As Bad As Can Be

Earlier, Shay had watched her dance as though he’d been under some spell. Seeing her sway and tease, he’d imagined what it would be like to taste her, to feel her body against his. Imagination was nothing compared to the reality, though.

Hot and sweet. Her flavor infused him, left him craving more.

They were in the bar cellar, he struggled to remember, running his hand down her back to where her top ended and warm skin began.

Then he felt her begin to stroke him and he groaned, abandoning his attempts at control in the face of the delicious friction, the tantalizing touch. He pushed her back against the wall of kegs and kissed her hard.

The door at the top of the stairs slammed open. “Mallory, get up here quick. There’s a fight,” someone yelled down.

They broke apart, breathing hard, eyes wide.

Jeez, what’d gotten into him, acting like this with a practical stranger? At least he knew her name now. And not just any her—she was a woman, a real woman.

A woman who was going to be on his mind, possibly for the rest of his life.

Dear Reader,

I’ve loved writing the miniseries Under the Covers. I was in the middle of writing Scoring when Mallory Carson showed up, a woman with a twist of humor on her lips, shadows in her eyes and a heart of pure gold. Of course, she also had a stubborn streak a mile wide. I got so intrigued that I sent her to Newport, Rhode Island, home of the Gilded Age mansions, and introduced her to pub owner Shay O’Connor. All I had to do then was sit back and watch the fun. They say opposites attract—wait ’til you see what happens when a woman who’s as bad as can be takes on a man who’s as good as they come. Watch for the Under the Covers finale coming in July 2003, titled Slippery When Wet.

Newport is a very special place for me. It’s where my husband and I got engaged and has a rich and romantic history, so I loved setting a book there. Be sure to drop me a line at [email protected] and tell me what you think. Or drop by my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my latest book.

Have fun!

Kristin Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my parents, Frank and Ena Louise Lewotsky, for making me believe in true love, and for Stephen, for making it real.

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

“COME ON, DAVE, you want me to have Screaming Orgasms, don’t you?” Mallory Carson leaned back in her chair, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other as she gave her best smoky glance to the man behind the desk. It was his office, but she owned it now.

Dave gave her a rueful look and smoothed his ginger-colored moustache. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing I’d like better than to give you screaming orgasms, but you’ve already hit your limit for the month.” He studied the sheet in his hands. The sheet shook a little as Mallory piled her long dark hair on top of her head with her hands, tightening her skimpy blue sweater over her breasts. “You’ve only been a customer for four weeks,” he protested. “You’ve only lived here for five. We can’t extend your credit line until you’ve been with us longer. You know the rules.”

Mallory had never come across a rule that couldn’t be bent, especially when the person in a position to do the bending was a man. “We’ve been packed to the gills for the last two weeks,” she said persuasively. “People drink. How am I supposed to have a bar called Bad Reputation without Screaming Orgasms?” She leveled a look at him. “You’re my supplier, Dave. What am I supposed to do?” It was like bluffing in poker, she thought to herself. Stay cool and never act like it matters.

Dave tapped his fingers on the desk. “Business is that good, huh?”

“Business is great,” Mallory said smugly, releasing her hair to fall back over her shoulders and trying to ignore the tension in her stomach muscles. “Newport’s never seen anything like us before. But it’s going to slow down in a hurry if I have to tell customers I can’t make their drinks. Am I going to have to go somewhere else?” Come on, Dave, she thought, bite.

He hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he said decisively. “I’ll extend your credit line for two weeks, but I need a good faith deposit of $500 today.”

A slow smile bloomed over her face as she let out an imperceptible breath of relief. “No problem,” she said lightly. “Cash do you?”

“Cash works for me. While we’re making arrangements, let me tell you about the sweet deal I can cut you for your draft beer. We’ve just picked up the Sam Adams account.”

“I’m all for sweet things, Dave,” she said lazily. “Tell me what you’ve got in mind.”

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE GORGEOUS Indian summer days when the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. Mallory drove her little truck along the Rhode Island back road, hauling a load of paper goods back to the bar that had become her life, and pondering Dave’s deal. In eight months, when she turned thirty, she fully expected the bar to be ticking along like a cash machine. A far cry from her most recent gig in Lowell, Massachusetts, running a back street sports bar.