Sheerly Irresistible

“Your admirers couldn’t get their wallets out fast enough,” Mitch snorted

“This is a singles club, isn’t it? Don’t people usually buy drinks for each other?” Claire asked.

She had a point, but Mitch wasn’t about to concede. Not when she’d started a brawl within half an hour of her arrival. Not when her antics threatened to distract him from his investigation. Not when he had an almost irresistible urge to kiss her sassy mouth.

Battling his libido, Mitch carried Claire out to the curb and hailed down a cab. Then he loosened his grip, allowing her to slide the rest of the way down his body. Sweet torture.

“Enjoying yourself?” she challenged.

“I like it better when you don’t talk,” he said, his body throbbing.

She narrowed her eyes. “Just try to stop me.”

So he did. Lowering his head, he captured her sassy mouth with his own, figuring she’d pull back at any moment. Only she didn’t.

What the hell was wrong with him? With her?

Stepping back, Mitch managed to hustle her into the cab before he lost total control. But he had the feeling that the fun was just starting….

Dear Reader,

Have you ever taken on a new challenge knowing you were in way over your head? This happens to me more times than I’d like to admit, so it seemed only natural to put my heroine in a similar predicament.

Professor Claire Dellafield is a small-town girl determined to study the power of love in the Big Apple. If only tough guy Mitch Malone would stop standing in her way! But with a little help from a special skirt and a spoiled poodle, Claire makes herself Sheerly Irresistible, and Mitch soon finds himself completely under her spell….

Sheerly Irresistible is the second book in the SINGLE IN THE CITY miniseries, caught right between Heather MacAllister’s Skirting the Issue (August 2002) and Cara Summers’s Short, Sweet and Sexy (October 2002). Don’t miss any of the fun!

Happy reading,

Kristin Gabriel

P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can contact me through my Web site at www. KristinGabriel.com.

Books by Kristin Gabriel

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

834—DANGEROUSLY IRRESISTIBLE

868—SEDUCED IN SEATTLE

HARLEQUIN DUETS

7—ANNIE, GET YOUR GROOM

25—THE BACHELOR TRAP

27—BACHELOR BY DESIGN

29—BEAUTY AND THE BACHELOR

61—OPERATION BABE-MAGNET

—OPERATION BEAUTY

Sheerly Irresistible

Kristin Gabriel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Heather MacAllister and Cara Summers.

Thanks for making this book so much fun to write!

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

Epilogue

1

“THAT’S IT,” THE photographer said, looking at her through the camera lens. “Arch your back. There…now pout for me. Think sultry.”

Unfortunately, Claire Dellafield couldn’t think about anything except how ridiculous it was for a cultural anthropologist to be draped across a Dumpster in a back alley in New York City. This was definitely not what she’d imagined doing on her first day in the most exciting city in the world.

Unpeeling herself from the garbage bin, she plucked the collar of the tank top away from her damp cleavage. “Look, I assumed we were just going to take a few simple headshots in front of the nightclub. A publicity photo the university could send out when they release the results of my research project. This,” she motioned to the narrow back alley, “just doesn’t make sense.”

The photographer lowered his camera. “I am Evan Wang. I take direction from no one. You are the model. I’m the artist. You must trust me.”

“I’m not a model,” she clarified, just to make certain Evan hadn’t confused his assignments. “I’m an anthropology professor.”

“Yes, that is a problem,” Evan mused, studying her from a different angle. “But that’s why people call me the miracle worker.”

Claire swallowed a groan, wishing she’d followed her instincts and turned down this research project. But that simply wasn’t a luxury a rookie anthropologist could afford. Not when research grants were so few and far between. So she’d reluctantly agreed when Penleigh College approached her to revisit a study called Strangers in the Night that had made both her father and the college famous twenty-five years ago. No doubt, some would continue to accuse her of riding her father’s coattails.

Sometimes she wondered if they were right.

Claire lifted her long, thick hair off the back of her neck, hoping a cool breeze would find its way into the alley. It had never been this hot in Penleigh, Indiana, the small college town she’d called home her entire life. She had shared a cottage with her father on campus until nine months ago, when he’d passed away after a long battle with kidney disease. Then it seemed as if she’d just stepped into his life—taking over his classes and now, reprising his famous research project.

Thinking of her father made Claire’s throat tighten. Marcus Dellafield had been in this same spot twenty-five years ago. Well, maybe not this exact spot. There had been no sexy pictures to accompany his study on human mating habits at The Jungle, once the most popular singles bar in New York City.

But Professor Dellafield had done more than just collected research all those years ago. He’d adopted Claire as an infant and brought her back with him to Penleigh, raising her as a single father. That’s what had captured the media’s attention—the story of an ivory tower professor who gave a child born out of wedlock a fairy-tale life.

