Just A Little Fling

Lucie crept closer to the bed

She slipped one hand inside the heavily draped four-poster. She thought she could hear him breathing. Her palm closed on warm, smooth skin. Oh yeah, he was in there.

The bed frame squeaked as she moved across the mattress. Her fingers slid over the firm ridges of his ribs, the strong expanse of his muscled torso.

“Is that you?” she whispered, even as she knew that no way in hell that chest belonged to safe, reliable Baker Burns.

What was worse, she didn’t care!

His hand snagged her wrist suddenly, hauling her on top of him. She was sliding up his body, taking in the hard feel of him against her skin. A moan of pure bliss escaped her lips. He groaned almost in unison.

Had she ever felt pleasure like this? Not a chance!

She pressed closer, fitting herself to his long, lean body, making herself tingle from head to toe. So this was what a fling felt like. Like one big beautifully wrapped package that she got to keep opening all night long.

Lucie smiled wickedly into the darkness. Oh, yeah. Happy birthday to me….

Dear Reader,

Some of my favorite authors and dearest friends have written for Harlequin Temptation over the years, so I was absolutely delighted to get the chance to write Just a Little Fling for this terrific line. I love fast-paced, sexy, funny books, so THE WRONG BED miniseries seemed like the perfect place for me under the Harlequin Temptation umbrella.

As I mused on the Wrong Bed theme, I came up with all kinds of intriguing ideas. After all, I thought, what could be more fun than a hotel full of gorgeous groomsmen, all wearing kilts at a Scottish-themed nightmare of a wedding, too many similar keys, identical bridesmaids’ bags and one plucky bridesmaid facing her thirtieth birthday in desperate need of a little fling? It worked for me. I had a wonderful time writing the story, and I hope you enjoy it, too!

Cheers!

Julie Kistler

Books by Julie Kistler

HARLEQUIN DUETS

19—CALLING MR. RIGHT

30—IN BED WITH THE WILD ONE

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

740—TUESDAY’S KNIGHT

782—LIZZIE’S LAST-CHANCE FIANCÉ

Just a Little Fling

Julie Kistler

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Vicki Lewis Thompson, Temptation doyenne, and to Birgit, who is such a pleasure to work with

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

1

LUCIE WEBSTER WAS already itching to bolt the chapel—and they weren’t even up to “Do you take this man?”

Lucky thing it wasn’t her wedding, or she would’ve.

But no, it was her much younger half sister, Steffi, who was tying the knot. With nine years between them, she and Steffi had never been close, which put Lucie well down the line at number thirteen in a collection of fifteen bridesmaids. She knew she was picked out of desperation—it was hard to come up with fifteen willing attendants, for goodness sake—but she could hardly say no when her father started twisting arms on behalf of his beloved Steffi.

So here she was, squashed together with the other losers at the end of the line, right where they ran out of space around the altar and had to sort of huddle against a stone wall. Well, she thought, trying to look on the bright side, at least this way she had something to lean on, which took some of the pressure off the nasty, high-heeled granny boots Steffi had chosen for the bridesmaids.

Quietly shifting her weight, Lucie glanced around the chapel. Actually, this place was rather pretty, in a gloomy, Gothic way, with crumbling stone and flickering candles giving it a romantic glow.

It did seem kind of strange as churches went. But what could you expect from a chapel attached to a golf course? If someone needed divine intervention to get out of a sand trap, this would be the place to turn. Still, Lucie felt sure it wasn’t intended for a crowded, over-perfumed spectacle like this one. Under the circumstances, St. Andrew’s Chapel felt more like Sardines R Us.

Plus, Steffi’s super-Scottish theme had necessitated itchy kilts and even itchier wool jackets for the whole bridal party. Except for Steffi herself, of course. She was radiant in a white lace dress that stood out like a beacon in this sea of dark, rather menacing, red-and-black tartans.

Maybe it was the overabundance of plaid making Lucie swoon. That or the heat of a sultry June evening, the close conditions, the thick odor of roses and melting wax, or the tight, uncomfortable clothing.

As the voices up in front droned on, Lucie used her bouquet as a block so she could reach inside her kilt and give her waistline a good scratch.

