An Invitation to Sin

‘I have a feeling that whatever I do, I will always be in the wrong.’

Taylor felt a flicker of sympathy. ‘I know that feeling.’

‘I’m sure you do. You, Taylor Carmichael, are one big walking wrong.’ His gaze lingered on her mouth. ‘So tell me what else is on your list of banned substances.’

‘Men like you.’

‘Is that right?’ His eyes on hers, he lowered the champagne bottle back into the fountain. Somehow, without her even noticing how he’d done it, he’d moved closer to her. His dark head was between her and the sun and all she could see was those wicked eyes tempting her towards the dark side.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Testing a theory.’ His mouth moved closer to hers and suddenly she struggled to breathe.

‘What theory?’

‘I want to know whether two wrongs make a right.’ His smile was the last thing she saw before he kissed her.

USA TODAY bestselling author SARAH MORGAN writes lively, sexy stories for both Mills & Boon^>® Modern^>™ and Medical Romance^>™.

As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer and although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.

Romantic Times has described her writing as ‘action-packed and sexy’ and nominated her books for their Reviewer’s Choice Awards and their ‘Top Pick’ slot.

Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading, Sarah enjoys music, movies and any activity that takes her outdoors.

Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my editor, Lucy Gilmour, with thanks.

Of all the things we shared over the years, winning the RITA^>® was the best. xx

‘ZACH? WHERE THE hell are you? You’d better not bail on me because I don’t think I can do this without you. Any moment now I’m going to give in and eat carbs and that is going to be the end of this dress. When you get this message, call me.’ The phone almost slipped from her sweaty palm and Taylor gripped it tightly. It was just a wedding. Just a bunch of people she didn’t care about and who certainly didn’t care about her. It shouldn’t be enough to put her in this much of a state. She was only here because the producer of her latest film had insisted on it.

She tried to take a deep breath but the dress wouldn’t allow her chest to expand. The designer had sewn her into it and then told her to send a text when she needed a bathroom break.

The Sicilian heat scalded her bare back and Taylor rolled her eyes at the absurdity of the situation. It was too hot to be sewn into anything and she’d kill before she allowed someone in the bathroom with her, which basically meant she couldn’t eat or drink. Not that she ate much anyway. The discipline instilled by her mother at a young age had never left her. She was used to feeling hungry but lately the cravings had got worse and she knew it made her irritable. She was likely to snap someone’s head off and if that happened she was going to make sure the head belonged to the member of the Corretti family responsible for her current discomfort.

She’d wondered if he’d had done it on purpose. This film was his baby. He’d probably briefed the designer to make sure no man could remove her dress and ruin her big comeback.

Zach was going to laugh when he saw her. She’d lived in jeans for so long and he’d never seen this side of her.

She’d stayed away from this for so long she’d forgotten how much she hated it. She hated the falseness, the agendas hidden behind air kissing and polished smiles.

Resisting the childlike temptation to bite her nails, she glanced at her slick manicure and was depressed to see her hand shaking.

She didn’t dare hold a glass of champagne. She’d spill her drink on her dress. Or, worse, on someone else’s dress and she knew how that would be interpreted.

Irritated with herself for caring what people thought, she dropped the phone into her bag.

It was pathetic to be reacting like this about something so trivial. The past couple of years had taught her what mattered in life. There were people out there with real problems and hers were all of her own making and all in the past.

She’d made bad decisions. Trusted people when she shouldn’t have done, but she was a different person now. Given time, she’d prove it.

And that was what today was all about, of course.

She was supposed to prove it.

No mistakes. No spilled drinks, however innocent the reason.

It didn’t matter if someone threw oil on the path in front of her, she wasn’t allowed to slip.