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Morgan groaned in satisfaction
Listening to Lucy bustle around the room, a pleased smile claimed his lips as he recalled their passionate lovemaking in the pitch-black room the night before. “Lucy,” he murmured, “is that you?”
“This is my room. Were you expecting someone else?” she replied in an uncertain voice.
He emerged from the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, exposing his naked body. Lucy’s brown eyes were wide and startled. “Meet me in broad daylight, Lucy,” he chuckled. “I don’t know how you feel about last night,” he continued, “but that was the best sex I ever had.”
She gasped. “The best…what? Have you lost your mind, Morgan?” she whispered furiously, staring now at the pile of rumpled sheets on the bed behind him.
From where he was sitting he could swear he heard the covers rustle, but that was impossible. Lucy was standing in front of him. The duvet wiggled again as Morgan jumped to his feet.
A slender hand appeared from under the covers and whisked the covers back, revealing a head tumbling with long red curls. Morgan could barely register what he was seeing. He was staring at the lust machine with whom he’d spent the night.
Vanessa Verne. His client’s daughter.
Dear Reader,
Imagine the astonishment: You’ve had a one-night stand in a very dark room. In the morning, your heart is swelling with love and the rest of you tingles with anticipation. You turn your head on the pillow, ready to confess your deepest feelings—only to find you’re staring at somebody you can’t stand!
Sexy bomb expert and bodyguard Morgan Fine finds himself in exactly this situation in Naughty by Nature. I love Temptation’s THE WRONG BED stories, and I hope you’ll enjoy this humorous, sensual addition, which proves that when the chemistry’s right, love just might follow!
Enjoy!
Jule McBride
Books by Jule McBride
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
761—A BABY FOR THE BOSS
830—A WAY WITH WOMEN
840—NIGHT PLEASURES
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
733—AKA: MARRIAGE
753—SMOOCHIN’ SANTA
757—SANTA SLEPT OVER
849—SECRET BABY SPENCER
Naughty by Nature
Jule McBride
To Susan Pezzack for being so helpful.
Contents
1
February 14, 2002
Happy Valentine’s Day, Vanessa.
Do you know you’re pure dynamite? Right now, I’m exploding with desire. Ever since I first saw you in the Blues Bar in Georgetown, I’ve thought of it as our special place, and I hope we’ll see each other there soon. At the Presidential Kids fundraiser last week my fingers were itching to pull down all those russet Botticelli curls you’d clipped back with jeweled pins. Maybe I would have, but that bodyguard—the Secret Service agent who looks like a Hulk Hogan-size Antonio Banderas—was glued to you, his dark eyes glowering. So, I was left to my fantasies. Right now, I’m remembering how beautiful your neck looked that day—swanlike and succulent—banked by dangling diamond earrings. I’m shutting my eyes now and imagining flicking my tongue down…down…down…
Oh, Vanessa, I’m hungry to taste every tall, lanky, elegant inch of you. I want you to imagine my lips dipping beneath the faux fur collar of that gold lamé coat you were wearing. Slowly, I’m exploring the backless gown underneath. Feel the warmth of my hands as they glide over each vertebra until my touch dips, cruising over your backside. My mouth’s going dry, Vanessa. Is yours? You’re not even in the same room, but you’ve got me moaning as I write….
THERE WAS MORE to the letter. Lots more. But Secret Service agent Morgan Fine wasn’t going to torture himself by reading it again. Not the part where the writer finished relieving Morgan’s client, Vanessa Verne, of her sexy gold gown. Not the part where he discovered that she wore no panties and that the soft moist curls there were the same astonishing, fiery russet as her hair. Not the part where the writer lost control by giving in to temptation—a temptation Morgan had avoided for the past two weeks—and ripped Vanessa’s stockings down to her ankles using only his teeth.
No, this letter was the last Morgan would be seeing of Vixen Vanessa. Now that he’d checked today’s mail for explosives and fingerprints, he could finish delivering it. And then it was bye-bye Vixen.
“Vanessa Verne,” he murmured, wishing he wasn’t so distracted by her as he leaned back in a roller chair and traced his dark eyes over the wall of T.V. screens before him. “Three words. You’re dangerous, lady.” Ruefully shaking his head, Morgan lifted a remote and flicked the buttons, viewing various angles of the downstairs rooms in the Verne home, the kitchen, living room, dining room, a weight room, pool and sauna. Finally, a room hung with photos of Senator Verne’s late wife, the peach-painted study where Vanessa, the senator’s daughter, often did work pertaining to the breast cancer foundation bearing her mother’s name.