“Aaah,” she breathed. More dirty looks. Well, good grief, it wasn’t her fault if Steffi’d stuck them all in these silly outfits. So she was marrying a guy named Mackintosh. So his family owned golf courses and resorts with goofy Scottish names—all “Bonnie Brae” and “Glen Loch Laddie”—all over Chicagoland. Did that mean Steffi had to dredge up kilts and tams and bagpipers out the wazoo just to marry the guy?

Apparently.

Lucie’s nose began to tickle. Uh-oh. Sneeze coming on. She tried her best to stifle it into her bouquet, but that made her inhale half a rose petal, and the sneeze came barreling out with a loud “ha-ha-ha-chooooo!”

Oops. A rustle ran up and down the wedding party, and she felt her cheeks flush with warmth.

Par for the course, Steffi stamped her tiny foot, smacked the maid of honor with her bouquet, and demanded, “What was that? Who did that?” Nobody answered her, but they were all craning their necks. Even the best man turned back to see who’d made the rude noise.

The very, very cute best man. Lucie managed a weak smile.

His name was Ian. Even though they hadn’t been introduced, she still knew that much. He was the groom’s brother, practically a twin, and every single one of the fifteen bridesmaids had had her eye on him since the festivities began. He also looked a heck of a lot better in a skirt than she did.

He caught her eye, sending her a wink—bless his gorgeous heart—and then he turned back to the waning moments of the ceremony like everyone else.

Nice legs. Lucie’s smile widened behind her bouquet. What a picker-upper to have someone like Ian Mackintosh wink at her. But, for now, she’d just have to content herself with the view and speculating on what he might be wearing underneath that thing.

“Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, feeling a little tingle run down her spine at the very thought.

Guys like Ian—all dark good looks and arrogance sculpted into a dynamite package—would rather die than wear briefs or boxers under there. That seemed like a given. But she’d love to check it out, just to be sure. What would the petulant bride do if her half sister dropped to her knees and crawled up to the altar to peek under the best man’s kilt?

But she didn’t. No, she was good. She stood where she was, and she didn’t sneeze or scratch or faint or peek or any of the other things she wanted to do.

Finally, blessedly, they got to the end of the ceremony, and the bagpipes geared up for a recessional that rattled the rooftop in the tiny chapel. Steffi and Kyle, the bride and groom, swept down the aisle, with Steffi looking triumphant and Kyle every bit as cute as his brother. Trying not to feel envious of her half sister, Lucie waited her turn to make tracks as well. As she hung back in position number thirteen, she found herself singing something under her breath, but it wasn’t remotely what the pipers were playing.

No, it was “Happy Birthday.”

“Happy birthday to me,” she hummed defiantly, linking up with Baker Burns, her counterpart groomsman, to shuffle slowly out of the chapel. She’d known Baker forever, but not even he had remembered that today was her birthday. Lucie lifted her chin and kept on humming. You only hit the big 3-0 once, after all. Steffi’s wedding certainly wasn’t her first choice for a proper celebration, but Lucie would make do.

“Having a good time?” Baker asked, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the bagpipes. “Are you singing something?”

He really was a nice man. Except for a thinning hairline, he was exactly the same sweet boy who’d offered her his seat on the bus on the way to seventh grade.

But she didn’t want to confide today’s humiliating facts, not even to Baker. She’d just keep it to herself that she was turning thirty in about two hours and not one solitary soul had remembered.

“It’s nothing,” she told him. “Just glad to be out of that church. Phew.”

Not that it was any better outside in the still, humid air. Perspiration trickled inside her stiff white blouse, making her feel damp and sticky. She’d done her best to smooth her thick, wavy red hair into a neat bun, as per Steffi’s instructions, but she knew little wisps were curling around her hairline and tendrils had escaped at the nape of her neck. In short, she was a mess.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked Baker. “Please tell me it’s someplace with really potent air-conditioning.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you weren’t listening when Ginetta gave out the orders?”

“Sort of.” Actually, she’d tuned out most of it. But she did remember that Steffi and her mother, the hard-as-nails Ginetta, seemed to have this whole wedding party choreographed to within an inch of its life.

