White-Hot Christmas (26 page)

Now Boone has come knocking on her door.

One look, and Boone remembers why loving her was worth defying his family. He still has nothing to offer a woman like her, but he can’t stand seeing her living in the shadow of rising danger. Delia’s not running, though. Even when the Angel’s cries grow louder…

Warning: Contains a snarky best friend, her cantankerous grandmother, a hard-headed hero with a soft heart, too many pick-up trucks to count, and one mention of fried okra.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Ain’t No Sunshine:

Delia was standing at her stove, applying a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup to a pan of simmering milk, when Boone Butler walked back into her life.

She knew his shadow against the screen like she knew the shape of her own hand. That same loose, easy stance belied by the tense set of his shoulders, and the way he ducked his head at her approach, appearing almost shy till you caught the bright glint of danger in his eyes.

“Well, look at you,” she said and pushed open the door, stepping barefoot onto the porch. A sudden wave of
been-here-done-this
washed over her, strong enough to make her eyes water. All at once she was seventeen again, face-to-face with the only boy who’d ever made her look twice.

He whispered her name as if that single word was all he could manage. The few feet of space between them seemed too far to bridge, like the distance between stars. When he reached out his hand to touch her cheek, she stepped into it, turning her face into the heat of his palm.

“Delia,” he said again, and then his mouth was against hers, quick and clumsy, as if he’d never kissed a woman before. Still, she felt the slow twist of desire in the pit of her stomach, and a flutter in her throat that stole her breath. He pulled away and grinned—that righteous, go-to-hell grin she still saw in her dreams—and in that instant she wanted nothing more than to let him chase her down the path of
her own destruction.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” he said and she laughed out loud. Sleeping Beauty she’d never be, but if she were cold and dead in her grave, Boone’s kiss would rouse her. She knew it for a fact.

From somewhere far away, she heard a splash and a hiss, and remembered where she was.

“My cocoa’s boiling over,” she told him. “Come on inside.”

She felt his eyes on her as he followed her into the house, and the sensation made her keenly aware of the shortness of her robe and the bareness of her legs. While she cleaned up the mess on the stove, he wandered around her kitchen, running his fingertips over the shape of every canister and examining the toaster as if he’d never seen one before. Finally, she tossed the dirty rag into the sink and turned to face him, her arms folded over her chest in a defensive gesture she already knew was completely useless.

Boone was staring at her like she was the last working source of light in a fifty-mile radius. “You look good, Delia.”

“Do I?” Maybe he hadn’t noticed the faint lines at her eyes, or the extra pound or two at her hips, or how the difference between seventeen and twenty-nine might as well have been a lifetime. “Why are you here, Boone?”

He glanced away, and she knew the next words out of his mouth would be a lie.

“Just passing through,” he said, careless and offhand. “Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re getting along.”

“Passing through?” She sounded half-witted, parroting his words as if she didn’t have any of her own. But she couldn’t seem to absorb the fact of him standing in her kitchen, tall and solid—broader through the shoulders and thicker at the biceps than she remembered—and most definitely not a dream.

He shrugged. “I’ve got a job coming up in Atlanta next month organizing security for some politician and his family. I thought maybe…”

He stopped and pressed his lips together like he’d said more than he’d meant to. Her own lips tingled where he’d kissed her. She wanted to ask him a million things, but mostly she wanted to close the distance between them and run her fingers over the rough stubble on his jaw. A second kiss wasn’t out of the question, either. They’d do it right this time. She’d see to it.

He lifted his head and sniffed the air. “What’s that I smell? Not the cocoa—something else?”

“I fried up a mess of okra for yesterday’s supper.”

He squinted at her. “You make that with tomatoes?”

She nodded, undone by the bizarre turn in the conversation. “Balsamic vinegar, a little lemon juice, salt and pepper.”

“Sounds good. You’ll have to write that down for me.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “A tough guy like you does his own cooking?”

“A man’s gotta eat to live.” He reached out and swiped at a dribble of chocolate syrup she’d left on the counter. “And not by bread alone, or so they say.”

