A Small-Town Temptation. Terry Mclaughlin

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       “I don’t want…”

      Jack tightened his hold on Charlie’s waist, pulling her closer. “Something told me I was about to hear those words again.”

      She stumbled and then caught up with his easy, steady steps. Her soft, curly hair tickled his chin, and he breathed in her clean scent. Nothing floral or herbal, no tropical fruits or exotic musks for Charlie Keene. More like freshly washed linens flapping on the line strung out across his mama’s back porch on a summer afternoon.

      She shifted to one side, and her thigh grazed the outside of his knee. And he realised he was enjoying this dance too much.

      “You know,” he said, setting some distance between them, “acting in such a predictable manner might tip your hand in a tricky negotiation.”

      She glared at him. “Are you giving me business advice now?”

      A Small-Town Temptation

      by

      Terry McLaughlin

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       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      TERRY MCLAUGHLIN spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drafting, drama and history, to a variety of students from kindergarten to college before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading and writing, she enjoys travelling and dreaming up house and garden improvement projects (although most of those dreams don’t come true). Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.

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      Available in September 2010

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       A Small-Town Temptation

      by Terry McLaughlin

       A Not-So-Perfect Past

      by Beth Andrews

      For Rob

      Chapter One

      JACK MAGUIRE WOULDN’T BE needing a second look to confirm the rumor: Charlie Keene was a woman who could give a man hell. She stood a dozen yards away, her muddy boots planted at the edge of Earl Sawyer’s gravel yard, flaring up like a pint-size serpent to poke a pointy finger at his gut. And if that image wasn’t enough of a giveaway, all a guy had to do was listen. She hissed and spat in a fire-and-brimstone vocabulary, providing Sawyer with an impressive preview of everlasting damnation.

      The plant operator who’d pointed out Charlie and Earl climbed back on his loader. Jack waved his thanks and leaned against his rental sedan to enjoy the show. Sawyer tried to duck out of the fight with a feint to the left, but Charlie cut off his escape with some fast footwork and another round of curses.

      One side of Jack’s mouth twisted in a lopsided grin. He’d enjoy doing a little ducking and weaving of his own before he delivered the knockout punch.

      Before he put her out of business.

      Sawyer laughed at something Charlie said and shook his head. She sure was a cute little thing, an inch or two over five feet and close to ninety pounds of atomic energy bundled up in workman’s coveralls. Her firecracker hair exploded out the back of her visored work cap, and her square, stubborn chin shoved up toward Sawyer’s grizzled beard. Not Jack’s usual taste in women, perhaps—too much spice in her attitude, not enough sugar in her shape—but kind of appealing, in a handle-at-your-own-risk kind of way.

      Jack always had enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a calculated risk. His smile spread with one part anticipation and three parts pure male speculation. It looked like this business trip up the coast from San Francisco might be more interesting than he’d figured.

      Charlie tossed up her hands with a frustrated growl, shot Sawyer one final, lethal glare and stomped toward the battered Keene Concrete pickup truck parked near Jack’s car. Her pretty mouth moved in a muttered litany of maledictions as she rammed her hands into her mud-spattered coverall pockets and kicked at a loose piece of cobble in her path.

      She stumbled over another when she noticed Jack grinning at her, and she faltered, just for a moment, while a charming blush flooded her cheeks. And then her eyes—Jack thought they might be as dark and gray as the wet gravel—narrowed to slits, and a touch of the heat she’d been directing at Sawyer snapped across the yard and sizzled right through him.

      Jack rubbed a fist over his heart. God almighty, the lady could torch the countryside with that flamethrower

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