Negligee Behavior
Authors: Shelli Stevens
Negligee Behavior
By Shelli Stevens
When lingerie heiress Brandy Summer gets cold feet and runs out on her Vegas wedding, she has nowhere to turn—so she hijacks a hunky biker waiting for a red light and begs him for help. What she doesn’t know is that her instincts are right: the groom has a hidden agenda. He needs her money to pay off his gambling debts and she’s his ticket to the good life.
Marco Vargas isn’t sure what he’s getting himself into when he rescues Brandy, but figures he’ll do the chivalrous thing. He offers her a job in his bar and the chance to sort out her feelings. But it seems that keeping Brandy hidden is easier than keeping his hands off her—and what will happen when Brandy discovers that Marco has secrets of his own?
80,000 words
May 2011
Dear Reader,
I’ve always loved May, because it heralds the beginning of one of my favorite seasons—beach season! I’m fortunate to live close to the Atlantic Ocean, so every year in May, I start dreaming about the sound of waves on the sand, dolphins swimming off the coast, and me, lying in a comfortable beach chair, with a frosty beverage in one hand and my eReader in the other. Part of the fun is, of course, planning what I’m going to load onto the eReader for my beach adventures.
This month of Carina Press releases has provided me with plenty of reading material for my upcoming beach days—not that I’ll be able to wait that long to read them (I do get sneak peek copies in advance, after all). So, with everything from fantasy, to mystery, to contemporary, historical and paranormal romance, it doesn’t matter what I’m in the mood for, Carina Press has something to help me while away the time until I can make my beach dreams a reality.
I’m especially happy to introduce new novelists Maureen Miller, and her romantic suspense,
Endless Night,
and Diane Dooley with
Blue Galaxy,
a science fiction romance that’s out of this world (sorry, I couldn’t resist going for the corny joke). Of course, we also have several return authors as well, with sequels you want to be sure not to miss, including
Tangled Past
by Leah Braemel,
South of Salem
from Janni Nell,
Portrait of Seduction
by Carrie Lofty, Maria Zannini’s
Apocalypse Rising
and
Three Wishes
from Jenny Schwartz.
These books are only a sampling of the tremendous lineup we have for May, so I hope you’ll be sure to take a look at all of the releases, as well as taking advantage of the weekly sales offered on the Carina Press website. And whatever you choose to read, may it help take you one step closer to your own summer getaway!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
www.facebook.com/carinapress
Thanks to my agent, Laura, and my editor, Jessica, for making this book the best it could be! To Carina for believing in this story. To my friend Ben the Brit and to Kyle, the bike guy, for letting me tap into your minds. To my family and friends for your continuous love and support. And of course a big thank you and virtual hug to my readers! I wouldn’t be writing without you.
The Hunk-A-Hunk-A Burning Love Chapel smelled like stale beer and BO. The only light source came from the afternoon sun streaming through the stained glass shrine to Elvis. Instead of it inspiring any spiritual feelings, it simply reminded her of the plastic trinkets she’d painted and baked as a child.
Brandy Summers shuddered and wiped damp hands down the front of her wedding dress, trying to keep the god-awful stench out of her nose.
She dropped her gaze to the floor. The carpet, shaggy and orange, had probably been purchased from some clearance room back in the seventies. The fan in the room barely circulated the stagnant air, but did cause the inflatable arch over the altar to lean to the right.
Be happy, this is your wedding day for goodness’ sake
. And it wasn’t so bad. It could’ve been worse.
The fluorescent neon guitar behind the altar crackled and then flickered out.
Okay, it was officially worse.
“Brandy? Is everything all right?” Gordon whispered as the Elvis minister, who’d stopped midvows, flipped through his notes and muttered to himself.
Was everything all right? Talk about a loaded question. She’d barely had time to even think since Gordon had walked into their hotel room five hours ago after his seminar. He’d dropped to his knees in front of her, clutching a wedding dress as he declared they should be spontaneous and get married.
What just might be stranger was the fact she’d decided it was a good idea.
“Everything’s fine.” The two words took a heck of a lot of energy to get out. Which was a little bizarre, seeing as this should’ve been the happiest day of her life.
“Wonderful.” For a moment she thought she saw the flash of irritation in Gordon’s eyes, but then his grin widened.
Was it wrong to compare his glaringly white teeth to the minister’s white polyester jumpsuit?
Lord, her parents were going to have a conniption when they discovered she’d gotten married in some rat-infested Elvis chapel in Vegas. No matter how often they told her to let loose and enjoy life, the wedding of the only Summers heir should’ve come with at least a six-figure price tag.
Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. Heavens, her career choice alone had already drawn severe disapproval.
Wait. What was that in the corner? Oh dear God. A rat trap.
She groaned, the sound barely audible behind her compressed lips.
Why? The question finally erupted in her head. Okay. She understood the wanting to be spontaneous part, but why did he choose this place? This was the Las Vegas Strip; it was loaded with places to get hitched. This chapel—and only a mental case would even consider it one—was beyond gross.
