When He Was Bad...

“Nick, I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not the kind of man—”

“Not the kind of man you should want? God, Sara, you’re dying for a man like me.”

“Nick—”

“A man who can’t wait to drive you absolutely wild in ways you can’t even imagine. You want all those things as much as you want your next breath, Sara. And that’s exactly what I’m going to give you.”

Pulling her forward, he smothered her mouth in a kiss. He held her tightly, his kiss raw and hot and possessive; he made her mind go blank and her insides turn to mush.

So this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Sara thought about the other kisses she’d experienced over the years, those bland, boring, halfhearted attempts that had been cool and hesitant and had left her dying for more. Dying for this. And now she wondered what other wondrous things might be out there that she’d been missing all her life.

She had a feeling this man knew every one of them.

Dear Reader,

The moment this story came to mind, I couldn’t wait to write it. Nick Chandler is my favorite kind of bad boy, one whose good looks, abundance of charm and killer smile are so disarming that he can talk his way into any woman’s heart.

But what happens when the woman Nick wants is Sara Davenport, a psychologist who has written a book that teaches other women how to resist heartbreakers like him? And what happens when the expert on avoiding the bad boy falls for him herself?

The conflict between the good girl and the bad boy is always such fun to write. I hope you enjoy the story!

Visit my Web site at www.janesullivan.com for news of future releases, or write to me at [e-mail]. I’d love to hear from you!

Best wishes,

Jane Sullivan

Books by Jane Sullivan

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

854—ONE HOT TEXAN

898—RISKY BUSINESS

960—TALL, DARK AND TEXAN

HARLEQUIN DUETS

33—STRAY HEARTS

48—THE MATCHMAKER’S MISTAKE

When He Was Bad…

Jane Sullivan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Jennifer Green.

Thank you for your enthusiasm about my books, your editorial advice that always improves them, and your sense of humor that makes my life as a writer a whole lot more fun. I love writing for Harlequin, and you’re the reason why.

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

1

He’s a daredevil on a motorcycle, a rebel with his own cause, a careless heartbreaker or an intriguing man of mystery.

He’s a handsome devil with a buff bod, or a tattooed badass spoiling for a fight. He’s a seductive charmer who will bring out the best in you.

And the worst.

He’s a self-absorbed loner, aloof and jealous and tantalizingly possessive, attracting you with enough charisma for ten men; at the same time, he holds you at arm’s length.

Caught up in the thrill of the chase, you try to grasp his heart and soul, only to feel him slipping away like sand through your fingers.

And while you know you should resist, with just a crook of his finger and a devastating smile, off you go with him, your mind filled with delusions of taming this enigmatic man. And when he has you melting under his hypnotic gaze, falling so fast your head is spinning, that’s when he leaves you like a shadow in the night, never to be seen again…

SARA DAVENPORT knew every one of those men inside and out. She could quote their characteristics, chapter and verse—every nuance of behavior, every game they played, every brand of falsehood that passed their lips. After all, she’d written the book on bad boys.

Literally.

She took a sip of coffee, then sat back on the sofa in her office and spread her planner out in her lap. Next to her, Karen paged through her own planner, lining out their schedule for the coming week.

“I’ve set up book signings for Wednesday and Thursday evening,” Karen told her. “They’re here in Boulder, so there’s no travel involved.” She flipped to another page. “I arranged a phone interview for you with a regional magazine in Charleston. The reporter will e-mail you tomorrow to set up a time. And I booked you for a Friday evening Internet chat with a reader’s group in Spokane.”

Sara made a few notes. “Wow. You’re keeping me busy.”

Karen smiled. “Busy is good. It won’t be long before your name is a household word.”

Sara didn’t doubt that. Her friend’s PR wizardry was a big reason the book had been successful so far. Karen knew just which newspapers and magazines to target with advance reading copies to garner the most articles and reviews. She’d brought Sara untold numbers of new readers by suggesting she pair a minilecture with book signings. She’d gotten her a cameo in Cosmopolitan. All that publicity had put Sara on the fast track to success, but still it was hard for her to believe that she’d barely turned thirty and already her dream was coming true.

Not that she’d intended for things to work out the way they had. She’d initially envisioned the book as an expansion of her dissertation, a serious examination of the psychological, social and emotional reasons women make poor choices in men. But one year, three edits and a show-stopping cover later, it had become a shorter, slicker book with a pop psychology tone and a title that made her cringe: Chasing the Bad Boy.

Sara was still hiding her face over that, but she couldn’t argue with success. The book was heading for its third printing, her editor wanted another book and Sara’s message was getting out in a way that never would have happened through her private psychology practice or her seminars alone.

