To Jane, who swoops in to save my butt with everything from food to child care and only ever asks for a book to read in return. Here you go, Jane; this book is for you, with my heartfelt thanks for being a super friend.

      And I owe another shout out to the fantastic Cristina Lynn (www.CristinaLynn.com), who gave me the perfect song for the epilogue to Lorelei and Donovan’s story.

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE ONLY THING WORSE than waking up naked in a strange bed was realizing there was someone else sleeping in the bed, too.

      Someone male.

      The bright light on the other side of her eyelids sent pain streaking through Lorelei LaBlanc’s head as she tried to piece together exactly what the hell was going on … and who she’d just spent the night with.

      She forced herself to lie still; jumping right up might wake her companion, and she didn’t want to get straight into a confrontation before she had a handle on things.

      Think, Lorelei, think.

      She had a hangover that would slay a mule, and it hurt to think. How much champagne had she consumed in the end?

      Connor and Vivi’s wedding had gone off without a hitch; all of the four hundred guests had had a fabulous time. The church had never looked better, and the hotel had outdone itself with both the decor and the food. She’d been at the head table for dinner, but once the dancing had begun and the champagne had really started flowing … Well, that was where things began to get a little fuzzy. She remembered having a small, good-natured disagreement with Donovan St. James over …

      Her eyes flew open.

      Oh. My. God.

      Bits and pieces of the night before came rushing at her with distressing speed and clarity.

      Carefully, so as not to aggravate her hangover, she rolled slowly to her other side. Sure enough, Donovan lay there on his back, bare-chested, with only a sheet covering his hips and one leg. His hands were stacked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

      She swore under her breath.

      “Right there with you, Princess.”

      The amused sigh in Donovan’s voice put her nerves on edge. “What the hell happened last night?”

      He had the gall to look pointedly at the tangled sheets—which she was currently trying to pull over herself in a belated attempt at modesty—and raise an eyebrow. She really wasn’t ready to go to the whole we had sex bit just yet. She cleared her throat. “I mean, how? Why?”

      “How? Buckets of champagne. And there were tequila shots involved. As for why …” He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”

      Tequila explained a lot. Jose Cuervo was not her friend. I’ve done some stupid stuff in my life, but this? With Donovan St. James? And now? A chill ran down her spine. If she’d publicly done something … Oh, her family was really going to kill her this time. Her sister would be first in line.

      “Please just tell me we didn’t make a scene at the reception,” she whispered.

      “I don’t think so. It’s a little blurry, but I think the reception was pretty much over before …”

      That alleviated a bit of her immediate worry; being stupid wasn’t quite so bad as long as there wasn’t an audience for the stupidity. Now, though, she had to face the fact she’d had sex with Donovan St. James.

      No red-blooded woman would question her taste. Donovan had poster-boy good looks: deep green eyes, inky black hair with a slight wave that he wore long enough to look a little dangerous, and skin the color of the café au lait she desperately needed to combat this monster hangover. The high cheekbones and square jaw now shadowed with dark stubble spoke to a heritage as mixed as New Orleans itself—if one could pick the best bits and discard the rest.

      Donovan definitely rated high on the hummina scale. Good looks, though, were pretty much all he had going for him, in her opinion. Why had he even been invited to the wedding? It must have been a professional or courtesy invite. At least a hundred of the guests had fallen into that category. But the St. James family was the worst kind of nouveau riche—using money to buy influence and respectability—and if Donovan had any class at all, he’d have RSVP’d no to what had obviously only been a polite gesture.

      But money couldn’t buy class, that was for sure.

      And she’d slept with him. She must have reached an astonishingly new level of intoxication to completely lose all her self-respect.