Blazing Midsummer Nights. Leslie Kelly

under the stars with a handsome man. It should sound heavenly. But instead it sounded … just okay. As okay as everything else in her life lately.

      Okay is fine. Okay is better than wounded and lonely. Okay is better than wondering what the hell is wrong with you since the last few rounds of ring-around-the-relationship ended with you in the used-and-heartbroken seat.

      She’d been following her libido instead of her brain and had lived to regret it. So her brain needed to be in charge from now on. And her brain said okay was good enough.

      “Sure, thanks,” she said, lowering the glass.

      She let Dimitri lead her to the flagstone patio, which was being used for dancing. Mimi held her breath, looking up at his handsome face—all slashing, GQ-magazine-cover cheekbones, haughty brows, dark green eyes that watched her closely. She was waiting for a frisson of sensation, a spark at the brush of his tall, lean body against her own, but it just didn’t happen.

      Maybe it never will. Maybe acknowledging that he’s handsome and smart, and liking him will do.

      She did like him, and respected him. She doubted he’d hurt her—the fact that she wasn’t desperate for him should be enough to insulate her from too much pain if things went south. And it would certainly make things nice in terms of the business, not to mention her rocky relationship with her dad.

      In this day and age, no self-respecting woman would marry a man just to please her father, and Mimi wouldn’t, either. But considering her old man swore she’d said every word in the dictionary except “Dada” as an infant, just to spite him, she didn’t think extending an olive branch was such a bad thing. It wasn’t just wanting to keep things smooth at work. She also didn’t want to fight with him because she knew it upset her mother, who’d been playing the role of peacekeeper since Mimi took her first steps. So would it really be such a hardship to let herself drift into a relationship with a man most women would consider a Greek god, who was also rich, smart and nice?

      No. It wouldn’t.

      It was time to rid herself of the I-want-it-hot fantasies and move into the next phase of her life. The settle-down-and-marry-a-nice-handsome-man-and-have-a-family phase. Which meant maybe it was time to move her relationship with Dimitri up a notch … and closer to her bedroom.

      She thought about it. The party would wind down in an hour or two. Afterward, she could invite him into her apartment for a drink. They’d kiss. She’d move close, let her breasts brush against his chest. Tangle her legs between his. She wouldn’t resist when he slid his hand up her thigh, edging her dress ever higher. Until he reached her. “Oh, hell,” she mumbled.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked.

      “Nothing,” she insisted, feeling heat stain her cheeks.

      Nothing except she was in no way dressed for seduction. Oh, sure, she was on the outside. But underneath her slinky, sexy dress, she wore what every other self-respecting American woman who didn’t want a single bulge showing wore: Spanx.

      She’d loved this dress the minute she saw it, though it had been a size smaller than she usually wore. A pair of superstrong control-top panties had seemed a small price to pay … but they weren’t going to lend themselves to a romantic atmosphere. He’d probably have to get power tools to drag them off her.

      Only one thing to do. Ditch the drawers.

      The evening was getting late, it was dark, people were drinking. Who’d notice if she switched into something sexy and her dress suddenly fit a little too tightly? Nobody, that’s who. And maybe doing it—getting ready for seduction, feeling the silky glide of lingerie against her most intimate parts—would get her in the mood to act on her plan to seduce him.

      “Would you excuse me? I need to run inside for a minute.”

      To pry off my underwear.

      “Of course,” he said, releasing her. No argument, no suggestion that he go, too, so they could continue their dance in private. How—boring—refreshing.

      Thrusting aside those thoughts, she turned away from him toward the house. But she hadn’t taken one step when she heard a woman nearby whisper in a loud, tipsy voice, “Whoa, mama, who’s that?”

      Curious about the comment, which sounded as though it should have been accompanied by a purr, she glanced toward the gate, and her breath caught in her throat.

      Anna stood there, and beside her was a stranger. A tall, dark-haired stranger, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else.

      The jeans looked good. The nothing, fantastic.

      He was shirtless, shoeless, sweaty. His slick, tanned body gleamed under the twinkle lights, lines of oh-so-interesting skin striped with equally interesting shadow. His broad shoulders looked Atlas-size, and his thickly muscled arms flexed as he swiped a hand through his jet-black hair.

      She couldn’t make out whether he was as handsome of face as he was of body. But she definitely noted that his six-pack abs were so perfect they ought to be sold in a liquor store and come with a warning label.

      Whoa, mama, indeed.

      “Mimi? Are you all right?”

      She tore her attention off the stranger and glanced at Dimitri, who was watching her curiously.

      “I’m fine,” she told Mr. Handsome.

      But, heaven help her, she could not stop wondering about the identity of the new arrival.

      Aka: Mr. Hot.

      TALK ABOUT MAKING a bad first impression on his new neighbors. Not only was Xander McKinley so not the garden party type, but he was also bare-chested, sweaty and probably stunk from having lugged boxes all evening.

      He had fully intended to stay inside tonight, to ignore the party going on in his new backyard. He was a stranger to these people, and while it had been nice of his landlady to extend the invitation, he hadn’t even considered intruding. He still hadn’t gotten his head wrapped around the whole Southern-gentility thing, since Georgia was like a different world from Chicago. But he knew it wasn’t mannerly to barge in on a party when the invite had only been extended out of politeness. So he’d planned to just finish hauling in the last of his stuff, which he’d picked up from the storage unit this afternoon, then unpack a few boxes and settle into his new home.

      Unfortunately, settling in hadn’t included hooking his new key to his key ring. So when he’d run outside to grab one last thing out of the truck—sans shirt and shoes—he’d also found himself sans key. And locked out.

      “I’m so sorry about this,” he repeated to his new landlady.

      Anna waved away his apology. “I should think you’d know how to get in without a key, being a dashing firefighter and all.”

      “I didn’t think you’d want me ramming the door down.”

      “Best not. Anyway, it’s just as well, since it forced you to come out and meet everyone,” she said.

      He gestured toward his sweaty, bare chest. “I’m not exactly dressed for a party.”

      “Well, I won’t let you back into your place until you promise to come back after you’ve gotten cleaned up.”

      “I don’t know….”

      “I do. No more arguments.” The woman led him to a row of chairs in a gazebo, grabbing an oversized purse that was covered with peace signs and jingled with every movement. “I don’t have a key to your front door with me, but I have a master that fits all the secret doors.”

      “Secret doors?”

      “You probably didn’t notice it—every unit has one. The one in your unit is inside what’s now your bedroom closet. It leads into the screened porch.” She grabbed a jangling ring of keys and removed a small, antique-looking one. “Here