And it had been like a fairy tale. Claire’s father had taken her with him on all his anthropological research trips, showing her the world in the process. She’d been to places like Borneo and Tasmania. Eaten with the Maori of New Zealand. Traveled by riverboat on the Amazon in South America.

And she’d enjoyed every moment of it. So had her father. During the last months of his illness, he’d often told her that he had no regrets. Nothing had been left undone. He’d always lived his life to the very fullest.

Claire planned to do the same. Only life didn’t always cooperate with her. Maybe once she completed this research project, she could begin to live her own dreams, make her own choices.

“I’ve got an idea,” Evan said at last. “Let’s take advantage of your natural innocence. We’ll go for the Mary Richards look.”

“Mary Richards?” Claire echoed in confusion.

“You know,” Evan said, digging into his big, yellow satchel, “from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show. A single girl in the city, ready to turn the world on with her smile.”

“I know who she is,” Claire replied. Unlike most parents, her father had actively encouraged her to watch as many movies and television shows as possible. He believed they were a reflection of the changing mores of modern culture—especially the sitcom reruns—and worthy of study.

“Here we go,” Evan exclaimed, pulling a raspberry pink beret out of the satchel. He brushed off the lint, then handed it to her. “Put it on.”

She placed the beret on her head. “How’s that?”

“Perfect! I can almost hear the theme song to the show.” He adjusted the brim, then stepped back and framed her between his fingers. “Now lose the blouse.”

She looked down at her yellow cotton blouse, then shrugged and took it off, leaving only the white tank top underneath to go with her khaki shorts.

“Much better,” Evan said, looping the camera strap over his neck. “Now stand up and lean against the door. Pretend it’s a man and make love to it.”

Claire rose to her feet, frowning at the tattered screen door streaked with rust. “I don’t remember Mary making love to any doors.”

He heaved a tortured sigh. “It’s all we have at the moment. Just work with me here.”

The screen door suddenly opened, catching Claire in the shin. “Ow!”

“Excuse me,” muttered a man backing out of the door. He was tall, dark and shirtless.

He turned to face her, a crate of empty beer bottles in his arms. But it was the sight of his bare, broad chest that had Claire’s mouth watering. Along with the raven hair slicked back off his forehead, the shadow of whiskers on his square jaw, and his startling blue eyes. She swallowed hard to keep from drooling.

The man raised his voice, laced now with impatience. “Excuse me.”

She stumbled off the step to let him pass and he set the crate of beer bottles next to a recycling bin, then disappeared inside the nightclub once more.

“Sir,” Evan shouted after him, bounding up the back step. The man appeared at the door a moment later carrying another crate of empty bottles.

“Can you help us out here?” Evan asked.

“What do you need?”

“My name is Evan and this is Mary,” he said, motioning to her.

“Claire,” she corrected.

“Whatever,” Evan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And you are?”

The man hesitated a moment, taking stock of them both. “Mitch Malone.”

“Well, Mitch, I’m trying to finish up a photo shoot and Mary here, I mean Claire, is having trouble making love to the door. I thought if she had a human prop it might work better.”

Mitch didn’t even blink at the odd request. “Sorry, but I have twenty more crates to haul out here.”

“Perfect. That’s just what we need.” Evan reached out and positioned Claire in front of him. “You find him attractive, don’t you?”

She cleared her throat as Mitch’s gaze moved to her face. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m…I mean…he seems very nice.”

“Mitch is more than nice.” Evan told her, grabbing his camera once more. “He’s everything you’ve ever desired in a man. Now show me how much you want him. Try to seduce him with some great body language as he moves in and out of the building.”

Claire turned to Evan as a hot flush crept into her cheeks. “Is this really necessary?”

Evan held up both hands. “No questions, remember? I am the artist here.”

“I’m going back to work now,” Mitch said, setting down the crate.

“Yes, go right ahead.” Evan began snapping a rapid succession of pictures as Mitch walked back inside the building. “Okay, now wait for him, Claire…there he is…now remember, we want hot. We want sultry.”

Claire sidled out of Mitch’s way as he deposited another crate on the ground, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. It didn’t help matters that he seemed totally oblivious to her. She tried sultry. She tried pouting. She even tried opening the door for him and striking a sexy pose against it, but she only succeeded in popping out the screen.

“Keep going. We’re getting there,” Evan told her, snapping a few more pictures as she just stood there with her hands on her hips while Mitch strode past her once more.

It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. Of course, the man was only half-dressed. A light sheen of perspiration glowed on his tanned skin, his powerful muscles flexing in his thick chest and broad shoulders.

