Authors: Beth Andrews
Tags: #Contemporary Women, #Contemporary, #Romance, #Fiction
About That Night
One night...and a whole lotta trouble!
When it comes to men, Ivy Rutherford never loses her cool. Ever. Then she meets wealthy, green-eyed cowboy C. J. Bartasavich, and desire burns out of control.
Yeehaw
. So for one night, Ivy will indulge in a passion neither of them will forget...and walk away without a backward glance.
Except now Ivy’s pregnant. And even worse, C.J. has come to her hometown of Shady Grove determined to get to know her and be part of their baby’s life—even if she’s convinced their attraction is purely physical. Because Ivy can’t let herself rely on a sexy cowboy...or worse yet, fall in love with one.
“Gotcha...”
Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry. Her palms damp.
She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin; the single word was triumphant. A challenge.
Oh, she was in so much trouble here.
Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.
“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”
If possible, his grin amped up a few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive. “Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”
“You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”
There was a strange fluttering in her chest, just under her heart. It was clear enough what he wanted...
Dear Reader,
I’m thrilled you picked up a copy of
About That Night
. When I first started writing the In Shady Grove series, I had planned to focus solely on the four Montesano siblings—a close-knit Italian-American family with strong ties to their beloved hometown. But something happened during
What Happens Between Friends
, the second book in the series, that changed everything.
Kane Bartasavich arrived.
As soon as he appeared on the page, I knew he was perfect for Charlotte Ellison. What I didn’t know was that during the writing of their story (
Small-Town Redemption
) I’d fall head-over-heels for Kane’s three brothers. I love family dynamics, and writing their stories gives me a chance to explore the relationships between the brothers. As with most families there are frustrations and irritations, sibling rivalry, shared memories and genuine—though at times, grudging—affection.
C. J. Bartasavich, the eldest brother, is a man in control of his life. Until he gives in to desire and spends a passionate night with sexy, cynical waitress Ivy Rutherford. When he learns Ivy is pregnant, he returns to Shady Grove. But he has his work cut out for him trying to convince Ivy they should build a life together and be a family. Luckily for him, he’s a man used to getting what he wants!
I had such fun writing C.J. and Ivy’s story. The sparks flew between them from the moment I put them on the page together. I hope you’ll look for the next In Shady Grove book later this year featuring handsome attorney Oakes Bartasavich.
Please visit my website,
bethandrews.net
, or drop me a line at
[email protected]
. I’d love to hear from you.
Happy reading!
Beth
BETH
ANDREWS
About That Night
Romance Writers of America RITA® Award-winner
Beth Andrews
writes edgy, emotional contemporary romance for Harlequin Superromance. She loves coffee, hockey and happy endings. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website,
bethandrews.net
.
Books by Beth Andrews
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
In Shady Grove
Talk of the Town
What Happens Between Friends
Caught Up in You
Small-Town Redemption
Charming the Firefighter
The Truth about the Sullivans
Unraveling the Past
On Her Side
In This Town
His Secret Agenda
Do You Take This Cop?
A Marine for Christmas
The Prodigal Son
Feel Like Home
Other titles by this author available in ebook format.
For Andy
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
C
LINTON
B
ARTASAVICH
J
R.
tipped his Stetson in thanks to the toothy brunette who’d escorted him from the front desk of King’s Crossing Resort—Shady Grove, Pennsylvania’s equivalent of a four-star hotel. They stopped outside closed wooden double doors, the placard to the right stating Bartasavich/Ellison Party. “I appreciate the help...” He glanced at the small nametag on her chest. “Allison.”
He probably could have figured out how to get to this room—a distance of about a hundred feet straight down the main hallway—on his own. But when a pretty woman offered to lead the way, he didn’t argue.
Allison let out a high-pitched giggle that was grating enough to make a man’s ears bleed. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Bartasavich.”
He bit back a grimace. He hated having his name butchered. “Actually, it’s Bart-uh-sav-itch.”
Not Bart-as-a-vitch.
With a soft gasp, complete with a hand to her heart, she blinked at him so rapidly, he half expected her to start hovering above the ground. “How silly of me.” Sending him a look from under her eyelashes, she edged closer, her voice turning husky. “Maybe there’s...some way I could make it up to you?”
He’d eat his hat if she meant extra mints on his pillow.
“No harm done. It’s an honest mistake.”
One not made in Houston where the Bartasavich name was well-known. Even revered in certain circles.
