Aspiring writer Kelli Dalton needs a man, and fast. When she’s rear-ended by a sexy-as-sin biker on the way to a Vegas romance readers convention, she sees her chance. If he’ll pose as her fake boyfriend long enough to impress a bestselling author, Kelli has a shot at saving the bookstore for underprivileged kids she runs back home.
Quinn Anderson doesn’t know what to make of the cute little writer who stirs his heart and his libido, but he does know he wants to get better acquainted. And if that means keeping up their sexy ruse all week, he’s game.
Quinn knows girl like Kelli deserves someone with a secure future to help with her store, not a guy struggling to turn a profit on his chopper shop. But if his motorcycle designs win the big Vegas competition, he’ll have enough prize money to fund his dreams…and hers.
Teri Anne Stanley began her writing career with scientific articles—followed by a three-ingredient recipe column, but wasn’t allowed to write sex scenes for them—so now she writes fun, sexy romance filled love, angst and nekkid parts.
She’s also worked as a fashion designer for female body builders and a sex therapist for rats. In her spare time, she is a neuroscience research assistant. Along with a variety of teenagers and dogs, she and Mr. Stanley live just outside of Sugartit, which is—honest to God—between Beaverlick, and Rabbit Hash, Kentucky.
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Lying on the hot asphalt of Las Vegas Boulevard waiting for death to take him, Quinn reflected that he’d never envisioned his life ending under the chassis of a mass-produced hulk of acid green hybrid auto. He’d hoped to go quietly in his sleep when he was ninety-seven, but if it had to be a bike wreck, it should have been spectacular—fiery and with lots of twisted metal. Not with a thunk.
He also hadn’t expected to be aware that he was dying. His lungs had stopped working, even though he tried to pull in air. This sucked.
Well, at least it was a Ford Fusion and not a Prius. Although a Prius probably wouldn’t have been that green—
“Oh no, oh no, ohnoonononono.”
The voice was coming from somewhere to his right, he thought, as his vision got fuzzy. But the sound distracted him enough to pull in a breath. He forced himself to lie perfectlystill, fighting the need to thrash and gasp like a refugee from Hillbilly Handfishin’.
Something poked his upper arm.
“Please don’t be dead,” came from somewhere near the poking thing, in a drawl that was half honey and half
husky—and all morning wood.
He turned his head toward the voice and took another breath. Okay. Not dead if he could hear and respond to the sound of a female. Even though he was on a self-imposed break. No more females. Especially not the kind who drove preppy cars. Nope. It was him and Mr. Handy from here on out.
Breathe in, out. Good. Ribs intact. And nothing else felt terribly beat up, either.
Something knocked on his helmet. “Is it okay to help you take this off? Your neck’s not broken, is it?”
The sun glared down on the visor of his helmet, blinding him—so he put a hand up and found another, smaller, softer hand already there.
She was still talking and apparently not expecting a response—which was good, because once she flipped up his visor, he would have directly answered the breasts spilling out of the top covering the body attached to that voice.
The aches in his bruised bones coalesced in his groin. He wasn’t one of those assholes who talked to women’s chests. At least, not usually. But damn. And these particular breasts led to a nice curvy little body, as far as he could tell from this angle.
She was quiet for a second, then said, “You look a little dazed. I should probably call 911.”
That was when he finally found her face. Heart-shaped, all rosy-cheeked and wholesome, with strands of light brown hair coming loose from where it was fastened in the back. The face of an angel to go with that fifties pinup body. Throb.
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