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“A girl like you does not kiss a guy like me!”
Becky could ask what Drew meant by a girl like her, but she already knew that he thought she was small-town and naive and hopelessly out of her depth, and not just in the ocean, either. What she wanted to know was what the last half of that sentence meant.
“What do you mean a guy like you?” she asked. Her voice was husky from the salt and from something else. Desire. Desire was burning like a white-hot coal in her belly. It was brand-new, it was embarrassing and it was wonderful.
“Look, Becky, I’m the kind of guy your mother used to warn you about.”
“The kind who would jump in the water without a thought for his own safety to save someone else?”
“Not that kind!”
“What kind of guy, then?” she asked, gently curious. “Self-centered. Here for a good time. Commitment-phobic. Good-time Charlie. Confirmed bachelor. They write whole articles about guys like me in your bridal magazines. And not about how to catch me, either. How to give a guy like me a wide berth.”
He glanced at her. She bit her lip and his gaze rested there, hot with memory, until he made himself look away.
“It was just a kiss,” she pointed out mildly, “not a posting of the banns.”
“You’re in shock,” he said.
If she was, she hoped she could experience it again, and soon!
The Wedding Planner’s Big Day
Cara Colter
www.millsandboon.co.uk
CARA COLTER shares her life in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, nine horses and one small Pomeranian with a large attitude. She loves to hear from readers, and you can learn more about her and contact her through Facebook.
To all those readers who have made the past thirty years such an incredible journey.
Contents
“NO.”
A paper fluttered down on her temporary desk, slowly floating past Becky English’s sunburned nose. She looked up, and tried not to let her reaction to what she saw—or rather, whom she saw—show on her face.
The rich and utterly sexy timbre of the voice should have prepared her, but it hadn’t. The man was gorgeous. Bristling with bad humor, but gorgeous, nonetheless.
He stood at least six feet tall, and his casual dress, a dark green sports shirt and pressed sand-colored shorts, showed off a beautifully made male body. He had the rugged look of a man who spent a great deal of time out of doors. There was no sunburn on his perfectly shaped nose!
He had a deep chest, a flat stomach and the narrow hips of a gunslinger. His limbs, relaxed, were sleekly muscled and hinted at easy strength.
The stranger’s face was mesmerizing. His hair, dark brown and curling, touched the collar of his shirt. His eyes were as blue as the Caribbean Sea that Becky could just glimpse out the open patio door over the incredible broadness of his shoulder.
Unlike that sea, his eyes did not look warm and inviting. In fact, there was that hint of a gunslinger, again, something cool and formidable in his uncompromising gaze. The look in his eyes did not detract, not in the least, from the fact that his features were astoundingly perfect.
“And no,” he said.
Another piece of paper drifted down onto her desk, this one landing on the keyboard of her laptop.
“And to this one?” he said. “Especially no.”
And then a final sheet glided down, hit the lip of the desk, forcing her to grab it before it slid to the floor.
Becky stared at him, rather than the paper in her hand. A bead of sweat trickled down from his temple and followed the line of his face, slowly, slowly, slowly down to the slope of a perfect jaw, where he swiped at it impatiently.
It was hot here on the small, privately owned Caribbean island of Sainte Simone. Becky resisted a temptation to swipe at her own sweaty brow with the back of her arm.
She found her voice. “Excuse me? And you are?”
He raised an arrogant eyebrow at her, which made her rush to answer for him.