commitment send him running in the opposite direction. Until a wild Vegas
weekend puts him on a collision course with Eden Bankcroft-Kew, a New York
heiress running away from her blackmailing fiancé…the morning of her wedding.
tailored suit any day of the week. But now all she can think about is Mr.
Rugged Handsome, six-feet of sinfully sexy country charm with a pair of green
eyes that keeps her tossing and turning all night long.
he’ll walk away without fighting for her heart. And maybe, just maybe, two
wrongs can make a right.
In fairness, Brightwater, California, didn’t host a large population. For a healthy man who liked the ladies, it didn’t take long to make the rounds at The Dirty Shame, the local watering hole. Vegas getaways meant variety, a chance to spice things up, although a threesome with Crystal and Donna—Deborah? Deena? Dazzle?—was akin to swallowing a whole habanero.
He reached into the shower and flicked on the tap as a warm furry body hopped across his foot. “Shit!” He vaulted back, nearly going ass over teakettle, before bracing himself on the counter. A bewildered white rabbit peered up, nose twitching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He squinted into the steam with increased suspicion. Hopefully, Crystal’s act didn’t also involve a baby crocodile or, worse, a boa constrictor. He hated snakes.
The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.
He’d always prided himself on being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a difference between dwelling on past mistakes and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?
The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose-to-nose with the blank stare of the old-man ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in shock.
“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.
“Uh … morning, beautiful.” Thank God for matching dimples, they’d charmed him out of enough bad situations.
“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream of becoming a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Great Uncle Sam talk dirty, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.
It was a whole lot less funny now.
“Hey, D, would you mind giving me a sec here? I’m going to finish rinsing off.” When in doubt, he always referred to a woman by her first initial, it made him sound affectionate instead of like an asshole.
“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.
Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.
Okay think … Dinah? No. Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”
Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”
And so was her expression.
Not even close.
“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Gorgeous name. Makes me think of rain and … and … rainbows … and …”
“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it the next morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him.
Add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.
Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You don’t fight back against a woman, even if she is trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s demented elderly uncle.
This book was just so smooth, so relaxing and enjoyable, so NICE. That’s my overwhelming feeling after finishing it, it was just nice. Which I think is both ironic and kind of the entire point of the Brightwater series. It’ supposed to be relaxing, inviting and give you the feeling that you are coming home to a comfortable place. That’s exactly how this book feels…like the most comfortable place to spend your time.
The main characters are amazing in this book. Actually, I preferred both Archer and Edie significantly over the main characters of the first book. They both have good hearts, brave romantic notions and clever funny senses of humor. I laughed alot, I I rooted for them both to do the right thing…ALOT. I was happy when they were happy and sad when they were sad…ALOT. Archer is a special kind of sweet and Edie has a surprisingly special kind of strength. And the town of Brightwater is an enticing kind of character all it’s own, with Grandma Kane, Sherriff Sawyer, newspaper editor Annie and a host of other familiar faces. Grandma was especially engaging in this book, showing a new side to her personality that is a pleasant addition.
There was not a whole lot of angst or conflict in this one, little pockets of it here and there, but nothing significant, which was perfectly fine with me. Instead of that distracting me from the book, it really drew me in. This book was a quick read for me, it flowed so smoothy that that time flew by, another sign of a good book for me. This book was a huge step in the right direction for this series and I’m looking forward to the next one.
After studying at the University of Montana-Missoula, she scoured the world
armed only with a backpack, overconfidence and a terrible sense of direction.
She counts shooting vodka with a Ukranian mechanic in Antarctica, sipping yerba
mate with gauchos in Chile and swilling XXXX with
stationhands in Outback Australia among her accomplishments.A British literature fanatic at heart, Lia considers Mr. Darcy and Edward
Rochester as her fictional boyfriends. Her very patient husband doesn’t mind.
Much. When not torturing heroes (because c’mon, who doesn’t love a good
tortured hero?), Lia herds unruly chickens, camps, beach combs, daydreams about
future books, wades through a mile-high TBR pile and schemes yet another trip.
Right now, Icelandic hot springs and Scottish castles sound mighty fine.