It would be a logical assumption on his part that I’d paid heed to his suggestions and had found myself a “nice young lady.” While Harper was that, I certainly hadn’t gone in search of her.
When she’d walked from the hallway into the living room at the precise moment Nigel uttered those words, I had to admit, I’d momentarily considered our meeting fortuitous. If only to get Nigel off my back and working to get my job reinstated.
However, I’d immediately quashed the idea knowing that using her in such a way would mean I was no better than her dookie of an ex.
I resolved to beg off the dinner with my mother’s only brother and his wife, in fear the man would say something that would lead Harper to believe that I was, in fact, using her.
That notion would be too easy for her to accept given my inability to explain to her—or myself—why I was obsessed with her staying in London. One word from Nigel and the proverbial light bulb would go off, shortly followed by her returning to the States by any means possible.
“What’s over there?” Harper asked, breaking me out of my reverie.
I looked to where she pointed. “Those are the Queen’s private gardens.” When I put my hand on the small of her back to walk in that direction, her breath hitched and her eyes met mine. “What is it?” I asked.
Her gaze dropped to the grass beneath our feet and her cheeks pinkened. I put my fingers beneath her chin and raised her head. “When you do that…”
“Do what?”
“Put your hand on me,” she whispered.
“Yes, well, when you look that way…”
“What about it?”
It makes me want to…” God, I couldn’t allow myself to say it. In the same way, I had to stop myself from envisioning Harper naked and spread out before me like a delectable feast.
The last thing she should do, was exactly what she did. Harper took a step closer to me. Close enough that had it been any other woman, I would’ve reached out and encircled her hardened nipples with my fingertips.
“What does it make you want to do?” she asked in a voice so breathy I was tempted to lead her around the row of hedges that would shield us from the view of the public garden’s other visitors, and suck all that breath out of her when I brought my lips to hers for the very first time.
I stared into her eyes, unable to stop my hand from cupping her cheek. “I’ve warned you I am a cad.”
“Rake.”
“Both.”
“And?”
“Miss Godfrey, you test my resolve every time your cheeks blush the most beguiling shade of pink and you lower your gaze in a way that drives me mad. There is much about you that tempts me, but that in particular.”
“I tempt you?” Her bourbon-and-coke eyes, even shrouded by her glasses, drew me into their depths. When she absently worried her lower lip between her teeth, I found myself wanting its plumpness between mine instead.
“You have no idea,” I said when her dimples appeared with her grin. “Or do you?”
The women she writes are self-confident, strong, with wills of their own, and hearts as big as the Colorado sky. The men are sublimely sexy, seductive alphas who rise to the challenge of capturing the sweet soul of a woman whose heart they'll hold in the palm of their hand forever. Add in a couple of neck-snapping twists and turns, a page-turning mystery, and a swoon-worthy HEA, and you'll be holding one of Slade's books in your hands.
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