She watched him suck the syrup off the pad of his thumb and felt her body flush with heat from the bottom up. His eyes sparked against hers, flint to tinder, and she had to look away.

“Tell me why you’re here, Boone.”

He went still, leaning against the edge of the counter and staring at the floor. “I don’t know,” he said.

It sounded like the truth.

She took the pan off the stove, set it in the sink, and filled it with warm water to loosen the burnt milk. When she’d finished, she turned to him again.

“I waited for you.” She dried her hands on a dishtowel and hung it on its hook next to the stove. “You remember? You asked me to wait, and I did.”

It was the last thing he’d said to her before his cousin had dragged him away, muttering something about trouble in town with Boone’s brother, Gilley.

“Wait for me,” he’d said, and she had. Long after he’d enlisted in the army, long after Granny’s charm had left her hollow-eyed and spitting blood, she’d waited. Five years, to be exact—which, in the lifetime of a girl who’d never been past the state border in any direction, counted as almost forever.

The look he gave her now went straight to her heart, opening a fracture she’d believed was mended with solid concrete.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said. “I never should’ve asked you. It was never any good, you and me.”

He’s the one problem she can’t solve.

Best Man, Worst Man

© 2011 Stacy Gail

From hysterical bridezillas to grooms with sub-zero feet, renowned wedding planner Claire Pomeroy has never met a disaster she couldn’t handle. Then she runs afoul of her client’s not-so-best man, a devilishly flirtatious rogue with a killer smile and a chest as solid as a concrete roadblock. Yet their sparks of attraction only highlight his obvious quest—to make sure this wedding knot never gets tied.

Confirmed bachelor Ryder Price knows one unshakable truth: marriage is nothing but a fairy tale. No way is he going to stand idly by while his wingman face-plants into the dreaded marital trap. But there’s a problem. A dark-eyed, dangerously curvaceous problem who’s bound and determined to pull this wedding off.
 

As her suddenly skittish clients teeter on the edge of cancellation, Claire challenges her nemesis to imagine long-term as something more than a quickie and a vague promise to call. Ryder counters with a challenge of his own. Let him give her a taste of just how fulfilling a little no-strings-attached passion can be.

Warning: This product contains cold feet, heavy petting, heavier breathing, and chocolate-covered fingers. To avoid a sweet-tooth side-effect, the author recommends having a chocolate-covered man nearby.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Best Man, Worst Man:

Having Ryder around wasn’t as horrific as she’d imagined, Claire decided an hour later as she wrapped up an initial consult with new clients looking to organize a late-summer wedding. He hadn’t gotten in her way, or scoffed over her new clients’ dream wedding—a Southfork Ranch ceremony that would be the exact recreation of Lucy’s wedding on the old 80s TV show,
Dallas
. Nor had he made any smartass
run for it
comments as she’d half-feared he would when the groom had wanted a detailed explanation of the ceremony cancellation fee. Instead, Ryder had wandered away to disappear into the myriad display rooms she had in back that housed the portrait gallery and studio a photographer sublet from her, floral arrangements and a small boutique of her own designs.

When the happy couple finally left with a packet of information in hand and their signatures drying on the contract, Claire left Mari to tackle the booking of Southfork Ranch in Dallas while she went in search of Ryder. Her acrobatic heart twisted itself into a pretzel when she found him in the display room appropriately named Wedding Night, a richly carpeted room decorated in crimson red and displaying her more intimate lingerie collection.

Naturally. Where else would a man like Ryder be?

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you’ll need running shoes to keep up with me,” she said, doing her best to sound unaffected as he idly browsed through the delicate wisps of silk and lace. “Mari and I have to be downtown in half an hour, so if you’re still intent on tagging along…”

“‘Claire’s Creations’,” he read off the label. Selecting a barely there chiffon baby-doll, bra and thong set, he held it up. “Your designs?”