“Oh, yeah,” Karen said. “One more thing. I called the program director at KZAP this morning.”

Sara came to attention. “What for?”

“To book you on a radio show.”

Sara felt a surge of apprehension. “Radio? No. I don’t want to do radio.”

“But you can reach a lot of people on a radio show. And it has an advantage that advertising doesn’t.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s free.”

“No. Radio is unpredictable. It’s too easy to say the wrong thing and get embarrassed.”

“Come on, Sara. You’re in front of audiences all the time.”

“Right. Doing seminars. It’s friendly territory. I have notes, and I’m in control. I don’t like open-ended situations. They’re recipes for disaster.”

“You know your subject, and you’re a great speaker. What is there to worry about?”

“I just don’t want—” Sara stopped short. “Wait a minute. KZAP? Isn’t that the station with Dr. Frieda?”

“Yeah.”

Okay. Now, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Discussing her book with a medical doctor, maybe getting into the physiological aspects of attraction, taking questions from her listeners…how tough could that be?

“But I booked you on Nick Chandler’s show,” Karen said.

For the count of three, Sara’s voice deserted her, and when it finally returned, still she could barely get words out without choking.

“What did you say?”

“Now, I knew you were going to freak out. But—”

“There is no ‘but’ here. I’m not getting within ten miles of that man.”

“But it’ll be great publicity.”

“Promoting my book on his show? Are you kidding me?”

“Okay. I know it sounds a little weird, but—”

“A little weird? Do you know he once interviewed a man who claimed he’d had sex with a thousand women and has the notches in his bedpost to prove it?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And a woman who tends bar in a topless club? Topless?”

“Yeah, I heard that one. But—”

“And a man who has a Web site dedicated to teaching other men how to score with chicks?”

Karen held up her palm. “I know. I know. It’s a lot of testosterone all in one place, but—”

“I’ve read the gossip columns. I know Nick Chandler’s reputation in this town.”

Karen shrugged. “So he gets around a little.”

“A little? The guy with the thousand notches in his bedpost is an amateur compared to him!”

“And that’s exactly the reason I booked you on his show.”

Sara took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but it was a hard-won battle. Publicity was a good thing, but Nick Chandler wasn’t. The man was so Neanderthal that his knuckles had to drag the ground. Sara shuddered. He probably had back hair and bad posture and drew pictures of bison on his apartment walls.

“Sorry, Karen. I’m not doing a show like that. Call the producer back and tell him to forget it.”

“Even if Nick Chandler has a hundred thousand listeners?”

Sara’s lower jaw fell halfway to her lap. “Are you telling me that a hundred thousand people tune in to hear that kind of programming?”

“Yep.”

“But none of them are going to want to hear about my book. His audience is all men.”

“Hell it is. Thirty-two percent women, demographic eighteen to thirty-five. That’s thirty-two thousand women who are going to be tuning in Thursday afternoon whether you’re there or not.”

“Why? So they can be objectified?”

“Sweetie,” Karen said, “they tune in for Nick Chandler.”

“Come on, Karen! What could a woman possibly find attractive about a man like him?”

“I believe you answered that question in your book.”

“Okay, yes, but—”

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen him.”

“No. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Karen reached down to Sara’s laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She tapped a few keys. A few moments later she turned the computer toward Sara, who looked at the screen and froze.

Holy mother of God.

Right there on the index page of the KZAP Web site sat Nick Chandler, lounging in a chair in the studio, the microphone tugged over to his lips, wearing a warm, open smile that was engaging beyond belief. His rich coffee-brown hair just brushed his collar in the back, and his eyes were such a brilliant shade of blue that gemstones all over the world had to be crying with jealousy. But Sara wasn’t fooled. Even as his roguish charm oozed right off the screen, she sensed a hint of overbearing overconfidence that gave away the truth: where women were concerned, he played hard and expected to win.

But although she could tell he was every bit the smooth-talking, women-stalking, commitment-mocking man his reputation said he was, she didn’t delude herself. A single glance at him could be hazardous to a woman’s heart.

She looked away. “He’s…decent-looking.”

Karen slumped against the back of the sofa. “Are you kidding me? I’d trade every sex toy in my nightstand drawer for fifteen minutes with a man like him.”

“Oh, yeah? And what would you have in the sixteenth minute?”

“One hell of an afterglow.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t say I wanted to head down the aisle with him,” Karen went on. “I said I wanted fifteen minutes of wild, outrageous, multiorgasmic sex.”

“Fine. But you know the difference between a one-nighter and a lifetimer. Most women don’t. They think they’re going to change the way a man like him thinks about women. About love. About life. And that’s not going to happen.”

