisperings. Leaning to look into her face—she was a short little wisp of a woman—he eyed her solemnly. “In my infinite wisdom, I realized your evening would get a whole lot better if we took this detour.”
“The detour is for my benefit?” she whispered throatily, her head back, neck exposed in invitation, the voice curling fire in his belly. “When did your infinite wisdom decide I need this benefit?”
“When we got in the Road Rover and you said, �Isn’t it about time you got off the grid?’” She’d sounded sort of like the woman in the commercial, but a whole lot sexier.
“Your Infinite Wisdom swore you’d take me home.”
He smiled at being called that. “And I will...TMA.”
She giggled nervously as he slid both hands under the shoulders of the coat and removed it, not taking his eyes off hers as he tossed it onto the boxes. She said, “Promise?”
“All kinds of things.”
The sweat-drenched blouse had dried in the car, and now the fabric was limp as he ran a finger downward, unbuttoning. Exhaling raggedly, he let his eyes rove. She was average height, but stacked, spilling out of her underwear. It just didn’t get better than this. He cupped a breast through a lacy light green bra, and a second later, a throaty groan tore from his throat. Too much fabric was between them, his slacks, her tights, and presumably her panties, but his thigh had found her crotch again and he was loving the feel of the dampness and the heat.
“God, you’re wet,” he whispered.
She nuzzled her face against him, using her cold, ski-jump nose to further open his shirt, her hair unbelievably soft on his skin, her cheeks chilly but warming as they swam in chest hair. His senses heightened, and a sudden gentle scrape of knotted metal from her earring felt like a leather whip.
“Feel free to keep talking,” he urged, not finding a hard edge anywhere on her as he explored. D.C. women could be gym-obsessive, their bodies as hard as rocks and possessing all the pliability of store mannequins, but this woman had soft cushions every place. “I’m going to be honest. It doesn’t matter what you say, because your voice is so fucking sexy...so say anything...”
“Anything.”
If he hadn’t been so horny he would have laughed. “Now try something.”
“Something.” As he bent to look into her Bambis again, she whispered, “Quit looking at me.”
“Why? Are you nervous?” Oh, yes, he really wanted to keep this woman talking. Her sudden shyness was another surprise, too. She was more comfortable if he just ravished her, and it brought out the worst in him, making him want to prolong the agony of seduction. Leaning, he slowly licked the very tops of her breasts, where the mounds of flesh began to crest. If he hadn’t known about her stupid day job, he’d think she hadn’t seen the light of day in eons. Pushing the blouse off her shoulders, he looked at the bra a long moment.
“You’ve got great taste in underwear.”
The voice was scarcely audible, the best it had sounded yet. “You have to lean a lot.”
He came closer, letting her feel the feathery heat of his breath on her neck long enough to build anticipation, then he whispered, “You’re short.”
She giggled wildly as if it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “No...” She poked his chest. “You’re tall.”
He hoped she wasn’t about to get argumentative. Drunks did sometimes, and she’d had a few too many. Not that he was taking advantage; she knew what she was doing. He said, “And now for your hair ornaments.”
That prompted another gale of giggles, since the ornaments were pencils. Having overheated while dancing, she’d taken them from the bar and used them to bind up the wild strawberry strands. As disheveled hair cascaded over her shoulders, he simply dropped the pencils, letting them clatter on the kitchen floor.
“I’m too short,” she announced, a hank of hair falling across her cheek. Since she looked so concerned, he kissed away the stray hair, then kissed her eyes shut. Unclasping the front hook of the bra, he closed a thumb and finger on a nipple, caressing, rolling, pinching until he stifled her sigh by covering her lips with his. Plunging his tongue, he let the kiss get good and wet.
When he pulled away, she murmured against his mouth. “Your back probably hurts from all the bending you have to do because I’m so short.”
“It’s very painful,” he whispered.
“Oh,” she returned contritely. That turned into oh, oh, oh, when he rustled a hand under her skirt and inside the tights. Twining long fingers in her curls then cupping her, he groaned. She was really wet. Slicking a finger, he glided it over her clit and said, “If we were lying down, I wouldn’t have to keep bending over just to kiss you.”
