“Hello there,” Melanie whispered, slipping between the silky sheets.
“Mmm.”
“Are you awake?” She stroked the length of his naked back, following the bumps of his spine, his sexy bum—
He started. “Whah th—”
“Shhh. It’s Melanie, you dope.”
“Melanie.” His hoarse whisper nearly made her giggle. Poor guy must have been in a deep sleep.“What—How—”
“Don’t talk, just lie back…and enjoy.” She planted kisses, collarbone to throat, throat to chin, searching for that sexy mouth.
Found it. She lingered. Suddenly strong arms came around her and he was on top so fast she barely had time to react.
“Melanie.” The whisper again, this time softer, sweeter, more tender. Something wasn’t right.
His lips found hers dead on target, as if he could see in the dark. She lay still from shock—the man could kiss.
But it wasn’t just his technique, the kissing was…different somehow.
As if he loved her.
Dear Reader,
Edgar is my first brainy hero ever, and though the story sounded great while I was writing the synopsis, when it came to writing Edgar’s scenes, I wasn’t so sure. Was this man attractive enough to interest Melanie? Frankly, at first he wasn’t even attractive enough to interest me!
But as the book progressed, I found myself getting a little weak-kneed over him, right along with Melanie, and when I wrote the last chapter, I realized I was crazy about him. As much as I love the suave alpha man, I might just have to write more heroes like Edgar.
What do you think? Enjoy a good geek once in a while? Drop me an e-mail through my website,www.IsabelSharpe.com and let me know!
Cheers,
Isabel Sharpe
About the Author
ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her first-born son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.IsabelSharpe.com.
SURPRISE ME…
ISABEL SHARPE
MILLS & BOON
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To Joe Biebel,
who helped me learn about fencing,
and who I bet has never been mentioned in
a romance novel before
1
“SO…?”
Melanie Hawthorne took a leisurely sip of her mojito, served with a stick of Hawaiian sugar cane at her favorite after-work hot spot, The Wicked Hop, and carefully put the glass back down on the bar. She knew exactly what Jenny was asking, but she was going to enjoy this to its fullest. “I’m sorry, so…what?”
Jenny accepted her drink from the friendly blond bartender they liked to flirt with. Usually she was surreptitiously checking out the scene, but right now she was 100 percent fixed on Melanie. “So…have you seen Stoner since that night in Edgar’s apartment?”
“Nope. I did mention I hang here after work a lot. So maybe he’ll show. I know last night he had a rehearsal with his band.” Just the thought that Stoner might seek her out, that they might start something hot, launched that familiar internal flutter. She loved men, bad boys in particular. And she meant bad. Arrogant jerks, selfish users, whatever label you came up with, Melanie homed in on them with unerring precision. She’d love to change, heck, she’d tried to change, tried to convince herself she could date a sweet, steady guy, like her best friend and co-worker, Edgar Raymond. Last week, though, she’d been in the act of suggesting that exact solution on Edgar’s couch when his so-hot older brother, Stoner, had walked into the apartment. Melanie had fallen, boom, and that was that. New guy. Same old story.
“He sounds so-o-o dreamy, I can’t wait to see him.” Jenny sighed. “You always land these incredible men. I mean I’m still happy with Noah after three years, but believe me, I don’t mind living vicariously.”
Yeah, incredible men. For the few hours or days or even weeks of blissful fun until they invariably moved on to the next pretty face, leaving her to grieve her latest disaster until against all odds—and common sense—her natural optimism resurfaced. Melanie had the hunt/capture/lose-the-prey-again sequence down to a science—a science she, after all her rejections and failures, hoped would someday land her the mother lode, the Real Thing, True Love, a guy-to-call-her-own for more than a few sweaty, athletic hours or days or weeks. “Just call me Lucky Mel.”
“Ooh, is that him?” Jenny’s brown eyes had about tripled in size. She brushed her black, slanted bangs out of the way and stared toward the entrance, craning her neck to see through the crowd. “Tall, dark hair, bodacious bod.”
Melanie tried to turn around casually, but turning around casually was pretty hard to do moving as fast as possible. She scanned the bodies by the front door and shook her head. “I don’t see him.”
“Aw.” Jenny sucked down more mojito to cushion the disappointment. “So he’s a rock star, huh?”
“He plays in a band. ‘Imploding Bovines.’”
“Imploding…ew, really?”
“Some statement about the world economy and the beef industry and the environment…I don’t know.” Melanie shrugged, wishing she was