Her lower lip jutted out in a pout no one over the age of six should attempt. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you,” she said in a whispery tone, “—and I do mean an...ee...thing—you just let me know.”
He cocked an eyebrow. Seemed Houston wasn’t the only place where his family’s name, power and wealth were known.
While he didn’t have any objections to casual sex—the more casual the better—he didn’t play games. No subtle hints about what either of them wanted. No coy looks or innuendos trying to convey what could be easily said with a few simple words.
And definitely no simpering.
But even if she’d held his gaze and told him in no uncertain terms that she was interested in him, attracted to him and ready, willing and eager to prove how much, he’d decline.
Having women throw themselves at him because of his name had long ago lost its thrill. He was his father’s son. Not his clone. And while Senior had always been more than happy to take whatever was offered to him, C.J. preferred knowing, for certain, that a woman was in his bed because of him.
Not his money.
“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” he said. Then he pulled off his hat and used his free hand to open the door.
And stepped into his own private version of hell. A very crowded, very loud, very
pink
hell.
It was as if Valentine’s Day had exploded, leaving hearts everywhere. On the walls. Dangling from the ceiling. Scattered on the tabletops. There were big ones, small ones. Flat ones, poufy ones. Some with scalloped edges, some with straight. But all were shiny or sparkly and in shades ranging from the palest pink to the brightest fuchsia.
A long banner draped across the doorway wished the happy couple Heartfelt Congratulations on their engagement. Long streams of twisted pink, red and white crepe paper hung from the rafters.
Any hope he’d held on to of missing the entire party died a cruel and violent death. Because the ballroom wasn’t just filled with hearts. It was also filled with people.
Damn. He should have gotten a later flight.
He turned to his right, scanned the bar where several men and women gathered, talking and laughing, ignoring the hockey game that was being shown on the large TV on the far wall.
No hearts there. Not one flash of pink. He could set his ass on that empty stool in the corner, have a drink or two and pretend he wasn’t here. That most of his crazy family wasn’t in the next room creating only God knew what sort of havoc.
But pretending had never been his style. And he didn’t ignore his problems. He faced them head-on.
Anytime the Bartasavich family was together, there were problems. The only questions were how many—and what did C.J. have to do to fix them.
“You,” a familiar female voice said, the tone dripping with scorn, “are, like, in so much trouble.”
C.J. turned to find his seventeen-year-old niece glaring at him. Always happy to see her—even when she was giving him the stink eye—he grinned. “Now, darlin’, everyone knows getting into trouble is your daddy’s job. Not mine.”
From the time Kane had been born, it’d been C.J.’s job to watch over him. To keep his younger brother out of the trouble he attracted like a freaking magnet.
He’d failed.
“You’re three hours late,” Estelle Monroe said, the very picture of an affronted, pissed-off female who knew she was right—a man’s worst nightmare. “Three. Hours. That is, like, so rude.”
“Some of us have to work. Keep the family living in the style to which you all have become accustomed.” Ever since his father’s stroke ten months ago, it’d been up to C.J. to make sure Bartasavich Industries continued to run smoothly.
Estelle rolled her eyes. She was a beauty like her mother. Long, blond hair, big blue eyes and the face of an angel. Her scowl, on the other hand, was all her father. “It’s Saturday.”
“A Bartasavich’s work is never done.” There were no weekends off. Running a multimillion-dollar company took commitment, dedication and full-time focus. Every goddamn day.
At least for him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dress. “Does your father know you’re wearing that?”
She tossed her hair back. Smoothed a hand down her hip. “Of course.
He
isn’t the one who’s three hours late. Why?” she asked, her tone daring him to actually answer.
“It’s too...”
Short. Tight. Revealing. Adult.
“...red.”
“How can something be too red?”
He wasn’t sure, but hers qualified. Did she have to wear such high heels? And so much makeup? “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to change,” he told her, only half kidding. Hell, he’d offer her two grand if he thought it would work. “Preferably into something with a high neckline, a boxy shape and a floor-length hem.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve had, like, a hundred compliments on this dress tonight. Evan even thought I was twenty-two.”
“Who is Evan?”
She nodded toward the five-piece band rocking a cover version of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” “Chimps on Parade’s drummer.”
“No drummers,” C.J. growled. “Ever.”
“Evan says age is just a number and that I have an old soul. Besides, nine years really isn’t all that big of a difference.”
C.J.’s hands closed into tight fists. “Excuse me,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’m just going to go and have a little chat with Evan.”
