Champagne Rules (37 page)

He wanted to include her in his life. “Oh my God,” she said again.

He tugged her hand, then pulled her into his arms for a searing kiss. When they broke apart, he said, “I know it’s early in our relationship, and there’s lots of things to figure out, what with our careers and living in different cities. But what I do know is, we have something special, Suzanne.”

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly. “Yes, we do. When I saw you in the clinic, when I looked into your eyes—”

“It was like Crete,” he broke in. “The connection between us is too strong to be denied. So let’s stop trying.” He laughed.

“You know, we owe a lot to those Champagne Rules.”

“We do?”

“When we realized we had more fun breaking them than keeping them, that’s when our relationship really began.”

She smiled back. “Time for a new set of rules, I guess.”

“Hell, let’s throw out all the rules. Let’s just go for it. All of it.”

She gazed up at him. The sexiest, most handsome man she’d ever seen. Her red-hot lover and her dear friend. Was he Mr. Cleaver? Only time would tell.

She began to smile. “Yes, let’s go for it. Whatever ‘it’ turns out to be.”

“Can you get off work early?”

“I’m betting Trish figures I’m already gone. I’ll pop my head back in and confirm it, and get my purse and keys.”

He pulled her back toward the clinic. “Hurry, then.”

“Aren’t you coming in with me?”

He glanced down. “Like this? I don’t think so.”

He flicked his suit jacket aside so she could see his erection pressing against the grey trousers. And then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Suzanne? I’m wearing the boxers.”

“I’ll be right back!”

“And then we’ll find a hotel room, and open that bottle, and toast the end of the Champagne Rules.”

Acknowledgments

I’ve been waiting a while to be published in book-length fiction, so I have a lot of people to thank.

The first is Nick Franson, for giving me Natalie Goldberg’s
Writ-
ing Down the Bones
and helping me discover what I really wanted to do with my life: be a writer. And for believing and making me believe I could do it.

My mom, Sylvia Hart, and my stepdad, Ted Hart, were amazing, offering constant encouragement and never suggesting I find a more sensible—and lucrative—way of using my law degree. I’m just sorry my mom didn’t live long enough to see my first book in print, but I’m thrilled to share this moment with Ted.

Huge thanks to my partner, Doug Arnold, not only for having faith in me but also for suffering the day-to-day trials and tribulations of life with a writer. I wish I could say things will be easier now I’m published, but the truth is, I’m going to be spending even more time off in a dream world with my imaginary friends. Special thanks to my fantastic critique group, Betty Allan, Michelle Hancock and Nazima Ali, for their helpful insights, their fun and stimulating company, and their amazing tolerance for reading and analyzing yet another sex scene. I couldn’t have done it without them. Thanks too to fellow Kensington author Nancy Warren, who’s been a friend, colleague and inspiration for many years.

One of the joys of being a writer is finding a community of like-minded eccentrics, and I’m blessed and honored to be a member of the Greater Vancouver Chapter and the Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America. Last, but absolutely not least, I want to thank my editor Hilary Sares and Kensington Publishing Corp. for taking a chance on a new writer and making my dream come true.

I invite my readers to visit my website at
www.susanlyons.ca
, e-mail me at
[email protected]
or write c/o PO Box 73523, Downtown RPO, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6E 4L9. 

WELCOME TO PARADISE. IS IT HOT

ENOUGH FOR YOU?

Stretch out on the sizzling sands of Pleasure Beach, the perfect

escape from reality—and the gateway to your wildest, wettest

seaside fantasies . . .

Pretender

McCall Lindsey needs a place to lay low—and no haven could be more alluring than Pleasure Beach, where a case of mistaken identity gives her the chance to unleash her inner bad girl with her gorgeous next-door neighbor—a man who won’t rest until he explores every inch of her eager body . . .
Same Time Next Week

Kinsey Carlyle says no to her straitlaced boyfriend’s marriage proposal. But when a no-strings-attached weekend with a roughand-tumble cowboy on Pleasure Beach leads to days of bedroom bliss, Kinsey can’t say anything but
yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .
Jack of Hearts

His vacation house on Pleasure Beach is a peaceful retreat for cardiologist Jack McMillan—until the best friend of his ex’s sister moves in next door. Radio talk show host Royce St. Clair has the voice of an angel . . . along with a body to tempt the devil himself. And as luck would have it, she’s ready, willing, and more than able to help Jack indulge his wickedest desires . . .

