A High Stakes Seduction. Jennifer Lewis

       What was happening?

      Her brain wouldn’t form thoughts at all, but her mouth had no trouble responding to his.

      Heat rushed through Constance to her fingers, which were suddenly on the soft cotton of his shirt. She felt his hands on her back, his touch light and tender. His tongue met hers, sending a jolt of electricity to her toes.

      The stubble on his chin scratched her skin slightly as the kiss deepened. His arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in their embrace. She dug her fingers into the roping muscle of his back, plucking at his shirt as their lips moved together.

      A humming sound startled them both and they broke the kiss. “My phone,” he murmured in a low voice. He didn’t reach for it. Still frowning slightly, he raised a thumb and smoothed a strand of hair from her cheek.

      She blinked, wondering what had just happened. And why? “I really must …” She wasn’t even sure what she really must do. Go to bed? Take a cold shower? Throw herself out the window?

      Did he really just kiss her?

      A High Stakes Seduction

      Jennifer Lewis

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      JENNIFER LEWIS has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember and is thrilled to be able to share them with readers. She has lived on both sides of the Atlantic and worked in media and the arts before she grew bold enough to put pen to paper. She would love to hear from readers at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.jenlewis.com.

      For Dwnell

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Many thanks to my editor Charles Griemsman.

      Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       One

      “Just get rid of her as quickly as possible. She’s dangerous.”

      John Fairweather scowled at his uncle. “You’re crazy. Stop thinking everyone’s out to get you.”

      John didn’t want to admit it, but he too was rattled by the Bureau of Indian Affairs sending an accountant to snoop through New Dawn’s books. He glanced around the grand lobby of the hotel and casino. Smiling staff, gleaming marble floors, paying customers relaxing on big leather couches. There was nothing he didn’t love about this place. He knew everything was aboveboard, but still...

      “John, you know as well as anyone that the U.S. government is no friend of the Indian.”

      “I’m friendly with them. They gave us tribal recognition. We ran with it and built all this, didn’t we? You need to relax, Don. They’re just here to do a routine audit.”

      “You think you’re such a big man with your Harvard degree and your Fortune 500 résumé. To them you’re just another Indian trying to stick his hand in Uncle Sam’s pocket.”

      Irritation stirred in John’s chest. “My hand isn’t in anyone’s pocket. You’re as bad as the damn media. We built this business with a lot of hard work and we have just as much right to profit from it as I did from my software business. Where is she, anyway? I have a meeting with the contractor who’s working on my house.”

      The front door opened and a young girl walked in. John glanced at his watch.

      “I bet that’s her.” His uncle peered at the girl, who was carrying a briefcase.

      “Are you kidding me? She doesn’t look old enough to vote.” Her eyes were hidden behind glasses. She stood in the foyer, looking disoriented.

      “Flirt with her.” His uncle leaned in and whispered. “Give her some of the old Fairweather charm.”

      “Are you out of your mind?” He watched as the woman approached the reception desk. The receptionist listened to her, then pointed at him. “Hey, maybe that is her.”

      “I’m serious. Look at her. She’s probably never even kissed a man before,” Don hissed. “Flirt with her and get her all flustered. That will scare her off.”

      “I wish I could scare you off. Get lost. She’s coming over here.”

      Plastering a smile on his face, John walked toward her and extended his hand. “John Fairweather. You must be Constance Allen.”

      He shook her hand, which was small and soft. Weak handshake. She seemed nervous. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fairweather.”

      “You can call me John.”

      She wore a loose-fitting blue summer suit with an ivory blouse. Her hair was pinned up in a bun of some kind. Up close she still looked young and was kind of pretty. “I’m sorry I’m late. I took the wrong exit off the turnpike.”

      “No worries. Have you been to Massachusetts before?”