“You know how much I love you, right, love muffin?”
She winced at Gordon’s endearment.
Love muffin.
Why on God’s green earth did he insist on calling her that? She hated it and had told him as much on more than one occasion. It made her feel like an amorous Twinkie. How was that remotely sexy? She bit back a sigh. Not that she’d ever been mistaken as sexy.
You should be concentrating on the fact that he said he loves you, not his tacky pet name for you.
Gordon was a good man. He was. Nice in appearance, charming, kind and even volunteered with a handful of charities. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. So what was wrong with her?
Doubt prickled in her gut, and not for the first time since she’d put on the wedding dress an hour ago. But then, the dress itself had been enough to make her hesitate. Apparently Gordon had picked it up at a thrift shop off the Strip. It was a huge white creation that screamed 1980 and had more ruffles than a bag of chips.
So why was she doing this again?
Because I’m in love. Right? Maybe?
Or maybe it had a lot to do with the fact that she was turning thirty next week. Thirty. Sure maybe
Cosmo
could make it look trendy to be single in your thirties, but she wasn’t a
Cosmo
kind of woman. She was a
Good Housekeeping
kind of woman, and had been since she’d started pilfering her aunt’s subscription in the sixth grade.
She’d been with Gordon for a year. Not too long, but it wasn’t like they were rushing into this. And at least she knew he wasn’t after her money. The man was a dentist for a reality TV show. He had an impressive bank account.
“Look, we can do a formal ceremony for everyone when we return to L.A.,” Gordon said, his tone taking on an edge, or was she imagining it?
She gave a wan nod. That still wouldn’t appease her parents. And then when the media got wind of this…
“Oh, okay, I see where we are. Sorry about that, young lovers.” The Elvis looked up from his notes and grinned. “Do you, Candy, take Gordon—”
“Her name is Brandy,” Gordon corrected.
This just wasn’t right. Any of it. She shook her head and took a small step backward.
“Right. Brandy. Thank you. Thank you very much.” The minister did the Elvis lip thing. “Do you, Brandy, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The nauseating smell inside the chapel seemed to grow stronger, the walls closing in on her.
Oh God. I have to get out of here
.
She took another step backward and stumbled over the hem of her wedding dress.
“Brandy?” Gordon’s tone turned impatient and he took a step toward her. Something hard flickered in his eyes as he reached out and manacled her wrist with long fingers.
Ouch. That kind of hurt. She blinked in surprise and tugged at her wrist, but he didn’t seem to want to let her go.
“Now’s the part where you say I do, love muffin.” His words held a steely threat that she knew she wasn’t imagining this time.
Say I do
? It should’ve been easy enough, but her head twisted from side to side in denial.
No. No. No
.
“I’m sorry,” Brandy whispered and pulled free her hand from his grip. She grabbed the bottom of her dress and the acres of tulle that surrounded it. “But I don’t think I can.”
She spun around, drew in a quick breath and then ran out on her wedding.
“Brandy!” Gordon cried. His tone was reminiscent of Marlon Brando’s Stella yowl in
A Street Car Named Desire.
Then came the sound of his footsteps pounding down the aisle.
Great. As if her fleeing her wedding wasn’t bad enough, he was actually going to chase her? Brandy pulled her skirts higher and increased her pace, knees pumping with the extra effort.
“We don’t do refunds!” the Elvis yelled and she knew luck was on her side, because Gordon was such a tightwad he would surely stop to argue.
She burst out of the chapel, momentarily disorientated by the brightness of the sun and noise of the Las Vegas Strip. She needed to get away from here. Maybe she could catch a cab.
The boulevard was crowded with rush hour traffic.
Shoot
. Not a cab in sight. Her attention caught on the big, wide, black-and-silver Harley idling beside her at the light.
A very nice bike indeed, and not a bad looking rider either. She took in the muscled forearm with a dragon tattoo. The man had a dangerous sexy vibe. Not that she could tell his sexiness level with his helmet covering his face.
“Love muffin!” Gordon burst out the chapel doors. “You don’t want to do this!”
Brandy pulled her attention away from the hot biker and scanned the boulevard again for a cab. Still none in sight.
She looked back at the biker, her pulse skipping. Was she bold enough?
Desperate times called for desperate measures…besides, it gave her an excuse to ride a motorcycle.
Marco Vargas tried to block out the mind-numbing traffic and cursed his own stupidity again. He should have known better than to get on the Strip this time of day. But he’d been so busy thinking about how to drum up more business for the bar on weeknights, that he’d turned right onto Las Vegas Boulevard instead of taking the back roads to his home in Henderson.
And now he was suffering for it. Not just with the traffic, but also with the crazy ass summer heat. At least the Boulevard had eye candy of all varieties, from the ladies rolling into the town for bachelorette parties, to the half-naked showgirls on the billboards. Speaking of which…some of those girls looked pretty fine.
