French Kiss

French Kiss

Lori Wilde

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

Bare buns.

Slick. Masculine. Muscular. Undulating rhythmically to the hard, driving beat.

Here. There. Everywhere Summer Jacobs glanced she saw them. Buns, buns and more buns cloaked in nothing but skimpy g-strings and heated mineral oil.

Hunk heaven! Yee-haw.

She strolled through the crowd of women chanting “Shake it, baby, shake it” at Bare Buns, an exclusive, ladies-only strip club in downtown Phoenix. Sexually, she’d hit a long dry spell and the sight of these exquisite specimens of manhood were making her feel… well… a tad bit needy.

The selection was impressive. She should certainly be able to find a dancer for her sister’s bachelorette party here. Just as her next-door neighbor Joe Everhart had predicted.

That conversation had been a weird one.

Summer had been unloading party supplies from her Mini Cooper that morning when the sack ripped, sending naughty gag gifts tumbling across the sidewalk. Glow-in-the-dark condoms, chocolate body paints, fur-lined handcuffs.

Joe had come rushing over to help. Summer almost shooed him away from the racy party favors. She knew he embarrassed easily. Whenever he saw her in a string bikini lounging around the community pool, he stammered and couldn’t make eye contact. And whenever she complained about her nonexistent love life, he invariably blushed beet red.

He was a nice guy. Always ready to roll up his sleeves and pitch in. He was cute in a nerdy professor sort of way, even though he wore thick glasses, shapeless clothes and his shaggy hair looked as if it was perpetually in need of a trim. But he had the most genuine smile she’d ever seen and whenever he directed it at Summer, her stomach fluttered mysteriously.

The man was a diamond in the rough just waiting for some perceptive woman to polish. But she wasn’t volunteering. No siree.

For one thing, Joe was a total brainiac with a PhD in archeology and she was a high school dropout. Sure she’d gotten a GED and made a name for herself as a southwest artisan, but she’d never stopped feeling insecure about her lack of formal education.

For another thing, Joe was a forever kind of guy. And hard experience had taught Summer that life was short. Might as well make it sweet. With her newfound live-for-today philosophy, she simply could not commit to any one person.

Still, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about Joe.

And there in lay the problem. What she needed to take her mind off her adorable neighbor was a wild fling with a wild thing. A rebel, a challenge, an adventure. Something that Joe and his fossils most definitely were not.

So when Joe had silently handed her the box of edible panties that had slid behind the tire of her car and their fingers brushed in a moment of pure electrical sparking, Summer resolutely ignored the sensation.

“Just my luck,” she’d moaned without meeting Joe’s gaze. “First the caterer flakes out, then the stripper cancels and now my sack rips.”

“Stripper?”

“For Devon’s bachelorette party on Saturday night.”

“I know where you can get a stripper. A buddy of mine works at a place called Bare Buns. The Masked Monsieur. Tell him I sent you.”

So now here she was, Joe-sent, sexually edgy and thigh-deep in near naked men.

Chapter Two

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Joe Everhart realized his plan was wicked, but he’d been having the most erotic fantasies starring his sexy next-door neighbor Summer Jacobs ever since she’d leased the upstairs apartment two months ago and it was high time he did something about it.

From the first moment he’d heard Summer lugging packing crates up the steps, enthusiastically belting out an off-key rendition of “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” he’d known she was special.

“I regret nothing,” she’d sung the cabaret torch song in fluent French and his heart thumped crazily.

Who could resist a woman without regrets? He wished he could be so confident in his life choices.

And then he’d gone out side to offer his help and he’d gotten a good look at her.

Long auburn hair, with chunky streaks of blonde shot throughout, that swung provocatively down her back. Her gorgeous butt cupped in those low-rise bell bottom jeans. She wore funky red cowboy boots and a skimpy little white tank top that revealed not only a flat expanse of taut tummy but also a turquoise navel ring.

And that’s when he knew had to have her.

He just hadn’t known how.

He wasn’t the most suave guy on earth. He was an introvert who loved fossils and artifacts and ancient history. Socializing had never come easy and he spent more time with books than with people. Plus, Summer was so full of sass and daring, pulsating with energy and life. She was far too busy piloting hot air balloons or climbing rocks or crafting her one-of-kind southwest jewelry to notice an archeology geek like him.

So he’d bided his time, waiting for the right opportunity, the perfect segue into asking her out. But the longer he waited, the more she treated him like a brother.

If she only knew the very unbrotherly thoughts prowling his head!

Problem was, she’d already formed an image of him as the nice guy next door. A buddy, a pal, a soft place to land. What he needed was for her to view him in a completely different light. But he’d had no idea how to achieve that goal.

Until this morning when she’d said she needed a stripper and he’d recklessly blurted out that the Masked Monsieur was a friend of his.

Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He was a friend to himself. And if tricking Summer into giving him a chance was wrong, then he didn’t want to be right.

“Psst, Joe,” Steve, the bartender, called to him from the dressing room door.

“Yeah?” Hurriedly, he tugged black pleather pants up over his sparkly gold g-string.

“She’s here.” Steve gave him a thumb’s up and scooted back to the bar.

Panic punched Joe’s gut. Summer was in the club. She’d be watching him strip.

“We want the Masked Monsieur,” the crowd of women on the other side of the curtain chanted as his theme song “You Can Leave Your Hat On” oozed from the surround sound speakers and the fog machine belched a fine white mist “We want the Masked Monsieur.”

He almost turned and high tailed it out the back exit. Conquer your fear. Don’t blow this chance. Joe exhaled heavily, took off his glasses and set them on the dressing table. Then he reached for the black leather mask and pulled it down over his face.

