Brazen & Burning. Julie Leto

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      “You don’t have to stop,” Sydney said, pouting

      Adam wished he hadn’t. His fingers had been almost there, working their way up her thighs, getting closer and closer to home. Then a cupboard had slammed in the kitchen, striking Adam with instant awareness of where he was—and what he’d been about to do. Yanking his hands from Sydney’s legs, he rocked back on his heels, his body thrumming, every inch of his flesh aroused. “My sister’s in the other room.”

      “Then let’s go somewhere private.”

      Sydney didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed that they’d almost made love, with Adam’s sister only a few steps away. Her expression reflected only desire—the hot, unadulterated need to feel his hands on her body, no matter what.

      “I don’t know you,” Adam said.

      She learned forward, grabbed his hands and pressed them to her rib cage. Her breathing wasn’t quite as steady as she let on, and the moisture seeping through her paper-thin blouse testified to a heat more intense than the ninety-degree temperatures outside. She was burning up from the inside out…and she wanted him to know it.

      “You do know me, Adam. Better than any man ever has. You just don’t remember right now, that’s all.” She ran her finger over his lips, her voice a throaty purr. “But you will….”

      Dear Reader,

      Let’s clear one thing up right here and now. I am not Sydney Colburn. Or rather, she’s not me. Yes, she’s a romance writer…like I am. Yes, she has a smart mouth…like I do. But that’s where the similarities end, I swear. That’s the beauty of being a writer—indulging all sorts of fantasies, like wearing designer clothes, driving a candy-apple red Corvette convertible and executing a seduction of a man who looks particularly yummy in blue jeans and a tool belt.

      This series—and the book—have been a ball to work on. Not only did I get to revisit several characters from other books (Cassie Michaels from What’s Your Pleasure? and Jillian Hennessy from Just Watch Me…) but I had the chance to work with talented authors Leslie Kelly and Tori Carrington! Our BAD GIRLS CLUB is open to new members, so make sure to stop by my Web site, www.julieleto.com, and sign up!

      Enjoy,

      Julie Elizabeth Leto

      P.S. I’ve written a BAD GIRLS CLUB novella for the ultimate bad girl, rock-and-roll diva D’Arcy Wilde! Check it out at this month’s “Red-Hot Read” at www.eHarlequin.com.

      Brazen & Burning

      Julie Elizabeth Leto

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Leslie Kelly, good friend, and Bad Girls Club head honcho…thanks for inviting me to join this series.

       Right up our alleys, huh? When we’re bad, we’re better.

      For Lori & Tony Karayianni, aka Tori Carrington…working with you never feels like work. Come up and see me sometime.

      For Renée Perkie and her generous Ladies Lunch Group…your support means the world to me. Here’s to more good books, good food and good fun…though on second thought, goodness has nothing to do with it.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Epilogue

      1

      TO STOP THE INFERNAL KNOCKING, Sydney Colburn swung her front door open. Bright light sent her stumbling backward, but she managed to catch the doorknob for balance. Unable to form a curse harsh enough to express her ire, she opted to growl.

      The person who had driven her to this indignity had the audacity to sound amused. “Are you always this cheery at twelve noon or are you just really happy to see me?”

      Sydney squinted, fighting the blinding light—the noon hour explained the glare—to find out who had the frickin’ nerve to show up at her door sounding so incredibly buoyant when Sydney had a raging hangover. Her anger deflated when she met Cassie Michaels’s eyes—sapphire-blue and wide with nineteen-year-old innocence.

      Sydney knew Cassie’s innocent act wasn’t entirely fake. With a petite body and naturally dark hair plaited in youthful braids that reminded Sydney of Gilligan’s Mary Ann, Cassie played the ingenue card for all it was worth. But Sydney had known Cassie too long to completely buy her sweet young thing act. Still, she let her inside the condo anyway. Cassie was, after all, the niece of Sydney’s very best friend in the world. The very best friend who was indirectly responsible for her drinking binge the night before. And Syd was pretty sure that Cassie had been the one to make sure she got home safely last night.

      “Shut the door before I show you how thrilled I really am,” Sydney threatened feebly, stumbling away from the threshold and cursing herself for mixing vodka and rum. Or was it tequila and gin? She didn’t remember. She didn’t need to remember. Whatever she’d drank the night before had been blended with something pink. Grenadine? Cranberry juice? When she opened her fridge searching for something to quench her thirst and caught sight of a jug of Ocean Spray, she gagged, thankful she had no breakfast in her stomach and, therefore, none on her floor.

      Why hadn’t she eaten yet if it was noon? Oh, yeah. She’d just woken up. Why had she gotten out of bed again? Right. Loud knocking. Cassie.

      The pint-size brunette strolled into her kitchen as if she’d been there a thousand times before. Which she probably had. “Have a good time last night?”

      Sydney would have growled again, but she hated to be redundant. “Why are you here?” she asked instead.

      “Aunt Devon wanted me to check on you.”

      “Liar. Devon’s on her honeymoon.”

      Cassie slid a chair out from under the kitchen table, filling Sydney’s head with a horrible screeching noise that obliterated the first couple of words of Cassie’s answer.

      “…drank more than all the groomsmen put together. And I’m a little concerned that binge drinking may be your way of dealing with being the last single woman in your circle of friends.”

      “Let me guess,” Sydney said, pulling out her own chair much more quietly, “the first class you’re taking at Tulane is Pop Psychology.” She had no intention of answering Cassie’s intrusive question. Besides, she didn’t have an answer. She didn’t want to accept that she’d drunk herself into oblivion last night all on account of a cliché.

      Poor, unmarried me. No single friends left to hang with. No man in my life to make my world complete.

      Blech.

      “No, but I read Dr. Phil’s newest book on my plane ride home for the wedding,” Cassie answered. “Besides, I’m nineteen. That makes me a certifiable expert on everything, remember?”

      Remember what? Nineteen? Sydney snorted. She couldn’t remember last night, much less something that had occurred over eleven years ago. Besides, she’d tried damned hard to suppress most memories from around ages ten to twenty. Those years were formative and filled with more mistakes, missteps and misery than she ever wanted to relive.

      However, just around the time of her twenty-first birthday,