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Excerpt...
Lauren Remington is a pampered socialite from Palm Beach--okay, she just
might be a bit of a snob, too--whose entire world is about to crumble
because her caterer died. (Don't laugh. Alright, go ahead and laugh.
You'll just have to read the beginning of the book to get the whole
story!)
Lauren never dreamed her rescuer would be a biker from the wrong side of
the tracks. And she never imagined that Max Wilde--the owner of Born to
Be Wild catering--would be dangerously sexy, or that he would turn her
prim and proper world totally upside down. (Poor Lauren--she's forgotten
that she met Max on the eve of her first wedding; but Max hasn't
forgotten a thing, and if Lauren isn't careful, he just might even the
score.)
Here's what Miss Palm Beach sees when she first sets eyes on her
Harley-riding hero...
The French doors
leading to a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean were open, and a light
breeze rippled the drapes. Lauren moved toward the doors, stopping in
her tracks when she saw the man outside. His hands rested on the
balustrade, bracing his body as he looked toward the surf.
Oh, dear! Mr.
Wilde's hair was, well...wild, and black, and the wind whipped through
each collar-length wave. With him leaning against the railing, his white
T-shirt stretching smoothly across wide shoulders and a muscular back,
she couldn't help but stare at his entire form, especially the rich
bronze biceps that flexed beneath his sleeves.
He wore faded
blue jeans that weren't quite tight enough to show off the strength of
his legs, but she could easily imagine the power beneath the denim. She
allowed her gaze to leisurely travel down the length of his Levi's, to
the black leather of his boots--those distinctive heavy ones that bad
boys on motorcycles wore.
She gave some
thought to running but Mr. Wilde turned around, and the moment she was
hit by the intense glare of his dark brown eyes--eyes that looked
vaguely familiar--all thoughts of running disappeared.
It had been an
awfully long time since a man had set her senses on fire, and she
couldn't remember the mere gaze from a man ever making her so hot that
she needed to fan herself. What had come over her was anyone's guess,
because a man like Max Wilde should not be stirring up anything more for
her than delicious canapés.
Getting a hold on
her libidinous emotions, Lauren marched across the patio to shake his
hand. "Good afternoon. I'm Lauren Remington."
"Max Wilde," he
said, his voice a deep, rich, and engaging--okay, erotic!--baritone that
vibrated through her body. His handshake was strong and businesslike,
although his callused palm felt much more virile than the smooth hands
she usually shook. And his face. Goodness, he did not look like a
businessman at all! His nose had a slight bend, as if it had been broken
in one too many fights. A scar slashed across his right cheekbone. A
hint of a smile appeared beneath his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee,
and it didn't require close inspection to see the gold rings in his
ears.
Mother would have
banished the man immediately. Lauren, however, found him intriguing and
rather...feral. But where had she seen him before? Men like Max Wilde
frequented biker bars and, more than likely, strip joints. Naturally
she'd been to neither. She didn't hang around tattoo parlors, either,
but Mr. Wilde obviously did. It was impossible to miss the colorful
design emblazoned on his right biceps, or the fact that what looked like
the tail fin of a fish swished when his muscle flexed.
"It's a mermaid,"
he offered, when her eyes lingered on the undulating green and gold
figure.
"How...interesting." Her fingers itched to push his T-shirt sleeve out
of the way so she could see the entire tattoo, so she could touch an
inch or two of his hard, masculine bronze skin, but somehow she managed
to refrain. After all, this was a business meeting, and tattoos, not to
mention sexy men, were not on the agenda.
Gathering her
wits about her and turning her gaze back to his far too intense brown
eyes, she smiled politely. "So, Mr. Wilde--"
"Max."
Oh, dear, they
were not going to get very far if he continually addressed her in short,
terse phrases, especially ones delivered in that all-too-familiar voice
that nearly rendered her speechless.
"Is something
troubling you?" he asked.
She could tell
him he looked familiar, but it would seem terribly rude of her not to
remember why, so she chose not to comment on that at all. Instead, she
decided she'd be better off getting down to business. "Actually, I was
wondering if you'd brought some menus for me to look at?"
"Yeah," he said,
more than a tinge of annoyance sounding in his voice, as if he'd wanted
to discuss something other than business. "I've got menus, photos,
references."
She would have
responded, would have said something along the lines of "Lovely," but he
didn't give her the chance to speak, he merely stalked past her. His
stride was long, his boots clunked heavily on the marble floor, and a
casual observer might have thought he was angry. Goodness knows why!
Turning on her
high heels, she followed him into the library and couldn't help but
notice that everything in the room was delicate--except Max Wilde. He
was overpowering. Breathtaking, actually. A tall, handsome, and untamed
version of Marlon Brando in his younger days, and if she wasn't careful
he might notice just how much in awe she was of him. And if there was
one good thing she'd learned from her mother, it was to not let people
who work for you get the upper hand.
She
surreptitiously took a deep, calming breath while watching him open his
briefcase. His shirt sleeve moved up another inch. The muscle in his
biceps flexed, and the green and gold scales covering the mermaid's tail
seemed to shimmer in the light from the chandelier. Did the creature
have blond hair? she wondered. Could the nymph be a brunette or redhead?
Was she wearing a skimpy bra or was she topless?
A portfolio
thudded on the desktop, yanking Lauren's attention away from the tattoo,
but not from the man who whipped the Louis XVI chair around as if it
weighed only a few ounces, then straddled it.
She swallowed
hard as her eyes focused on his legs, on the worn spot on the inner
thigh of his jeans, on his well-defined pecs stretching the cotton of
his shirt. She was far too young for hot flashes but she could feel heat
creeping up her chest.
Oh, dear! What
had she gotten herself into?
To
find out, pick up a copy of
BORN TO BE WILD
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