“Because I’m so short...”
He could barely talk. “Right.”
Another shudder. “I see...”
He pushed a thick finger inside her, watched her eyes glaze, then he settled his mouth over an aroused nipple. Her little moan sent something as hot as molten lead to his groin. Dammit, every time he thought he had a handle on this woman from the backwater, he lost his grip again. She’d gone from boring hygienist to hardened party girl, to cutie-pie-empath, and now the only thing he felt was raw desire. Her every incarnation was killing him. He could not predict TMA at all. He wasn’t even sure he was going to get her into bed tonight, in which case there would be no morning after, and that had to be a first.
“It’s just a promise,” she whispered.
“What?”
“It’s never as good as the kisses.”
Yeah, right. To prove otherwise, he thrust another finger inside. In and out until she whimpered. “It’s always better than the kisses.”
“You’re wrong about that, Mr. Electricity.”
“Want to bet?” Abruptly, he retrieved his hand from where it was sandwiched between her creamy skin and the body-hugging tights. He started dragging her behind him, into the hallway. “I’m feeling a strong need to show you something.”
“What?”
“My bedroom.”
She giggled again. At least he’d put sheets on the bed. Not that it would have mattered at this point. Her giggle cut off abruptly when he simply pointed at the mattress. Her eyes widened, but she plopped obediently on the edge, her blouse pushed off her shoulders, the bra open in front, her breasts swaying as she scooted backward, the short skirt hiking as she moved. He considered a moment, deciding what he wanted to do first. Then he followed her, lying on top, covering her body with his. He went for slow, wet languid kisses on her breasts. He tongued the tips, lightly biting the nipples, while he kicked off her high heels and dealt with her skirt and tights. Before he got to her panties, she was undressing him, too.
“Say something with your porno voice,” he requested.
“Kisses are just promises,” she whispered back, slurring a little. “The rest is never as good. Never.”
That bothered him more than it should have. But soon, she’d be teetering on the brink of orgasm, of course, and he’d keep her in agony until she retracted that statement. Yes, there were numerous things he felt compelled to do with her before getting out the condoms. Those he had unpacked. He couldn’t wait to be inside her, when everything would be reduced to wild heat and soft sensation.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered.
“I’m deciding what to do to you first,” he admitted, his voice husky. Before his mouth found hers again, he said, “Tonight, we’re going to make sure kisses take a backseat to our main events.”
* * *
She was gone?
Women never left TMA. Rolling over, he retrieved an earring from the sheets, then he went to the window to confirm she hadn’t tried to give herself a ride home in his helicopter. His Road Rover was still here, too, although he’d left the keys in it. You could do that here. He hadn’t heard one car alarm since he’d been in Blackwater Inlet. He frowned. He would have heard her call a cab, right? Well...maybe not, given that he’d slept like the dead. But why hadn’t she asked him to give her a ride? Most women would have used that as an excuse to get to know him better. He went to the kitchen, thinking she’d left a note. She’d probably signed it, so he’d know her name. But no...
TMA, most women wanted sex, then breakfast. At the least, a ride to their car. The woman who’d kept calling him Mr. Electricity had left, though. He was still trying to piece together fragments he’d heard over the music last night. Something about unwelcome incidents and loving her work. He could swear, as she’d drifted off, she’d whispered, “The Learning Investment.” What was that about?
And why hadn’t she stayed? The dental office wasn’t open today, and he’d made her come more times than even he’d thought possible, so her leaving didn’t make sense. Had she left a note in his coat pocket? His breath caught when he realized she’d taken the coat. He didn’t care about clothes, but the coat was special. A gift. He loved that coat. He quit worrying about it when he pictured the clothes she wore by day. Definitely, she had a dependable side and would return things she borrowed. Tomorrow after he asked about the coat, he was going to undress her, removing the sweater set, lab coat, and the ridiculously practical shoes she wore to her office.
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