“Do not pass Go,” Baker continued, mocking Ginetta’s snobby, nasal voice. “Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just proceed straight over to the Inn.”

“Oh, right.” It was all coming back to her now. No dawdling, no receiving line. Just hurry over to the reception, sit down, be quiet, and await further instructions.

As the wedding procession navigated a short path from the chapel to the main building, a castle-like structure called the Highland Inn, Lucie held onto Baker’s arm. The worn pavement was uneven, and the last thing she wanted to do was topple over and embarrass herself even more.

Looking up as they turned the corner, she caught her breath. It had rained earlier in the day, creating a soft mist around the Inn’s stone turrets and balconies, making it look as if it had been plucked from the Scottish highlands and set down intact in the Chicago suburbs.

“It’s lovely,” she whispered.

“Would it dare be anything else?” Baker asked wryly.

The Highland Inn was the finest golf resort in the senior Mr. Mackintosh’s empire, and so the natural, rent-free choice for Steffi’s wedding. Lucky Steffi. Except she should’ve left it as is, instead of adding all the over-the-top Scottish nonsense. As they ducked inside, they were hit in the face with cascading plaid fabric, tons more candles, and bowers of red and black roses arranged in rows to look as if they were—you guessed it—plaid. And, of course, the ever-present pipers wailed away.

As everyone filed in, kilt-clad waiters guided them to their assigned seats. “Them, too?” Lucie whispered. “Is there anyone here not in a kilt?”

Lucie thought of herself as a free spirit, but this was too much, even for her. All they needed was the Loch Ness monster rising up from the punch bowl, and the evening would be complete.

“You’d think somebody would’ve stopped Steffi from going so nuts with this stuff.” Grimly, Baker adjusted his own tartan, but his knobby knees were still visible. Poor Baker didn’t have the legs for it.

Meanwhile, the ballroom was a beehive of activity, with wedding guests trying to squeeze around the clustered tables to find their wee plaid place cards.

Lucie was much too tired to look at the tiny cards on every single table. So she commandeered a rather surly young man who informed her that he was not a waiter, just a busboy, and as such, was not responsible for figuring out where they were supposed to sit. She should’ve known he wasn’t anyone important—no kilt. But then Baker slipped him a ten, and the bad-tempered busboy managed to scare up a list, after which he led them to a table near the back of the room, where some of the other unpopular members of the wedding party were already parked.

A very lively girl named Delilah, aka bridesmaid number twelve, was pouring champagne. “This has to be the dullest wedding I’ve ever seen,” she complained.

But then she grinned, quickly shedding her red wool jacket and undoing the first few buttons on her shirt. Wiggling, Delilah made a point of showing off some cleavage, which seemed to perk up the cranky busboy hanging over her.

“Hon, can you run get us a couple more bottles of bubbly?” she inquired. “We’re just parched here.” As he skedaddled, Delilah raised her glass and called out, “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

Lucie wished she were as brave as Delilah, so cheerfully stripping out of her bridesmaid duds and throwing caution to the winds. She was afraid her father or her half sister would come trolling around and yell at her. Still, she did manage to discard her jacket and undo the top button on her blouse, and then fanned herself with the plaid-covered wedding program on the table. Still melting. She definitely needed a drink, and the champagne was handy. It was cold and it was wet, and that was good enough.

But as she tipped up her glass, she caught sight of the best man, the adorable Ian, angling her way, and she almost choked in midswallow.

As she watched his progress, she decided that he was making the rounds of all the tables, offering some sort of announcement. When he got to their table, he smiled, not even a big smile, but Lucie felt a tangible punch to her solar plexus. Wow, that was weird. Must be the champagne. Maybe it had gone down the wrong way. So why did she still feel compelled to drop to the floor and check under his kilt?

Behave, she ordered herself.

“My dad asked me to stop by to make sure you’re all enjoying yourselves,” Ian offered. “I see you’ve got champagne, but the bar is also open—anything you want, courtesy of the Highland Inn. The waiters aren’t going to start serving dinner for a while, though—the photographer is taking a few extra family pictures. But as nonfamily, you guys are off the hook, so you might as well have a few drinks, a dance, whatever.”