Leave your inhibitions in the shade and bask in the heat of

Pleasure Beach, where endless summer means endless ecstasy . . .

Her lawyer turned and strode away without a backward glance, obviously confident his orders would be followed. And, of course, they would. She was great at following orders.

“Who’d believe you’re a woman on the run?” she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. “McCall Lindsey, honor student, Girl Scout, all-around boring and blah.” Even the highlights she’d recently added to her shoulder-length, wren-brown hair hadn’t helped. Instead, they gave her the look of a demented skunk. With a sigh, she headed her beat-up Escort toward the parking lot exit. The air conditioner spit out stale-smelling, hot air while she waited for a break in traffic.

She blinked back tears. “How did you get yourself into this mess?”

Fund-raising may not have been a career she’d aspired to, but she’d been danged good at it—well, until Sunshine International charged her with embezzling the multimillion-dollar funds from the Summers Group and fired her. Now it was a safe bet she’d never work in that field again. Seeing a break in traffic, she pushed the little accelerator to the floor mat and zipped into the flow, ignoring the squeal of brakes and honking of several horns.

Against the steering wheel, the key her lawyer had tucked into her hand bit the tender flesh. A week at the beach might not be too bad. Labor Day was over. Maybe a little seclusion was just what she needed. Time to regroup and gather her thoughts about what she’d do with the rest of her life. She gave a watery laugh.

Or to plan her suicide.

Derek Summers broke his pencil in half, then threw it at his legal advisor.

“Hank, you told me it was a legitimate and worthy cause, a good tax write-off. I hate publicity! You know that! That idiot attorney has subpoenaed me! Me!” He threw his hands up. “I don’t even do interviews. No way in hell am I appearing on every tabloid by going into a courtroom!”

“Now, don’t get your shorts in a wad, Derek,” Hank Connors soothed. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you out of it.”

Derek regarded the man who’d been legal counsel for the Summers Group for three generations. The man looked older than dirt, but if he said he’d do something, it usually got done.

“Why don’t you go home, now, Mr. Summers?” Hazel, his almost equally ancient secretary, asked from across the room. Hazel had been Derek’s father’s secretary and knew more than he’d ever care to know about the family business. “Have you taken your blood pressure medication today?”

“Damnit, Hazel! Don’t coddle me! And for your information, I went off the pills almost a year ago. So stop asking. I’m fine.”

The two employees exchanged looks, which set him off again.

“I saw that! You two think I’m overreacting.”

“Mr. Summers, calm down.” Hazel flipped through the appointment book she always carried. “You were scheduled to leave for your beach house this morning.” Through the magnified lenses of her rhinestone-encrusted glasses, her brown eyes stared meaningfully at him. “Why don’t you head on out before the traffic gets any worse?”

His shoulders slumped, all fight gone. “Whatever.” He jumped to his feet and jerked his navy sportscoat from the back of his desk chair. “When I get back next week I expect you to have things worked out, Hank.”

“I’m already on it, boss,” Hank assured him. “I’m checking into the background of the prime suspect.” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “A Miss McCall Lindsey.”

McCall’s
service-engine
light blinked on by the time her car wheezed to a stop beside the rental beach house on South Padre Island. Trying to ignore its possible implications, she focused on the house looming above her.

Made of redwood and glass and surrounded by decks on each level, it was easily three times the size of the little house she rented in the Heights section of Houston. Her ring snagged the side of her best skirt when she climbed out of her car. Dang. Why hadn’t she changed before heading out?

She looked down at her hand. Her eyes filled with tears. The miniscule diamond was missing from the promise ring Joel had given her three years ago.

It hadn’t been all that valuable, and Joel had long since moved on and even married someone else. But that tiny gold ring had meant something to her. It meant someone had once thought enough about her to promise to think about proposing. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but it had been all she’d had.