She’d seen scantily clad men before on her travels, but there was something mesmerizing about the way this man’s body moved. He had an easy grace that made most of the men at Penleigh, in their tweed jackets and loafers, seem stuffy by comparison. Mitch was definitely a product of his environment. Solid. Earthy. Primal.

Somehow he made the alley seem even hotter than before.

“Not bad,” Evan said at last, popping another roll of film into his camera. “Now let’s try some Mary poses. We’re going for the carefree look. Try tossing the beret into the air.”

She stepped away from the back entrance of The Jungle, more than ready to finish this photo shoot. “Like this?” She threw the beret high into the air, squinting against the bright June sun.

“Good,” Evan said as the camera whirred. “Now do it again. But I want you to catch it this time.”

Claire picked up the beret, hearing the screen door squeak once again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mitch set another crate on the ground. Determined to show him the same amount of indifference he was showing her, she tossed the beret high into the air. Only her throw was a little off and she had to walk backward as it fluttered toward the ground. She skidded on a crushed tin can, lost her balance, and landed against something hard and warm.

Mitch.

He braced his large hands on her hips to steady her. “You okay?”

She gulped in a deep breath, well aware of his long fingers spanning her waist. Her back was against his bare chest and she inhaled a musky aroma that was all male. “I’m fine.”

He let go of her, then bent down to pick up the beret. “Here you go, Mary.”

“Claire,” she breathed through dry lips.

“Whatever.”

2

AN HOUR LATER, CLAIRE forced both the photo shoot and Mitch Malone completely out of her mind. Excitement fluttered in her chest as she climbed out of a taxi at Central Park West, then waited while the driver retrieved her bags from the trunk. The Willoughby towered in front of her, a high-rise apartment building with art deco trim on the facade.

Her godmother, Petra Gerard, lived here and Claire couldn’t wait to see her again. But first she had to get past the young man who sat sprawled on a lawn chair inside the glass-enclosed foyer of the building. He wore baggy blue polka dot swimming trunks, mirrored sunglasses, and green-tinted zinc oxide on his narrow aquiline nose.

As she dragged her suitcases through the heavy plate glass door, he didn’t even look up. Just sat there humming to the music emanating from the boom box, his skinny feet soaking in a blue plastic wading pool.

She paused to catch her breath as the Beach Boys began singing about “California Girls.”

“If you don’t give me the password,” the man said, his head propped on the lawn chair with a rolled-up orange beach towel. “I will be forced to stop you with the Venetian death grip.”

“And you are?” Her gaze fell on his pale, hairless chest. Then she noticed the tattoo on his upper left bicep. It looked like a small schnauzer.

“I’m Franco Rossi. Aspiring actor, black belt in karate and judo, and temporary doorman.” He slid his sunglasses up on top of his head, then followed her gaze to his arm. “It’s Toto. The tattoo, not the password. I happen to be a big fan of The Wizard Of Oz.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering if he was mentally stable.

He smiled, “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I’m from Indiana.”

“Same difference.”

Claire set both her suitcases on the polished marble floor. “I’m here to see Petra Gerard. She’s expecting me.”

“Ah, Petra.” Franco smiled. “She’s one of my favorite tenants. A little absentminded, though.”

That was putting it mildly. Petra always blamed her total inattention to detail on her muse. A former art professor at Penleigh, Claire’s godmother had been one of Marcus Dellafield’s best friends and a frequent visitor to their home. Bubbly and a little eccentric, Petra had more energy than many women half her age. She’d retired from teaching at sixty and moved to Manhattan, embarking on a very lucrative second career as a sculptress.

“Could you please let her know I’m here. My name is Claire Dellafield.”

“Love to, Claire,” Franco purred, “if you can front me the airfare to Bermuda. Petra left a week ago and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

Claire’s heart sunk to her toes. “Bermuda?”

He swished his toes in the pool water. “She’s competing in the senior division of the Ms. Universe fitness pageant. Knowing Petra, she’ll probably come home with the title.”

Claire shook her head. “Petra can’t be in Bermuda. She’s supposed to introduce me to a Mr. McLain. I’m subletting his apartment for the summer.”

He sighed. “You and everyone else in this city. There’s already a crowd up there waiting for the auction.”

“Auction?”

“Petra should have filled you in on all the juicy details, but she probably believed Tavish when he promised not to do it anymore.” Franco leaned forward and lowered his voice to a furtive whisper, even though they were alone in the foyer. “Tavish McLain auctions off his place every summer. Last year a blond ballerina and a Madonna clone battled over it. The ballerina even offered an incentive package, if you know what I mean. Tavish has a thing for blondes, so he enjoyed every minute of it.”

Claire leaned against the plate glass door, vaguely aware that the faint odor of the Dumpster still clung to her clothes. With Petra out of the country, she didn’t have anywhere else to go and certainly not enough money to spend the summer in a New York City hotel room. She wondered if camping in Central Park would be any more dangerous than pitching a tent on the African savannah.