“Of course. French lace,” she added, coming closer to run her fingers down the fragile detailing. “Thai silk in every conceivable color. If you’re looking for polyester, you won’t find it here. Do you like it?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” Putting the set back on the rack, he turned his attention to a zebra-striped demi-bra. “But I am surprised. Don’t you find this a little hypocritical?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this whole room is dedicated to one thing and one thing only—sex.” His gaze flicked unexpectedly to her, and she found herself held hostage by that one smoldering look. “And not just any kind of sex. It’s dedicated to the no-sheets and lights-on, falling-off-the-bed-and-onto-the-floor, hot-and-sweaty-grinding sex, Claire.
That’s
what’s in this room. Yet last night you tried to spin it like sex wasn’t important when it came to the lifetime commitment of marriage.”

“Your mind works in mysterious ways.” Claire congratulated herself for sounding unmoved when his words painted a thoroughly inappropriate—but utterly delightful—mental image of them together, two sweat-slick bodies straining hard against each other as they drove in mindless harmony toward the heady rush of ecstasy… She sucked in a sharp breath and tried to remember what it was to be a professional. “I never once said sex wasn’t important.”

His light eyes darkened. Burned. “You implied it.”

“Like I’ve pointed out before, you don’t really know women. And you definitely don’t know me.”

“Convince me, then.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, the swell of her breasts, before slowly sliding back up. And every place he looked, she felt the delicious heat of ravishment. “Convince me you believe sex is important.”

Damn him for toying with her, she thought with uncharacteristic savagery. And damn her for not being able to just leave well enough alone.

“Sex,” she gritted from between clenched teeth, all the while wrestling with the sense that he was playing her like a violin, “is vital to a healthy marriage, as is chemistry, imagination, seduction, trust and love. When you combine sex with those components, not even a dozen lifetimes together would burn that passion out.”

“You think?” As if he were only vaguely paying attention, he turned to an open antique armoire displaying chocolates from her new chocolatier, including jars of edible body paint. “Have you ever been married, Claire?”

“No. But when I do find the right man we’ll be together forever.”

“There is no such thing as forever.”

“Then I’ll make him wish there were,” she shot back, suddenly and irrationally furious Ryder would never be the sort of man she dreamed of. “When I find the man who’s destined to be my husband you can be damn sure he’ll know just how lucky he is to have me by his side during the day and warming his bed at night. When he needs someone to talk to, I’ll listen and I’ll support no matter what. When he feels like the world is closing in, I will be his safe harbor. When he needs someone to hold, I’ll be no more than an arm’s reach away. I’ll be his best friend and closest confidante, and when it comes to sex, just look around you,” she invited with an angry sweep of her hand. “Every last detail in this room came from the most intimate side of who I really am, so I’ll let you judge if the man I choose would be happy to spend
forever
with me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to get back to. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

“Not so fast.” Before she had taken one step, his fingers were around her wrist like a living shackle. She didn’t have to tug against it to know it was unbreakable. “You can’t just leave after saying I can do whatever I want.”

Confusion brought her brows together before her eyes widened. “Ryder—”

“You’ve never said my name before today,” he went on, talking over her until she stopped. Lifting his free hand, he traced a slow, exploring finger along the edge of her lower lip before coming to rest at the corner of her mouth. “I can’t believe how much I like to hear it coming from your lips. Say my name, Claire.”

How could this horribly incompatible man melt her from the inside out? Where in the world was her backbone? “I’m too busy for this.”

“That’s not my name.” He bent to where his finger rested, replacing it with the alluring brush of his lips, a butterfly-light touch that made her turn toward him on instinct. But his mouth slid away like a dream, gliding a gentle caress along the smooth warmth of her cheek, all the way to her ear. “Say it.”

The voice of caution whispered through her even as her traitorous bones threatened imminent meltdown. She should step away while she could still think, she knew that. Ryder Price was a fabulous male specimen, the kind of man who could trip the trigger of any female with a pulse. But in no conceivable way was he her type. He would
never
be her type, and to mess with him now was stupid. It was masochistic and pointless. It was…it was…