And now it was gone. Along with everything else in her life. Listless, she tugged the ring from her finger and stuck it in the zipper compartment of her nylon wallet. When she found her next job, she would see about replacing the stone. After all, besides the diamond studs Hattie Brubaker gave her, it was her only other piece of jewelry that was worth anything. The handle broke off her rolling suitcase when she attempted to drag it from her cramped trunk.

“Great,” she grumbled “No job, no husband or even a significant other, no good jewelry and now this. On a scale of one to ten, I’m a minus.”

Unzipping the bag enough to slip the tips of her fingers inside, she dragged it through the sand toward the steep steps that led from the parking area to the back deck. When that failed, she yanked on the suitcase until she came to the steps.
Drag, plop. Drag, plop.
Dang suitcase wasn’t going to defeat her. It was slow going, but she finally reached the deck.

“Wow.” Waves rolled to shore, their sound soothing her. In the distance sea gulls called. A faint tinge of pink showed on the horizon.

She looked around the spacious deck. In the far corner, closest to the sliding doors, sat a hot tub that would easily hold six adults. She peered into the churning water, impressed by the thoroughness of her lawyer’s preparation.

“Death by hot tub. . . . No.” She shook her head. “All that hot bubbling water would bloat my body. It would be nice to leave a good-looking corpse.”

After fumbling with the key, the heavy glass door slid open on its well-oiled track.

The cool darkness of the interior greeted her. When her eyes adjusted, she took in the decor—well, what there was of it. The large room held an array of massive furniture, some leather, all overstuffed. Great fieldstone fireplace, although who would build a fire at the beach? She shrugged and walked into the kitchen.

“Nice,” she noted, liking the way the sunset gleamed off the stainless-steel appliances. “Good to have in case I’m overcome by a Martha Stewart moment.”

Dragging her suitcase to the curved staircase, she dragged the bag up the stairs until she walked into what had to be the master suite.

“Oh my gosh.” Her fingers released their death grip on top of the suitcase. It fell with a soft thud, spilling its contents across the plush sea-blue carpeting.

The curved outer wall was entirely glass. She picked up a remote control and pushed a button. With a soft whir, the glass parted, allowing the surf to echo, giving the illusion of being held within a giant seashell.

The huge, round brass bed beckoned her. Taking an uncharacteristic hop backward, she sprawled on it, rubbing her hands and now bare feet against the raw silk spread. The warm duskypeach color of the spread glowed in the impending sunset. Feeling hedonistic, she rose to strip off her sensible business suit and fling it across the room. Her serviceable white cotton bra and underwear followed. Of course she would just have to pick them up and put them away later, but for right now, she would live her fantasy.

Being a good girl never got her anywhere. It was time to discover her inner wild woman. She opened the bottle of sleeping pills Hattie insisted she bring with her and popped two in her mouth. So what if they always made her sleep like the dead? What did she have to wake up for, anyway? There was no job to get to, nothing and no one to meet. Naked, she padded to the open window and looked over the stretch of beach to the Gulf. Below her was the edge of the lower deck, some rocks and sand. Lots of sand. 

“Death by sand diving. . .” She rubbed her arms and stepped back. “Too abrasive,” she said to the sunset. A huge yawn escaped her. Stretching, she walked to the bed and climbed onto the sinfully decadent spread, wondering if it had satin sheets.

She yawned again. The long drive caught up to her, causing her muscles to ache, eyelids to droop. The sound of the surf beckoned her. A sunset swim before the pills took effect would be great.

Maybe she’d just rest a few minutes before she put on her bathing suit.

Her hand stroked her nudity from breast to hip and she smiled. No one would believe goody two-shoes McCall Lindsey was experiencing her wild side.

“Yeah,” Derek spoke into the mouthpiece of his cellular headset as he flipped on his turn signal. “I’m turning in right now.” His Porsche Boxster purred to a stop in the garage of his beach house. He turned off the ignition and scrubbed his face with one hand while he stretched. “Jack, I appreciate the thought, but I’m beat. I had a long drive and traffic was a bitch.”

He stepped out of the car and popped the trunk. “My birthday isn’t until next week, but thanks.” He set down his suitcase and sighed. “What’s the hurry about me getting the birthday present you left at your place?”