He skimmed a quick glance around the table, long enough for Lucie to get a good glimpse of the color of his eyes. Blue. A beautiful, rich shade of blue that made her feel as if she’d just dived into the deep end of Lake Michigan. Or Loch Lomond. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road and I’ll peek under your kilt on the wayyy… She knocked back another glass of champagne.

But his gaze lit on her…and lingered.

“Wait,” he said, and her heart felt as if it had stopped right there. Oh, she was waiting, all right. He narrowed his eyes. “I remember you from the rehearsal dinner. It’s Lucie, isn’t it?”

He knew her name? She was shocked. Especially since she’d been sitting about a football field away from him at the rehearsal dinner.

“Aren’t you Steffi’s sister?” he asked.

“Half sister,” she corrected quickly.

“What’s a half between friends?” He held out a hand. “I’ll bet they’re waiting for both of us, and I don’t think your mother is a woman you want to leave hanging.”

“Ginetta isn’t my mother,” Lucie said quickly. That should have been obvious—Steffi and her mother were both tiny in stature, barely five feet, with dark hair and eyes. At five nine, with wayward, wavy red hair and green eyes, Lucie wasn’t even in the same ballpark. “Steffi and I…We share the same father.”

“That still makes you part of the family.” When she didn’t take his offered hand, he reached for hers, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, don’t be shy. I don’t want to have to come back for you. The faster we get this whole photo thing over with, the faster we can join the party.”

We? What we? But she didn’t have a chance to find out.

Stumbling along behind him, Lucie stared down at their joined hands, watched the pleats in his kilt frisk his well-shaped calves, gulped, blinked twice, shook her head, and gulped again. But he held on, steering them both across the ballroom and out the side door.

Uh-oh. What was wrong with her? For one thing, she’d shed her jacket and loosened her blouse, so she wasn’t presentable for pictures. For another, she should’ve told him that no one would be champing at the bit, waiting for her to pose for family pictures.

She knew Steffi and Ginetta like the back of her hand, and they weren’t going to like this. In their minds, there was Family—Dad, Ginetta and Steffi—and then there was the outsider, the nuisance, the nitwit—Lucie. She tried to get along with them, really she did. But they’d made it clear for years that she was persona non grata.

Ian pulled her behind him into a side room where a small cluster of people milled about, including the bride and groom. “Ian!” three different people cried at once.

“Ian, let’s get a move on,” the groom said impatiently. “Come on, we’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hey, I completed my mission as fast as I could.” He smiled, dropping Lucie’s hand, but then slid a casual arm around her. “Look, Steffi, I found your sister.”

“Half sister,” the two of them said automatically, as their mutual father, Donald Webster, started to get pink and fidgety, glancing between the bride and her mother as if he expected one or the other to blow sky-high.

A self-made man, he had a horror of looking tacky to those more sophisticated or higher up the social ladder, like the old-money Mackintosh family. Lucie recognized the symptoms—he always got that nervous shift to his eyes, those beads of sweat on his upper lip, when he felt outclassed.

There was an awkward silence.

“Excuse me. I’ll just…” She’d never had any desire to annoy her father or put a crimp in Steffi’s big day. So Lucie edged backward, ducking around Ian’s arm and making for the door. “I’m sure Steffi wanted, you know, immediate family, and I’m sort of, well, extended.”

“No, no, I’m sure—” Ian began. She heard his brother whisper, “Steffi? Don’t you want your sister in the family pictures?” but the photographer was trying to push them into some sort of arrangement, and Lucie took her chance to escape.

She did pause for one extra second, however, long enough to watch the Mackintosh family pose as gracefully as you please, as if they had just stepped into an ad for greeting cards. They stood tall, exuding wealth and style. From the distinguished parents to their two elegant, fabulous sons and poised teenaged daughter, this family made a picture of perfection. And when they smiled, the whole room seemed to light up without any need for flashbulbs.