It was now or never. The time had come to strut his stuff.

Chapter Three

Summer’s mouth dropped. The Masked Monsieur had the most splendid butt she had ever clamped eyes on.

He was mesmerizingly, stunningly, brain-foggingly stupendous. Bumping and grinding right in front of her, his butt encased in a pair of skin-tight, faux leather pants that molded to his body like plastic.

And those abs! Tight and righteous.

A hundred women were screaming and making swooning noises as if he were Elvis come back to life.

But when the Masked Monsieur spun around to face the crowd, it was Summer’s gaze he caught and held. It was to her and her alone he gave an inscrutable smile and a rakish wink.

In that moment, she knew she’d found her wild fling to take her mind off good ol’ Joe.

“Pinch me,” she murmured under her breath, convinced she was having one heck of a bang-up sex dream.

Strobe flashed, bathing his body in a freeze frame of shifting colored lights. He was large, his shoulders broad, his muscled biceps as thick as her thighs. He gyrated seductively to the Tom Jones song, slowly removing the scarlet tie fastened around his bare neck, all without ever breaking eye contact with her.

“You can leave your mask on,” the audience shouted and waved dollar bills at him.

He tossed the tie to Summer.

A shier, sweeter woman would have let someone else snag the tie. But Summer was no longer sweet and shy. She’d given that up two years ago when she’d vowed to live each and every day to the fullest. She was bold now. Brazen even. And she was feeling revved up and randy. Besides, no one knew her here. If she acted like a slut puppy, no big hairy deal, right?

With one hand she snatched the tie in mid-toss and draped it over her neck. Then she lifted the tip of it to her nose. The silky material smelled of pure masculine essence, raw and powerful. Her knees wobbled and her breath left her body but she never once took her gaze from the Masked Monsieur’s compelling dark eyes.

He unbuckled his belt.

“You can leave your mask on.”

The belt flew through the air straight toward her. A leggy brunette on her right made a grab for it, but Summer was quicker. She cinched the belt around her waist, a coveted prize.

The Masked Monsieur’s smile widened. Then he ripped off the faux leather pants that had been held together by Velcro. They made a sharp tearing sound as the Velcro separated. He dropped them onto the stage.

The women went nuts.

Good God, but the man was extremely well-endowed and Summer couldn’t stop looking at it. Er… at him. She splayed a hand against her throat, felt her pulse galloping wildly out of control.

This magnificent hunk was a friend of Joe Everhart’s? Unbelievable. The two men had absolutely nothing in common.

Then the Masked Monsieur reached out his hand to her, his gaze still pinning her to the spot. His dark eyes cloaked enigmatically behind the mask. He motioned her up onto the stage.

She pointed at her chest, lifted an eyebrow and sent him the silent question. Me?

He nodded, cupped his hand, pulling his fingers toward him in a come hither gesture.

She shook her head. She was brave, but Summer wasn’t sure she was that brave.

No more holding back, remember? Life’s short.Do it.

He kept motioning for her, coaxing. Her face flushed. His rich lips formed a single word.

“Come.”

Chapter Four

She came.

Right up on stage with him, lithe as a cat.

He held out his hand. Summer took it. Her soft fingers curling into his. He walked her backward, twitching his hips to the beat. She followed, matching him move for move.

It occurred to him that she wouldn’t have taken Joe Everhart’s hand so willingly. That thought rankled. If she only knew the truth. He was nothing more than a nerd in hunk’s clothing, just an archeologist doing what he had to do in order to make money to fund his passion. She had bought into the Masked Monsieur fantasy hook, line and sinker and while he was glad for it, he was also oddly disappointed in her.

But for now, he held Summer spellbound. She was his. Their gazes connected.

The rest of the club disappeared. In Joe’s head it was just the two of them, dancing together.

His eyes ate her up.

She wore a simple spaghetti strap tank top. The taut poke of her perky nipples straining against her cotton top told him that she wasn’t wearing a bra. His stomach pitched. If they’d been back at their apartment complex, if he wasn’t wearing the mask, he wouldn’t have possessed the courage to stare at her so blatantly. But the Masked Monsieur could do things Joe could not. Women went wild for his alter ego. He stroked a finger over her palm. She shuddered and her tremulous response sent an inferno of feral need burning straight through his groin.

He performed a cha-cha-cha step and she mimicked his footwork, her curvy little butt bouncing enticingly. She had goddess legs, enhanced by the flirty blue and white skirt she wore that barely covered her firm, slender thighs. Her calves were shapely. Her ankles perfectly proportioned. And he loved the way her pearly pink toenails peeked from beneath the straps of her sandals.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly. He could barely hear her over the music. “I’m Summer.”

He did not answer. He was afraid she might recognize his voice and then his whole crazy deception would unravel before it ever got going.

Joe nodded, wrapped an arm around her waist and dipped her so low that her loose, flowing hair grazed the stage floor. How often he’d thought about holding her in his arms like this! It felt three times as great as he’d imagined. She smelled so damned good. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard and fast, her breasts rising and falling against his chest, her head hanging below his.

Within kissing distance.

Her navy-blue eyes widened until they seemed to encompass her entire face. And when she slipped out a tongue to moisten her rich, crimson lips, he almost groaned aloud. He was that far gone.

“Joe told me all about you,” he murmured huskily into her ear as he righted her, disguising his voice with a bad French accent.

“He did?”

“He says you are a woman who regrets nothing.”

“That’s true.”

“Ah,” he said. “This is my lucky day. For you see, I am a man who will dare anything.”

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