She swung around, even more certain what she needed. “You have to come with me,” she declared. “Promise you will, Bro—” The rest of her best friend’s name stuck in her throat. She stared at the man in the kitchen with her, at his tall frame, his bare chest, his familiar features.
He was turned toward her now, with his nearly-black hair tumbling messily over his forehead. His brows were straight slashes framing his vividly blue eyes and their spiky, thick lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw square, and the tiny hint of a dimple in his chin didn’t provide even a dash of boyishness to his astounding good looks. He was all hard-edged, darkly intense male.
Her gaze dropped to the carved-out curves of his pecs and abdominals. A fist-sized sun was tattooed on the skin over his ribcage. The orb of it was yellow, with red flames snaking and swirling from its perimeter, reminding her of Medusa’s hair.
Just like described in the legend, staring at that tattoo turned Alexa into stone, even as a new burn crawled over her flesh.
Because this wasn’t Brody she’d been talking to. She was face-to-face with his twin brother, Bing.
Who wasn’t her friend. He was something else altogether, so much something else that she tried to avoid him when she could and always avoided looking directly at him.
Love Her Madly coming this fall!
Must Love Mistletoe
Published by Christie Ridgway
© Christie Ridgway 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
From Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas Facts & Fun Calendar
December 1
St. Nicholas took pity on a family of penniless girls and tossed bags of gold through their window for dowries. The bags landed in their stockings that had been hung by the fire to dry, initiating the worldwide custom of Santa leaving gifts in stockings or shoes.
Chapter 1
Fingers hovering at the switches by the front door, Bailey Sullivan glanced over her shoulder at the interior of The Perfect Christmas and wondered what would happen if she set Santa’s beard on fire.
But the happy, arsonistic notion died a swift death. That wasn’t the answer to her problems. Surely the manufacturers of the dozens—hundreds!—of Santas in her family’s shop would have treated their respective fabric, resin, wood, or cotton-floss facial hair with flame retardant.
Damn it all.
And anyway, a visit from the Coronado, California, fire department would only make bigger the mess she’d been forced back home to put to rights. With a resigned shrug, she doused the lights and cut off Marilyn mid–“Santa Baby.” For the first time in ten hours Bailey’s ears experienced a grateful reprieve from holiday assault. Until the rattle of the jingle bells as she exited the front door, that is. But that noise was mercifully brief, and after she locked the door behind her, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold plate glass.
One day down, twenty-four to go.
She sucked in a deep breath of night air, cooled and salted by the Pacific Ocean just a block away, and let it clear out the lingering notes of cinnamon-and-clove potpourri that was The Perfect Christmas’s signature scent. Customers Internet-ordered the stuff from all over the world, claiming it captured their very best holiday memories.
As far as Bailey was concerned, captured was the operative world. From the day she could be trusted to unwrap merchandise to the day she could run the cash register with her eyes closed, she’d been a prisoner in the two-story Victorian that housed the almost sixty-year-old family business. She’d managed to escape for the ten years between eighteen and twenty-eight, but now, just as surely as Hermie’s dental skills came in handy, just as inevitable as the foggy night that required Rudolph’s very shiny nose, she was once again held hostage.
Until December 25. Then she was outta here and back to Los Angeles and her happy holidays-less life.
Buy Must Love Mistletoe here!
First Comes Love
Published by Christie Ridgway
© Christie Ridgway 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
From Celeb! magazine, Volume 26, Issue 7...
CELEB!RATED HERO IN HOT WATER
No, the man our readers rated number one as "larger-than-life hero material" isn't in trouble (that we know of!), he's back home. FBI Special Agent Dylan Matthews has returned to his hometown of Hot Water, California, just weeks following his latest dramatic rescue, and Celeb! is itching to know why.
What kind of excitement drew the gorgeous G-man to the former gold-mining town (population 2,000), now known best for its living-history re-creation of boom-town life? Sure, his roots go deep there—a forefather founded the town—but Agent Dishy, uh, Dylan, hasn't been back in eight years. Can it have something to do with rumors of his impending marriage?
