“Don’t tell me I have to teach you how to kiss, as well as how to flirt?” she murmured invitingly About the Author Books by Susan Napier Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright
“Don’t tell me I have to teach you how to kiss, as well as how to flirt?” she murmured invitingly
Luke was breathing harshly. “What’s to teach? A kiss is just a kiss....”
She laughed. “Oh, Luke, do you have a lot to learn....”
Her condescending mockery was smothered by his urgent mouth. His lips slanted across hers, his tongue smoothing inside the velvety interior of her mouth, sucking at the sweetness he found there. Rosalind’s eyes fluttered shut, unable to cope with the sensual overload.
Finally he broke away. “Well, teacher, I guess you made your point.”
“Did I?” It was Rosalind who had learned a lesson....s
Susan Napier brings us yet another fast-paced, witty, breathtakingly sensuous romance that will captivate you till the very last page!
SUSAN NAPIER
was born on St. Valentine’s Day, so it’s not surprising she has developed an enduring love of romantic stories. She started her writing career as a journalist in Auckland, New Zealand, trying her hand at romance fiction only after she had married her handsome boss! Numerous books later she still lives with her most enduring hero, two future heroes—her sons!—two cats and a computer. When she’s not writing she likes to read and cook, often simultaneously!
Books by Susan Napier
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1874—THE CRUELLEST UE
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1788—THE SISTER SWAP
1847—RECKLESS CONDUCT
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A Lesson in Seduction
Susan Napier
CHAPTER ONE
‘LEAVE the country?’
Rosalind Marlow stopped pacing up and down the hearth-rug in her parents’ elegant lounge and stared at her mother in consternation.
‘Just for a little while, darling,’ Constance Marlow murmured placidly, finishing her cup of tea and settling back on the couch, looking quite unruffled by her daughter’s outraged expression. ‘Until some of this dreadful fuss dies down.’
‘Are you suggesting I run away?’ Rosalind demanded incredulously, her slender body stiffening in rejection of the idea of such rank cowardice. She and her five siblings had been brought up on the credo that one must always face up to one’s responsibilities, no matter how painful or embarrassing. Surely her mother wasn’t now suggesting that she compromise her honour for the sake of simple expediency?
Rosalind looked to her father to share her outrage, but he merely gave an expressive shrug, as if to say he was but putty in her mother’s hands. Which, of course, he was...but only when it suited him. As a distinguished director with over thirty years’ stage experience Michael Marlow was gifted with an unerring ability to control the volatile personalities of the egocentric actors and actresses who cluttered his professional and personal life—his famous wife included.
‘Think of it as taking a timely holiday, darling,’ her mother murmured in her beautifully articulated drawl. ‘You must admit it’s absolutely ages since you had a proper one. And after what you went through on that last job you certainly deserve a relaxing break.’
Rosalind shuddered at the memory of her recent, depressing foray into film. The disaster-plagued production had merely served to confirm her inner conviction that, like her mother, she was born for the stage rather than the screen. She liked to think of herself as versatile enough to tackle anything but she had never really enjoyed the disjointed, repetitive nature of acting for the camera, where everything was done in short snatches and some nameless editor in a booth somewhere controlled your ultimate interpretation of a role.
She should never have allowed herself to be flattered into accepting the female lead in the art-house production but the director, an old drama-school friend, had caught her at a weak moment and persuaded her that it would be ‘fun’ to work together again.
Some fun. Rosalind had cracked a wrist doing her own stunts and had almost been eaten by sharks!
‘That’s not the point,’ she argued, raking her fingers through her short-cropped red hair, making it stand fierily on end, a vibrant contrast to her pale skin and black roll-necked sweater. ‘It’s the principle of the thing. Why should I let myself be driven into exile, for goodness’ sake? I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘Of course you haven’t, darling,’ her mother soothed, looking hurt at the implication that she didn’t trust her own daughter.
Rosalind
