Various States of Undress
Page 24
Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.
I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.
I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.
I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.
Last night, my man-crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three-eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.
According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.
I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.
Three-eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.
Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like . . .
Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.
I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.
No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me . . .
Parts 1 – 6 available now!
An Excerpt from
RETURN TO CLAN SINCLAIR
A Clan Sinclair Novella
by Karen Ranney
When Ceana Sinclair Mead married the youngest son of an Irish duke, she never dreamed that seven years later her beloved Peter would die. Her three brothers-in-law think she should be grateful to remain a proper widow. After three years of this, she’s ready to scream. She escapes to Scotland, only to discover she’s so much more than just the Widow Mead.
In Scotland, Ceana crosses paths with Bruce Preston, an American tasked with a dangerous mission by her brother, Macrath. Bruce is too attractive for her peace of mind, but she still finds him fascinating. Their one night together is more wonderful than Ceana could have imagined, and she has never felt more alive.
The darkness was nearly absolute, leaving her no choice but to stretch her hands out on either side of her, fingertips brushing against the stone walls. The incline was steep, further necessitating she take her time. Yet at the back of her mind was the last image she had of Carlton, his bright impish grin turning to horror as he glanced down.
The passage abruptly ended in a mushroom-shaped cavern. This was the grotto she’d heard so much about, with its flue in the middle and its broad, wide window looking out over the beach and the sea. She raced to the window, hopped up on the sill nature had created over thousands of years and leaned out.
A naked man reached up, grabbed Carlton as he fell. After he lowered the boy to the sand, he turned and smiled at her.
Carlton was racing across the beach, glancing back once or twice to see if he was indeed free. The rope made of sheets was hanging limply from his window.
The naked man was standing there with hands on his hips, staring at her in full frontal glory.
She hadn’t seen many naked men, the last being her husband. The image in front of her now was so startling she couldn’t help but stare. A smile was dawning on the stranger’s full lips, one matched by his intent brown eyes. No, not quite brown, were they? They were like the finest Scottish whiskey touched with sunlight.
Her gaze danced down his strong and corded neck to broad shoulders etched with muscle. His chest was broad and muscled as well, tapering down to a slim waist and hips.
Even semiflaccid, his manhood was quite impressive.
The longer she watched, the more impressive it became.
What on earth was a naked man doing on Macrath’s beach?
To her utter chagrin, the stranger turned and presented his backside to her, glancing over his shoulder to see if she approved of the sight.
She withdrew from the window, cheeks flaming. What on earth had she been doing? Who was she to gawk at a naked man as if she’d never before seen one?
Now that she knew Carlton was going to survive his escape, she should retreat immediately to the library.
“You’d better tell Alistair his brother’s gotten loose again. Are you the new governess?”
She turned to find him standing in the doorway, still naked.
She pressed her fingers against the base of her throat and counseled herself to appear unaffected.
“I warn you, the imp escapes at any chance. You’ll have your hands full there.”
The look of fright on Carlton’s face hadn’t been fear of the distance to the beach, but the fact that he’d been caught.
She couldn’t quite place the man’s accent, but it wasn’t Scottish. American, perhaps. What did she care where he came from? The problem was what he was doing here.
“I’m not a governess,” she said. “I’m Macrath’s sister, Ceana.”
He bent and retrieved his shirt from a pile of clothes beside the door, taking his time with it. Shouldn’t he have begun with his trousers instead?
“Who are you?” she asked, looking away as he began to don the rest of his clothing.
She’d had two children. She was well versed in matters of nature. She knew quite well what a man’s body looked like. The fact that his struck her as singularly attractive was no doubt due to the fact she’d been a widow for three years.
“Well, Ceana Sinclair, is it all that important you know who I am?”
“It isn’t Sinclair,” she said. “It’s Mead.”
He tilted his head and studied her.
“Is Mr. Mead visiting along with you?”
She stared down at her dress of unremitting black. “I’m a widow,” she said.
A shadow flitted over his face “Are you? Did Macrath know you were coming?”
“No,” she said. “Does it matter? He’s my brother. He’s family. And why would you be wanting to know?”
He shrugged, finished buttoning his pants and began to don his shoes.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“I’m a detective,” he said. “My company was hired by your brother.”
“Why?”