After our hunky he-man recently recovered kidnap victim and heiress Honor Witherspoon, 27, from her captors, her father was talking up a congressional medal. But we've heard whispers that gazillionaire Warren Witherspoon might be awarding Dylan his daughter's hand in marriage instead. Can it be that Dylan's gone home to mine for just the right way to say "yes" to Warren's "Won't you marry her?"
The FBI Press Office claims dashing Dylan is taking time for some R and R. "No one deserves it more," gushes Annalise Bordeaux, another woman with a debt of gratitude to the sexy agent. Last spring, the Parisian model-turned-Hollywood-actress was stalked by a fan for months until Matthews broke the case. Posing as Annalise's new love interest, he made himself the jealous fan's target. "I'd give Dylan anything he asks!" Annalise affirms. "Anything!"
Hollywood insiders say that the 22-year-old beauty ultimately settled on giving the special agent something pretty special to remember her by … a case of expensive champagne and a life-size portrait of herself—nude. No word on how the fab FBI-ster responded to either, or to the buzz going around the studio backlots about a TV series centered on his heroic exploits.
So maybe Dylan has more than one offer to ponder this summer, all the while dodging the mock gunfights, gold-thirsty miners, and lusty madams populating historic Hot Water. We can't wait to see what bubbles to the surface!
LetCeleb! know if Dylan strikes gold! If you discover the real deal on Dylan Matthews or any other celebrity,Celeb! wants the scoop. Call us at 1-900-555-0155. ($.99 per minute, average call 5 minutes.)
CHAPTER ONE
Running a brothel was hot, sweaty work.
Awaiting the arrival of her next round of guests in the overheated parlor, Kitty Wilder figured she should know. She'd been doing it for the past seven summers, ever since her great-aunt Catherine was hospitalized with her first stroke. Before that, everyone in her hometown of Hot Water, California, including Aunt Cat, thought Kitty was too young to dress in satin and feathers every day. Of course, they expected she would eventually—after all, there had been a Doc Watson and a Judge Matthews in town for over one hundred and fifty years, so who other than a Wilder woman belonged in the local bordello?—but modern mores had postponed Kitty's debut at The Burning Rose until it was absolutely necessary, when she was nineteen years old.
She hadn't been what you'd call "eager" to take on the work. It certainly wasn't a conventional summer job—and conventional was Kitty's soul-deep desire—but in Hot Water, where the past was so tangled with the present, there wasn't much point in bucking century-old traditions. Though at nineteen Kitty had already been coveting minivans, wanting nothing more than a super-size white one with wood side panels, a stroller spilling out the back and a bronzed male forearm propped in the driver's window—oh, she especially longed for that bronzed forearm and the rest of the family man that went with it!—she had accepted the responsibility and donned a floozy's dress and some feathers with fatalistic calm.
This seventh summer was little different from her first. Though Kitty was now twenty-six, the brothel's parlor smelled as always of old wood and lemon oil. The sluggish air conditioner battled against Hot Water's late-July heat with minimal success. The black lace edging the low-to-t
he-point-of-embarrassment neckline of her gold satin costume itched.
This summer the only difference was in Kitty. What was missing was her fatalistic calm. That was why, when the town's Gold Rush-era living-history district closed its doors on the summer tourist season, Kitty was going to quit playing madam. For good.
Heat had nothing to do with it. Sweat was a mere inconvenience. But six months ago Kitty had seen how futile that soul-deep ambition of hers was. Though for three-fourths of the year she held the responsible position of "head" of the one-person advertising and PR department of the Hot Water Preservation Society, she'd realized she would never be considered conventional. She'd realized that the two thousand residents of her hometown would always see her as a Wilder—would only see her as a Wilder.
That was why it was a sadder but wiser Kitty who now pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, then consulted a mental calendar, ticking off time by touching thumb to forefinger, tall man, ring finger, pinkie, forefinger once more. After today's last tour, she had five weeks left as Hot Water's madam. In five short weeks she'd be pointing her packed car north, because the only way to escape her past was to leave home behind.
Buy First Comes Love here!