“So tell them that.”

“And have Nick Chandler smack down every word I say?”

“With luck, that’s exactly what he’ll do.”

“What?”

“Controversy sells,” Karen said. “If you go head-to-head with him, we might be able to squeeze all kinds of press out of it. Good girl meets bad boy head-on. Get it?”

“I told you I’m not interested.”

Karen gave her a sly smile. “What’s the matter? Afraid you can’t stay on top of a man like him?”

Sara frowned. “Spare me the innuendo, will you?”

“You wrote that book because of men like him, and now you’re afraid to face him?”

“I’m not afraid to face him.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be. You have at least thirty points of IQ on him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you have at least thirty points of IQ on everyone.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m still not doing that show.”

Karen sat back with a heavy sigh. “Sure. Okay. If that’s the way you want it.”

“That’s the way I want it.”

Karen tapped her fingers against her planner, then gave Sara an offhand shrug. “I mean, I guess it is a lot safer just to keep on preaching to the choir.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you can keep on talking to those women who pay big bucks at your seminars to hear you tell them what they already know. Or what they’re finally ready to hear. Or…” Karen gave her a no-nonsense stare. “You can rescue the wayward souls from the devil himself.”

Sara considered that for a moment. Karen was right. It was one thing to help women who knew they needed it. But what about opening the eyes of women who didn’t?

“You’re sure he has that many women who tune in to his show?” Sara asked.

“Yep. Thirty thousand plus.”

“He’s exactly the kind of man those women need to stay away from.”

“Right. But if they’ve got the hots for him, it means they need you. Every last lust-filled one of them. Can you think of a better place to talk to your target audience?”

Sara sighed. Going on that show would be a mistake. It had to be, didn’t it?

Then again, she had to admit that so far Karen hadn’t steered her wrong. Her creativity in promotion knew no bounds.

Neither did her powers of persuasion.

“I’ll come along, of course,” Karen said. “To give you moral support.”

Sara wavered. She really did want to get her book into the hands of as many women as possible. Maybe this was a way to accomplish that.

“Okay,” Sara said with a sigh of resignation. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank God,” Karen said with relief. “You fell for it.”

“Fell for what?”

“You bought all that ‘it’ll sell books’ stuff. All I really wanted was an excuse to meet Nick Chandler in person.”

Sara smiled. “Why? So you can work toward that fifteen minutes?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you have first crack at him. If you decide you don’t want him, just toss him my way.”

“Come on, Karen. Both of us are smarter than that.”

Karen sighed. “Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing sometimes that I was a dumb blonde.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. There’s a bar stool at Kelly’s with my name on it.” She zipped her planner, then stood up. “Your appointments are over for the day. Why don’t you come along?”

“Can’t. I need to head home and do a little brainstorming.”

“Brainstorming?”

Sara sighed. “I’m having a hard time coming up with a concept for my next book.”

“Same subject, different take?”

“Yeah. That’s what my editor wants, but I just don’t know where to go with it.”

“A couple of martinis might break that logjam.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Come on, Sara. When’s the last time you and I hit a happy hour together?”

“I’ve been busy. You’ve kept me busy.”

“Hey, I’m all for working hard. But you need your playtime, too. I think you’re the one who needs to get laid.”

“You know I don’t do casual sex.”

“Then make it a formal occasion. Evening gown, tiara, the whole thing. Personally, I wouldn’t want to get that dressed up just to have a man rip it all off, but if it works for you, go for it.”

Sara suppressed a smile. “How did we ever get to be friends, anyway?”

“You know how we got to be friends. We suffered through high school hell together. And speaking of high school hell, how’s your mother these days?”

“We met for lunch a few days ago. It’s been pretty good between us since she moved back here.”

“So she really did leave that creep in St. Louis for good?”

“Looks like it. This is going to be a good holiday, Karen. She’s coming over for dinner next week on Christmas Eve, and then we’re spending Christmas Day together.”

“Good,” Karen said, with a smile that looked a little phony. “That’s good.”

Sara recognized the dubious look on her friend’s face. In the past, it would have been justified. But not anymore. “It’s okay, Karen. It’s been three months. I think my mother has finally seen the light.”

“That’s what you thought with the other guys, too.”

“I know. But this time she sees the pattern of her behavior and wants to do something about it.”

“Hey, you’re the shrink. If you say her brain’s finally unscrambled where men are concerned, I believe you.” She checked her watch. “Oops. Happy hour is starting without me.” She rose from the sofa and headed for the door.

“Thanks for all your help, Karen.”