“Now that’s something I’m most assuredly not going to tell you,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Mead. I hope to see more of you before I leave.”
And she hoped to see much, much less of him.
An Excerpt from
RETURN OF THE BAD GIRL
by Codi Gary
When Caroline Willis learns that her perfect apartment has been double-booked—to a dangerously hot bad boy—her bad-girl reputation comes out in full force. But as close quarters begin to ignite the sizzling chemistry between them, she’s left wondering: Bad boy plus bad girl equals nothing but trouble . . . right?
&n
bsp; “I feel like you keep looking for something more to me, but what you know about me is it. There’s no ‘deep down,’ no mistaking my true character. I am bad news.” He waited, listening for the tap of her retreating feet or the slam of the door, but only silence met his ears, then the soft sound of shoes on the cement floor—getting closer to him instead of farther away.
Fingers trailed feather-light touches over his lower back. “This scar on your back—is that from the accident?”
Her caress made his skin tingle as he shook his head. “I was knocked down by one of my mother’s boyfriends and landed on a glass table.”
“What about here?” Her hand had moved onto his right shoulder.
“It was a tattoo I had removed. In prison, you’re safer if you belong, so—”
“I understand,” she said, cutting him off. Had she heard the pain in his voice, or did she really understand?
He turned around before she could point out any more scars. “What are you doing?”
She looked him in the eye and touched the side of his neck, where his tattoo began, spreading all the way down past his shoulder and over his chest. “You say you’re damaged. That you’re bad news and won’t ever change.”
“Yeah?”
To his surprise, she dropped her hand to his and brought it up to her collarbone, where his finger felt a rough, puckered line.
“This is a knife wound—just a scratch, really—that I got from a man who used to come see me dance at the strip club. He was constantly asking me out, and I always let him down easy. But one night, after I’d had a shitty day, I told him I would never go out with an old, ugly fuck like him. He was waiting by my car when I got off work.”
His rage blazed at this phantom from her past. “What happened?”
“I pulled a move I’d learned from one of the bouncers. Even though he still cut me, I was able to pick up a handful of gravel and throw it in his face. I made it to the front door of the club, and he took off. They arrested him on assault charges, and it turned out he had an outstanding warrant. I never saw him again.”
Caroline pulled him closer, lifting her arm for him to see a jagged scar along her forearm. “This is from a broken beer bottle I got sliced with when a woman came into my bar in San Antonio, looking for her husband. She didn’t take it well when she found out he had a girlfriend on the side, and when I stepped in to stop her from attacking him, she sliced me.”
He couldn’t stop his hand from sliding up over her soft skin until it rested on the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into her flesh until she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.
“What’s your point with all the show-and-tell, Caroline?”
She reached out and smoothed his chest with her hand. “I don’t care how damaged you are, because I am just as broken, maybe more so.”
Her words tore at him, twisting him up inside as his other hand cupped the back of her head. “You don’t want to go here with me, princess. I’m only going to break your heart.”
The laugh that passed those beautiful lips was bitter and sad. “Trust me, my heart was shattered long before I ever met you.”
Gabe wanted her, wanted to believe that he could find comfort in her body without the complications that would inevitably come, but he’d seen her heart firsthand. She had one. It might be wrapped up in a mile-thick layer of cowhide, but a part of Caroline Willis was still open to new emotions. New love.
And he wasn’t.
But he wanted to kiss her anyway.
He dropped his head until his lips hovered above hers, and he watched as they parted when he came closer. Her hot breath teased his mouth, and he couldn’t stop while she was warm and willing. He might not get another chance to taste her, and while a better man would have walked away, he wasn’t that guy.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Holding Holly copyright © 2014 by Julie Revell Benjamin.
Excerpt from It’s a Wonderful Fireman copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Bernard.
Excerpt from Once Upon a Highland Christmas copyright © 2014 by Lecia Cotton Cornwall.
Excerpt from Running Hot copyright © 2014 by HelenKay Dimon.
Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 copyright © 2014 by Cynthia Sax.
Excerpt from Return to Clan Sinclair copyright © 2014 by Karen Ranney LLC.
Excerpt from Return of the Bad Girl copyright © 2014 by Codi Gary.
VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: GEORGIA. Copyright © 2015 by Laura Simcox. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JANUARY 2015 ISBN: 9780062304674
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062304728
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