Seriously?
He shook his head, realizing where his mind had gone. Damn, he really needed to get laid if he was getting turned on by a goddamn billboard.
There was a sudden flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He turned to investigate and a blur of fluff launched itself onto the back of his bike.
“What the—”
“Go! The light’s green,” the fluff—which sounded suspiciously like a woman—yelled.
Marco turned around to get a look. What was this? Some weird attempt at a motorcycle jacking? All he saw were wide blue eyes staring out at him from behind a stained veil.
Great, just what he needed. A runaway bride.
Their gazes locked for a few seconds and then she blinked, still looking desperate.
“Please!” she cried, grabbing the sides of his T-shirt. “Go!”
Tell her to get off your bike and drive away.
Her panic increased visibly—she must have realized he was about to throw her off his bike.
“Please,” she begged. “I’ve got money. Lots of it. I’ll pay you.”
He’d been there, done that with women and money. It did little to sway him. In fact it was more of a deterrent.
“And I’ll buy you a beer.”
Really? A beer? Was she serious?
The cars behind him were laying on their horns, swerving around to pass him in the other lanes.
He chanced a look backward and spied one of those cheesy wedding chapels, a man in a tux bursting through the doors, making his way towards them.
“Love muffin!”
Love muffin? Her fiancé called her love muffin? His pity level increased a notch. Damn, he was not a pity guy, what the hell was he doing?
Marco cursed, even as he reached behind the woman to grab a spare helmet. He thrust it towards her. “Pull your dress up so it doesn’t get caught in the bike.”
He waited for her to roll the acres of fabric up over her legs and out of danger from the chain and exhaust pipes. Fortunately, the ditched groom was still wading through a throng of tourists. After she had the helmet on and her arms wrapped around his waist, he rolled back the throttle and sped them through the light.
She damn well better make good on that beer. He sure as hell would need one after this.
He weaved in and out of lanes, leaning the bike more than once while he did so. His scowl tipped into a smile when the woman’s arms tightened around his waist and she started screaming something at him. Fortunately he couldn’t really hear what she said with the helmet on.
Where did she want him to take her anyway? She hadn’t given him any instructions, but he assumed she was probably staying at a hotel on the Strip.
He pulled into the parking lot at one of the big hotels and found a spot to park. The woman couldn’t climb off his bike fast enough. She removed the helmet, which didn’t even appear to be on right, and then threw it at him. He caught it before it could slam into his chest, and met her fierce glare.
“Who on earth gave you a license? That was the—the worst driving I’ve ever—” she paused taking in a shaky breath. “We could have been killed!”
Wait a minute, he’d just saved her ass and now she was going to go apeshit on him? Hmm. The whole ‘I have money’ part ran through his head. Pampered and sheltered. He’d wager his next paycheck on that’s what she was.
“Let me guess, princess. It’s your first time on a motorcycle?” he asked as he climbed off the bike.
“Yes. Not like that has anything to do with it.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared.
She looked kind of cute in an angry, fluffy marshmallow kind of way.
He took a deep breath in, and the sudden smell of apples tickled his nose. Apples? Who the hell smelled like apples? He shook his head.
“It has everything to do with it. Besides, you’re the one who jumped on my bike,” he pointed out.
He slid a glance down her body, not like he could see much. God
damn
that was an ugly dress. And couldn’t she at least take off the veil? He had no idea what her face looked like, just those big blue eyes. Well, if she wouldn’t do it. He reached forward and tugged the veil off her head.
The woman gasped and reached to grab it, but he already had the veil firm in his grip. Frizzy brown hair fell down her back as the bun came loose. She shot him looks of indignation.
Well, at least she was nowhere near his type. Except…those lips weren’t bad. So full, and pulled tight in a cute little frown.
She grabbed his helmet before he could stop her, and pried it off his head.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I showed you mine,” she said pointedly and let her gaze rove over his face, her expression was grim. “Hmm, just as I suspected.”
“What?”
He tried to figure out what the hell she was talking about, but she waved her hand and muttered, “Never mind, forget I said anything.”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Brandy.”
Marco lifted an eyebrow. Now that was a stripper name if he’d ever heard one. Not for one minute would he actually believe she worked as one, but it would be kind of fun to see her reaction if he said so.
“Is that your stage name?”
“My stage name? Why would I have a…” She took a loud, outraged breath and her breasts rose impressively under the dress. “You think I’m a showgirl?”
“Stripper, actually. You said you had money, and I know a stripper can really bring in the dough tip-wise.”
Her eyes bugged out, shining bluer against the red flush in her face.
“I bet you give a great lap dance.”
“Lap dance? Oh my God. I am
not
a stripper.” She tossed her curls over her shoulder—the action just made her hair grow frizzier—and offered up another fierce glare.
“Oh, Jesus,” he breathed under his breath.
“I am not a stripper,” she repeated slowly and precisely. “I am a high school
choir teacher
.”
