One Summer At The Beach: Pleasured by the Secret Millionaire / Not-So-Perfect Princess / Wedding at Pelican Beach. Melissa McCloneЧитать онлайн книгу.
as it moved, and really those lips alone were seductive enough.
As for what he’d actually said…
The blush deepened. But she didn’t have a chance in succeeding a second time. She’d have to get naked—and that she didn’t want to do. She’d never forgotten the look on Neil’s face. The way he’d recoiled. Everything would change.
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All about the author…
Natalie Anderson
Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, NATALIE ANDERSON decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them—and boy, is it that. Especially writing romance—it’s the realization of a lifetime dream kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boon® novels.
She lives in New Zealand with her husband and four gorgeous but exhausting children. Swing by her Web site, www.natalie-anderson.com, anytime—she’d love to hear from you.
For Bridge: over twenty-five years of
best-friendship. Cool huh? I’m banking on
at least sixty more…
And Kate: for all those Thursday mornings,
awesome F&H adventures, yummy veggie
dinners—not to mention the book on Peru!
Thanks so much.
SYDNEY: sun, surf and shopping. All that was missing was the sex.
Sienna smiled as she crossed the beach, the soles of her feet tingling on the hot sand. Beautiful bodies decorated the shore and she cruised through them, winding her way back up to the footpath. Oh, yeah. If she ever went to a doctor again this would be the only prescription she’d pay attention to. One week of pure holiday—preparation time before her big adventure. Her first week where no one knew about her health or her history—the fresh beginning she’d been hanging out half her life for.
She paused to let a couple stroll by in front of her. Tried not to envy the way the woman oh-so-casually wore her teeny tiny triangles of material—aka her bikini. Crimson-red with shoestring straps, it revealed more than it concealed and she had both the body and boldness to wear it. Sienna didn’t have either. She didn’t want the looks, the ill-concealed curiosity or pity. She didn’t want the speculation full stop. Hence her throat-high top—even though it did cling and her miniskirt was more on the mini than the skirt side. And sure she’d spotted the odd sideways glance her way from a couple of men. As usual she’d shied away from them. She could never show her cleavage the way that woman did. Irritation increased her pace and she lectured her wavering confidence—must improve assertiveness quotient! How was she ever going to tick her way through her list of ‘must achieve’ activities if she couldn’t even hold a stranger’s gaze for more than a split second? How was that ‘living in the moment’—her new motto?
Suddenly touched by melancholy she crossed the street, moving away from the beach and into the pub, club and café scene. She needed to buck up—wasn’t it her New Year’s resolution to live life to the max? Take no prisoners? Maybe she’d go dancing with the girls she’d met at the hostel the previous night. Full of adventure and fun, they’d be able to teach her a few tricks. At least she could hang on for the ride and watch. But that was what she was sick of—being the one on the sidelines, unable to participate because she wasn’t allowed. Well, now she was allowed. And there was no one here to tell her she couldn’t, wouldn’t or shouldn’t. But nor was there anyone to tell her she could, would or should either. She wished Lucy were here, her crazy friend who had all the gumption and the heart as well. The person who’d shown her some fun in spite of the restrictions all those years. But she’d had to come away alone—needing to prove to herself that she could do it. Because then she’d truly believe it and could insist others recognise it too.
She glanced at her watch. A bit after three p.m., the lunch crowd had moved on and everyone was back at work—except the tourists, travellers and holiday-makers like her. The restaurant and club a couple of blocks down from the hostel had its doors wide open—circulating air on the steamy Sydney day when the humidity was high and the thunderstorm approaching. She hoped it would happen soon; she wasn’t used to the hard-to-breathe air.
Then she heard it. Boom, boom, hiss, boom, boom, hiss—the unmistakable strike of stick on drum and cymbal. It stopped and then started again. Then she heard the twang of a rough chord on an electric guitar followed by a disembodied male voice. ‘One, one. Two, t-t-t-two.’
Sound check.
Suddenly she felt right at home, right at ease, and her legs just walked her in there—right into the open bar that was closed for business. To where the band was onstage and the rehearsal was happening. Four guys were up there, dressed in shorts and tees and the lead singer had the skinny boy star look and mandatory crazy hair. She slipped in the back, enjoying the breeze from the fans, watched the drummer with envy, her fingers itching.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t stay here. The bar’s not open yet.’
Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from the drum kit to the man who’d walked up beside her. She blinked. Once. Again. Then rapidly a couple more times to try to make her silly eyes focus. My God. So men like that really did exist? The kind that would have every woman in the vicinity immediately doing their pelvic floor exercises because they knew, absolutely knew, that keeping up with him in the bedroom would require some spectacular performance.
Sienna’s whole body tensed—especially her pelvic floor.
Steely grey eyes with a smidgen of green regarded her. They were surrounded by dark lashes and topped with strongly curved dark brows. Great combination. But it was his mouth that had her flexing—the fullest, most sensual lips she’d ever seen on a man.
She blinked again and broke the contact. Looked down and in that speck of time took in his exhilarating appearance once more. He wore designer board shorts with artless ease and a close-fitting cotton tee shirt. His dark hair was clipped short and his sandals were of soft-looking leather. Details burnt into her brain in rapid-fire succession. But it was his hands she lingered on as they rested on his arms folded across his chest. Large palms and long fingers—he’d have no trouble reaching a couple of octaves on the piano. Nails so neat you’d think they’d been professionally manicured.
He must be gay.
She saw his glance slip over her as he paused too. Saw the hint of censure cloud into something else. The green light grew. The go-ahead signal. Attraction.
Not gay.
She snuck in a breath and remembered what she’d been going to ask. ‘You mind if I watch a while?’ Her voice seemed to have lost all power. It was some pathetic trickle of its usual timbre and the way he was looking at her, she’d lose all ability to speak or think at all. Man, he was hot.
He kept staring at her and she stared back, intrigued to see the green in his eyes intensify. His stance, with his arms banded across