Wow. Lucie looked at them with real envy. No wonder Steffi wanted to marry into this family. It wasn’t just that her groom was adorable and wonderful, rich and charming, although he certainly seemed to be. No, it was the whole family. They were perfect. But what would they want with Steffi?

None of her business, was it? She had a table full of wallflowers to get back to. As she slipped away into the reception, she heard the photographer behind her command, “And smile!”

IF ONE MORE PERSON told him to smile, Ian Mackintosh swore he’d start knocking heads together.

God, he hated weddings. Especially this one, with its boatload of pseudo-Scottish junk, outrageous number of bridesmaids, and way too many people smiling and pretending to be thrilled for Kyle.

Thrilled? Ha! His brother was making a huge mistake. Colossal. What else could you call it when a great guy like Kyle signed up for a life sentence with a twenty-one-year-old bimbo with a hot bod and the brains of a twig?

Ian wasn’t that fond of the idea of marriage, anyway. As far as he was concerned, you traded a few minutes of pleasure for a lifetime of effort and commitment, boredom and compromise. He hated compromise. Even his parents, who looked like a flawless match on the outside, had had their share of ups and downs. It seemed like a full-time job for his dad to keep that marriage humming.

He loved his mother and his sister dearly, but they were often on some other planet he couldn’t—and didn’t really care to—understand. He just wasn’t sure he could ever put that much work into something as mercurial and infuriating as a woman.

Besides, as he’d watched friends get married over the past few years, they’d so often seemed to be doing it for the wrong reasons—because somebody’s parents were pushing it, or the girlfriend wanted a baby, or he was the right age, or she had a nice smile, or he was lonely, or all their friends were married…

It didn’t take long for one or the other to be miserable. It didn’t take long for Ian to run in the other direction. The merest hint of matrimony on the mind of a woman he was dating had him saying goodbye.

And he was even more convinced he was right now that he’d seen Steffi in action. Sure, he’d tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, and he’d been kind of amused by her sister, the sneezy redhead. At least she seemed like a real human being. But when he’d brought Lucie back for family pictures, snotty little Steffi had acted ruder than rude—to her own sister.

“Half sister,” he said under his breath.

Fine. A bimbo, a social climber and a bitch, and she’d just married his brother. Wonderful.

What the hell was Kyle thinking, marrying Steffi? “She must be something special in the sack,” he muttered, taking a long swig of his drink. Forget champagne. He’d turned to Scotch on the rocks a long time ago. Well, hey, at least it fit the theme.

“Ian, Ian, Ian, what are you doing all alone?” a silky female voice purred.

He glanced up. Ah, yes. The maid of honor. What was her name again?

The leggy blonde perched herself on the chair next to his. “Lucky I ran into you.”

She’d apparently slipped upstairs to her room at the Inn long enough to change her clothes. All he had up in his room was an extra pair of jeans and a T-shirt to wear home tomorrow, or he would’ve gotten rid of his own kilt hours ago. But this nubile young thing had planned ahead, shedding her long wool skirt and hot jacket for a slinky little cocktail dress. He had to say, it looked good on her. And partially off her.

Although Ian was fully aware the maid of honor was cut from the same cloth as the bimbo bride, he also knew she could be useful for a few hours. She’d already telegraphed her interest, and then some. She might be feeling no pain at the moment, but she’d been perfectly sober when she tried to trap him in the coat room at the rehearsal dinner, and then pinched his butt as they walked out of the church after the ceremony.

The way he figured it, he was bummed and she and her bubble-headed beauty were a distraction. Where was the harm in that?

“Can I get you a drink, um…?” Damn. He really could not recall her name.

“Feather,” she finished for him.

How could he have forgotten anything that silly? “Feather. Right. Let me get one of the waiters.”

Feather downed several more Cosmopolitans (which was exactly what he would’ve guessed she’d drink) as she gossiped about Steffi and the other bridesmaids. “I think Steffi should’ve cut back to about five attendants and only picked the really good-looking ones, y’know?” She sat up straighter, only slightly wobbly. “A person has to have standards.”

What was he supposed to say to that? Sure, have all the standards you want. Who cares? He raised his glass to his lips, preferring not to comment.