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“There is no ‘this.’”
Corrine said it with a finality she didn’t feel.
Mike ran a finger over her jaw, down her throat to the base of her neck, where her pulse had taken off. “Liar,” he chided softly as her nipples beaded and thrust against the material of her shirt.
“There can’t be a this,” she whispered.
“Oh, there’s definitely a this.” His finger continued its path over her collarbone to her shoulder, nudging the edge of her tank top off it. Stepping even closer, he dipped his head and nipped at the skin he’d exposed, while his fingers continued their seductive assault on her senses.
“How can you ignore me?” He dipped his head so that she could feel his breath on her skin. “After what we shared?”
“It was…just…sex,” she panted as he dragged that clever mouth back up her throat now, feasting as he went, his fingers toying with the edging of her top and the curve of her breast.
“Yeah. Sex. Great sex.”
Dear Reader,
I love reading THE WRONG BED books within Temptation. Writing them is a dream come true, and so was Her Perfect Stranger, a book that haunted me from day one until I finished.
Ever done something you regret? Commander Corrine Atkinson, the heroine in this story, does when she succumbs to a sexy, gorgeous stranger rather than face a stormy night alone. Yet the most incredible, erotic night of her life turns into a nightmare when she’s introduced to her new copilot…the very stranger she’d been with only the night before.
I’ve pitted two confident, dynamic, strong-willed (read: stubborn) people together, both of whom think their life is too full for love. They both learn how wrong they are. How lonely they are.
And how easy it is to fall hard in crazy love in spite of themselves.
Happy reading,
Jill Shalvis
Her Perfect Stranger
Jill Shalvis
MILLS & BOON
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To Bruce and Leslie, for all your expertise, patience and, most of all, friendship. Without you, this book wouldn’t have happened. Thank you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
1
HE’D NEVER FORGET his first glimpse of her. Or his second. She walked in as if she owned the place, and in spite of the chaos around him, Mike Wright’s gaze went straight to her.
It was all indelibly imprinted on his mind: the harsh storm outside pounding against the fogged windows of the hotel’s pub; the lights flickering overhead as the electricity spiked with the repeated thunder and lightning; the loud strains of Bruce Springsteen blaring from the speakers mounted on the walls; and the even louder voices of the crowd around him talking, laughing, flirting.
He’d been preoccupied, thinking about the reason he was in Huntsville, Alabama, in the first place—his life’s work, flying space-shuttle missions. The primary pilot of STS-124 had broken his leg parachuting and the first team backup had contacted hepatitis. All of which left Mike, once the secondary backup, as primary. He’d been called home from Russia, where he’d been on loan from NASA to the Russian space agency for the past decade.
Mike loved being an astronaut, loved his testosterone-run life. But he loved women, too. All of them, all shapes and sizes and colors and temperaments, and everything else faded away the moment she stepped foot into the place—the storm, the crowd, the noise, everything.
She was wet. Drenched, actually, her dark, dark hair plastered to her head, her clothes molded to her body.
Another poor, unsuspecting victim of Huntsville’s weather.
He could empathize, having just come from Russia’s much more predictable climate. But this woman didn’t look like anyone’s poor, unsuspecting victim, not with all that attitude, fire and rage spitting from her eyes.
Drenched and inconvenienced, Mike guessed. And furious because of it. Amused, he watched as she pressed on through the thick crowd, and in spite of her petite stature, people moved out of her way.
It might have been the fact she was a woman, when most of the patrons were men. On-the-prowl men at that. But Mike thought it was most likely her queen-to-peasant look, which was icily effective.
She worked her way closer, heading directly toward the bar, and by coincidence, him.
“Something hot,” she demanded of the bartender, setting one hand down on the bar as she dropped her bag, establishing a spot for herself where there was none to be had. She looked to both sides, left then right, clearly expecting someone to get off a stool so she could sit.
Grinning now, Mike rose. “Please,” he said, gesturing for her to take over his seat.
“Thank you.” As if she wasn’t dripping a river of sleet and rain onto the floor, she sat and tossed back her hair. When the bartender slid what looked like an Irish coffee in her direction, she nodded her head regally and sipped.