The Thrill of it All
Published by Christie Ridgway
© Christie Ridgway 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Chapter One
There was more dazzle in the Las Vegas ballroom than a convention of Crest White Strippers on a glitter factory tour. Ultraviolet smiles snapped on and off like flashbulbs, their beams catching in the diamond-drop chandeliers overhead and in the facets of the cut-crystal stemware on the snowy tablecloths. Celine’s show at Caesar’s Palace was dark that night, but Celine herself was still at work, her silver sequins winking as she slinked forward to double-airkiss the cheeks of the Home Shopping Network’s CEO. Nearby, the canary-yellow jewel in J-Lo’s cocktail ring—a simulated “Jem” from her own signature line—caught the light and bounced off the glasses of the QVC executive sitting beside her.
At the table reserved for GetTV—front and center, as GetTV had received the most nominations for the awards that honored the best in the shopping network and infomercial industry—no high-powered executive or high-salaried celebrity could distract Felicity Charm from the single most important figure in the room. Elegant, serene, and standing alone on a satin-skirted table atop the stage, the fourteen-inch statuette, nicknamed the “Joanie,” commanded all Felicity’s attention.
Her hand curled, as if already wrapping around the trophy’s slick surface. The Joanie’s gleaming fourteen-karat finish would pick up the matching threads in the white chiffon of her simple strapless evening dress, Felicity thought. Perfect. The crowning touch to the image she’d been shaping and polishing for the past sixteen years.
A silky southern accent snaked through the buzz of the crowd. “Don’t you feel like a big ol’ fake?”
“No.” Felicity’s gaze whipped left, clashing with the cool, calculating one of Andrea Rice, the co-worker seated beside her at the banquet table. To cover for her knee-jerk outburst, Felicity tempered her voice and worked up a half-smile. “I mean, uh... what?”
Andrea shrugged. “Oh, it’s just me and my jitters. About now I start thinkin’ how undeservin’ I am or I start worryin’ about givin’ my acceptance speech while somethin’ leafy green and the size of south Texas is stuck between my teeth.”
Felicity hung on to her noncommittal smile. Not only wouldn’t she let that four-letter word “fake” into her head, but she’d start cashiering at Kmart before she imagined herself standing up in front of three thousand industry professionals—not to mention the TV viewers watching the awards ceremony live at home—with a Popeye-worthy portion of spinach wedged in the seam of her two front incisors.
Andrea waved a hand. “I can’t imagine why I’m givin’ it a li’l ol’ thought. This might be my seventh nomination for Host of the Year and the only time you’ve been mentioned, but I’m just sure you’ll win.”
It wasn’t lost on Felicity that the moment demanded she reciprocate, but it was all she could do to respond with another smile. Her stage crew had let her know that in the weeks since Advertising Age magazine had named her “America’s Sweetheart of Sales,” the other woman had been tirelessly campaigning the members of the Electronic Retail Association to vote for anyone but “Felicity Full-of-Herself,” as Andrea liked to call her behind her back.
The chandeliers briefly flickered, signaling that the commercial break was almost over and sending Felicity’s pulse rate soaring. As live close-ups of herself and the four other Host of the Year nominees popped onto the huge screens hanging over the stage, the man on her right, her producer, Drew Hartnett, leaned down to murmur into her ear.
“This is it,” he said.
She smiled for the umpteenth time, as anxious to hide her nerves from him as she was to conceal them from everyone else. Drew always looked like her ideal man—but tonight! He wore a tuxedo like other men wore jeans and sweatsocks and his cultured bearing only made her more determined that any cracks in her poised, self-assured shell wouldn’t show.
Drew deserved no less. They’d worked together the past two years with the tacit agreement that they were too busy with the transformation of GetTV to allow a romantic relationship to steal their focus, but with this year’s success, she knew the time was ripe for that to change.
Winning the Joanie would prove Felicity good enough to win Drew, too.
Buy The Thrill Of It All here!
About the Author
Christie Ridgway is the author of over forty-five novels of contemporary romance. All her books are both sexy and emotional and tell about heroes and heroines who learn to believe in the power of love. A USA Today bestseller, Christie is a five-time RITA finalist and has won best contemporary romance of the year and career achievement awards from Romantic Times Book Reviews.
A native of California, Christie now resides in the southern part of the state with her family. Inspired by the beaches, mountains, and cities that surround her, she writes tales of sunny days and steamy nights. For a complete list of books, excerpts, and news on the latest going on with Christie:
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