Franco waved her away. “You’re blocking my sun. I’m trying to get a tan here.”

Then he groaned as another woman walked purposefully toward the building. “Here comes another one. How am I supposed to relax with people streaming in and out of here all day?”

Claire glanced at the woman who entered the foyer. She looked nice. And blond. Just McLain’s type—unless Claire got to him first. She turned back to Franco. “I need to see Tavish McLain. Immediately.”

“Password!”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“I’m waaaaaiiiiting,” Franco crooned.

“Toto,” the blonde ventured, her gaze on Franco’s arm.

“Close but no cigar.” Then he burst into the opening stanza of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” before collecting himself. “Are you here for the apartment?”

“Yes,” they replied simultaneously.

“This is McLain’s day of glory,” Franco declared. “The day he lives the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year dreaming of. He is surrounded by women.”

“We’d like to join them,” the blonde said.

Franco leaned closer to them and whispered, “You might try naming the actor who played the cowardly lion.”

Claire exchanged glances with the blonde, then they both blurted, “Bert Lahr.”

“Excellent,” Franco replied with a grin.

“Bert Lahr is the password, then?” the blonde asked.

“No. But I like the fact that you’re both Wizard of Oz movie buffs, so you may pass.”

Claire turned back to Franco as the blonde pressed the elevator button. “Now how about giving me a hint to win over McLain?”

Franco shrugged. “Like I said, he’s into blondes. But maybe you could show a little cleavage, wiggle your hips and see what happens.”

Claire glanced down at her tank top. Mitch Malone hadn’t seemed too impressed with her cleavage. Not that she should care about the opinion of a total stranger. A street-smart tough who probably treated women like toys. Definitely not her type.

Not by a long shot.

A loud ding announced the elevator’s arrival, breaking her reverie. She grabbed her suitcases and headed for the elevator, the blonde helping her heave the biggest one inside.

“Thanks,” Claire said, as the doors slid closed. “I’m Claire Dellafield.”

“A. J. Potter,” the blonde replied with an assessing glance. “I guess we’re competitors.”

She sighed. “I don’t have enough money to be much competition.”

“Want to join forces and bid together?”

Live with a complete stranger? “I don’t know. I…”

“Smart girl. Someone warned you about the big, bad city.” A.J. reached into her purse. “I just heard that the bidding might be brutal and I intend to win. Think about it.”

The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Claire dragged her suitcases into the crowded hallway. There were two other apartments on the floor, but it was obvious which one belonged to McLain. Dozens of people jammed around the open doorway.

“I think it’s going to take more than cleavage,” Claire muttered to herself. A dog growled and she turned to see a poodle in the arms of a woman wearing a pink caftan and matching pink bouffant hair.

“Hush, Cleo,” the older woman crooned to the dog. “That mean Mr. McLain is going away soon. Then you’ll have somebody new to take you on walksies.”

Claire and A.J. squeezed their way into the apartment just in time to hear the bidding war start. There were blondes in all shapes and sizes. Claire sank down on her big suitcase, wondering how could she possibly compete.

“This is ridiculous,” A.J. muttered, then whipped out her cell phone.

Claire looked up to see a tall brunette approaching them. At least she wasn’t the only nonblonde here.

The brunette glanced at A.J., then turned her attention back to Claire. “This is really something, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly what I expected.” She motioned to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

The brunette shifted the package she held from one arm to the other. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”

Yikes. Maybe Claire wasn’t the only one who could smell the Dumpster on her clothes. But she wasn’t quite ready to declare herself a charity case yet. “I can’t—”

“Oh, I got that part,” the brunette said, lowering her voice. “You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”

This woman was trying to change the reputation of uncaring New Yorkers in one fell swoop. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”

A.J. laughed. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms.”

The brunette grinned at her. “Samantha Baldwin.”

“A. J. Potter.” The two women shook hands. “You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I think you scared her.”

“I’m not scared,” Claire said, “just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”

She thought of Mitch’s behavior this afternoon and a flush of heat washed up her neck. Could the man have been any more oblivious to her? No one had ever called her a beauty, but men hadn’t run screaming from her, either. She was average weight and height, taller than A.J., but shorter than Samantha. She’d been tempted to highlight her long brown hair, but simply hadn’t found the time after taking over her father’s class schedule. Her unusual topaz brown eyes were her best feature and she often wondered if she’d inherited them from the mother who had given her up for adoption. She glanced down at the emerald ring on her right hand, the vibrant color reminding her of her father’s eyes. He’d given her the ring on her sixteenth birthday. They’d been on a research trip in South America that summer and she’d had a crush on one of his graduate students, but the man had been oblivious to her.