Hot And Bothered. Liz Maverick
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Living la belle vie is the best revenge...
Hosting a fabulous party is the perfect cap-off to Cassie Hagen’s successful business trip in Paris. Living in the land of decadent macarons, French fashion and champagne is great—especially compared to her past life as the scholarship student at a tony New York private school.
Then Jack Marchand shows up. Sure, he’s hot, French and superapologetic about how he humiliated her in high school. He was all of her firsts: her first lover, the first to break her heart and the first to dump her after one night together.
Jack has never forgotten Cassie. He’s determined to prove he’s changed and win her back. As an apology, it’s pretty much perfect. Deliciously so. But Cassie isn’t quite ready to forgive him.
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women.
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon.
This is my first book since having a baby. And let me tell you, nothing makes your fantasies seem more exciting than the reality of a new baby. Apparently, my sleepless mind had an agenda, one that involved three hot Frenchmen (not all at once...although, hmm...), gorgeous designer clothes and a fabulous apartment in Paris. I’ve learned quite a bit in a very short time. Such as the fact that I can read Cosmopolitan, shop online and even type a manuscript with a sweet baby girl sleeping in a carrier strapped to my chest.
My future might look a lot different than my past, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting back to Paris anytime soon, but that’s the beauty of stories, right? They take you where you want to go and you don’t even have to leave Brooklyn.
I hope you enjoy meeting the Marchand brothers, aka “The French Revolution.” I plan to spend quite a bit of time with them, and I hope I’ll see you there, too.
Enjoy the read and definitely stop by lizmaverick.com and give me a shout!
Yours,
Liz Maverick
Hot and
Bothered
Liz Maverick
Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women.
Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon.
Contents
If it’s Friday, it’s Paris, I thought with a grin as I looked at the two open bottles of champagne clutched in my hands. Man, I loved my job. My personal life was nonexistent, but my job? Yeah, I could put a nice big green check mark in that box. I sat crossed-legged next to my sister, Anna, on the floor of the nicest kitchen this side of the Seine’s left bank, swilling French bubbly.
Our view of the rest of the apartment spanned out in front of us like something from a celebrity magazine feature. Pastel-blue drapes in duchesse satin. White cane armchairs. Cream-colored marble and gold-leaf accents. My handiwork. I traveled the world buying and decorating upscale vacation rentals for my employer, Brooks Property. Until I was out of town and the property went on the market, it was mine to do with what I liked.
This time I was throwing a twenty-fifth birthday bash for Anna. Usually, I’d just sun on the private decks or take a lot of hot baths in the ever-present “spa tubs” these tony places inevitably featured. Frankly, it was much more fun having someone to share it with. I just wished the other people Anna had invited to share it with hadn’t included the Marchand brothers. That was the funny thing about saying, “Do whatever you want.” People do. And now, after ten years of dodging, I was going to have to open my door to Jack Marchand with a smile on my face.
“We probably should have bought a baguette and some cheese,” Anna said, also double-fisting bottles. She took a gulp from the left, a gulp from the right, squinted and then finally put the bottles on the floor. “Is it wrong that I just want to go with the pretty pink stuff because it matches my dress?”
“It’s your birthday,” I said, looking with some amusement at my sister, all peaches-and-cream complexion, plump curves and pink fuzzy sweater. Of course she wanted pink champagne. Apart from our matching blue eyes, we were opposites. I had a closet full of slim little black dresses, black leggings and black sweaters to go with dark hair that I sometimes dyed darker. We had six different bottles of the finest champagne Paris had to offer in front of us, and she just wanted the pretty pink stuff.
But for the first time in my life I had plenty of money, and if my little sister wanted two thousand bottles of the pretty pink stuff, that was what she was gonna get for her special day.
Anna came back from the refrigerator with a massive brick of butter, a knife and a box of crackers we’d bought earlier in the day at the Monoprix. “Maybe I’ll meet someone at the party,” she said, handing me a slathered round.
“You know everybody. They’re your guests.”
“Yes, but people change. And people bring dates they won’t leave with. And people also get divorced. God, this butter is good.”
“You’re the only person I know who can make that sound not entirely as awful as it should.”
“I just wish I understood men a little bit better. They can be so—”
“Disappointing?” I suggested.
“Confusing.