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Alex bit out a curse he hadn’t uttered since his college days. “I’m not the right guy for you, Isabel.”
She gave him a determined look. “I’m talking about a kiss. Not the rest of our lives. Please answer the question,” she pleaded, “otherwise I’m going to feel like a total idiot. Good or bad—I can take it.”
He pressed his hands to his temples. It had taken a lot of nerve to ask that question. And it had been his mistake in ever admitting he found her attractive. “Yes,” he conceded finally. “I want to kiss you. But—”
“Alex.” The tension in her face slid away. “Get on with it, will you?”
“This is an insanely bad idea,” he groaned.
But he was already stepping into her and lowering his mouth to the lush temptation in front of him. One kiss couldn’t hurt—could it?
JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance and adventure since filching her sister’s Harlequin Mills & Boon® novels to escape her teenaged angst. She penned her first romance at nineteen. When it was rejected, she bristled at her mother’s suggestion that she needed more life experience. She went on to complete a journalism degree and to intern as a sports broadcaster before settling into a career in public relations. Years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world provided perfect fodder for the arrogant alpha males she loves to write about, and free research on some of the world’s most glamorous locales.
With a suitable amount of life experience under her belt, she sat down and conjured up the sexiest, most delicious Italian wine magnate she could imagine, had him make his biggest mistake and gave him a wife on the run. That story, THE DIVORCE PARTY, won her Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write contest and a book contract. Turns out Mother knew best!
With the first item on her bucket list complete, Jennifer is now working her way through the rest. She put Number Two in the bag when she talked her way into the jumpseat of an Airbus for landing on a flight from San José to Toronto, complete with headphones and a flight plan. The only thing missing was a follow-up date with the Robert Redford lookalike pilot. Figuring that Number Three—walking the runway as an angel at the Victoria’s Secret Christmas fashion show—is not likely to happen, she’s concentrating on Numbers Four and Five, which include touring Australia and building a dream beach house in Barbados.
A native of Canada’s gorgeous east coast, Jennifer now lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and their young Viking-in-training. She considers her ten-year-old-strong book club, comprised of some of the most amazing women she’s ever met, a sacrosanct date in her calendar. And some day they will have their monthly meeting at her fantasy beach house, with waves lapping at their feet, wine glasses in hand.
You can find Jennifer on Facebook and Twitter.
Changing Constantinou’s Game
Jennifer Hayward
For the Watermill Writers—
Alison, Helene, Jo, Lesa, Louise, Pippa, Rachael, Sharon and Suzie. Remembering my week with you all in Tuscany, listening to stories of rhinestone-studded cat collars, peach thongs and lines like ‘flattered but not tempted’ puts a smile on my face always. I love you all.
And thank you to Mike, the elevator repair technician who took away some of my drama, and who also educated me on how very, very safe elevators are! I think I’ll take the less dramatic ride for the rest of my life. :)
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AS FAR AS luck went, Manhattan-based reporter Isabel Peters had been enjoying more than her fair share of it lately. She’d managed to nab a cute little one-bedroom on the Upper East Side she could actually afford, she’d won a free membership to the local gym, which might actually enable her to keep off the fifteen pounds she’d recently lost, and because she’d been in the right place at the right time, she’d landed a juicy story about the New York mayoral race that was putting her name on the map at the network.
But as she raced through the doors of Sophoros’s London offices, slapped her card down on the mahogany reception desk in front of the immaculately dressed receptionist and blurted out her request to see Leandros Constantinou, the look on the blonde’s face suggested her lucky streak might finally have run out.
“I’m afraid you’ve missed him, Ms. Peters,” the receptionist said in that perfectly accented English that never failed to make Izzie feel totally unworthy. “Mr. Constantinou is already on his way back to the States.”
Damn. The adrenaline that had been rocketing through her ever since her boss had texted her as she was about to board her flight home from Italy this morning and sent her on a wild-goose chase across London came to a screeching, sputtering halt, piling up inside her like a three-car collision.