“Just stick with me, dahling. I’ll make you a star.”

With a couple of theatrical air kisses tossed Sara’s way, Karen swept out of her office and closed the door behind her. Sara glanced back at her computer screen.

Good Lord, what had she just agreed to?

Nick Chandler seemed to be staring right at her, teasing her, taunting her, daring her to walk right into his lair, where he lay in wait to chew her into a thousand tiny pieces.

He was undoubtedly good at ad-libbing. She wasn’t. He knew how to commandeer conversations and steer them in the direction he wanted them to go. She didn’t. He had those eyes that could knock her train of thought right off its track, while she had not a single body part that could hope to distract a man like him.

What she did have, though, was a mission, one she had yet to stray from. She hadn’t gotten this far in life without facing insurmountable odds, and she wasn’t going to stop now. Thirty thousand women would be tuning into his show next Thursday, many of whom were heading down the wrong path. This was her chance to show them the right one.

Nick Chandler wasn’t going to get the better of her. By the time that show was over on Thursday, he was going to know he’d met his match.

2

BY THE TIME Thursday came, Sara’s brain was still holding on to her conviction with the tenacity of a bulldog with a bone. Unfortunately, her stomach wasn’t faring so well. For the past hour, it had been doing funny little flip-flops that were making her a little nauseous. On top of that, the snow predicted for that afternoon had come through with a vengeance, snaring her and Karen in traffic. They were now almost late, so Sara didn’t have time to stop and compose herself, which meant she was pretty much a nervous wreck.

They walked into the lobby of the radio station and told the receptionist who they were. Sara shook the snow off her shoulders, then took her coat off and held it in front of her in a death grip.

“Stop looking so uptight,” Karen said.

Sara squeezed her eyes closed. “I told you I didn’t want to do this.”

“Just don’t let him see you sweat.”

“I used extrastrength antiperspirant this morning. Think that’ll do the trick?”

“Will you take it easy? It’s time to let your hair down a little. Get your message out, but have fun with it.”

Fun? She felt as if she were heading to her own execution.

A few moments later, a man came out to the lobby. He was balding, in his midforties, wearing a scruffy pair of khakis and a sweatshirt.

“That must be the producer,” Karen whispered. “You’ll be on in a minute. Just be sure to stick to English when you talk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever you get nervous, you slip into geek speak.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Big words nobody cares about. Just talk to people.” She patted Sara on the arm. “I’ll be waiting for you out here.”

Take it easy, keep your cool, stay on message, she told herself. How hard could that really be?

The man introduced himself as Butch Brannigan. He hung Sara’s coat on a nearby rack, then led her down a long hall. As he swung open the door that led to the studio, her heart beat wildly. She thought she was ready for her first glimpse of Nick Chandler. Unfortunately, his photo on the Web site had barely given a hint of the man in the flesh.

He wore jeans. A ragged V-neck cotton sweater over a white T-shirt. Boots that looked as if they’d been to a war zone and back. He hadn’t seen the business end of a razor that morning, or maybe the morning before, either. Few men could pull off the shabby look without appearing unkempt, but Nick merely looked careless and uninhibited. And those eyes. Dear God. In the war between men and women, they were lethal weapons.

He stood up as she came in. “Hi. You must be Sara.”

“Yes,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“No,” he said, his lips easing into a captivating smile. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

He enveloped her hand in a warm, solid handshake, sending goose bumps crawling all the way up her arm. Then he pulled out her chair. “Have a seat. We’ll be on in just a little bit.”

His deep, resonant voice meshed perfectly with his seductive smile and his incredible good looks, creating a package of pure temptation that could turn a defenseless woman with low self-esteem into a mindless love slave in a matter of minutes. Fortunately, Sara wasn’t defenseless, her self-esteem was thoroughly intact and Nick Chandler was going to have to fill the position of love slave elsewhere.

Butch left the room and slipped back into the glassed-in booth that looked into the studio. “Thirty seconds, Nick.”

She sat down, and Nick handed her a set of headphones. After putting them on, she folded her hands on the desk in front of her. Then realizing how uptight that looked, she stuck them in her lap instead.

“Nervous?” Nick asked.

She whipped around. “No. Not at all.”

“Ever do radio before?”

“No. This is my first time.”

“Ah. A radio virgin.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

Her heart jolted at the mental image that created. “It’s okay. I’ve done a lot of interviews.” She forced a look of indifference on her face. “This is just one more, right?”

He nodded, still smiling. “Right.”

Pleasant tone of voice. Agreeable expression. Nonconfrontational body language. Everything about him said, You can trust me. So why was she still so terrified?