âHeidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!â
âwww.cataromance.com
âThe amusing opening spins into an emotional and heartfelt story.â
âRT Book Reviews on Hot-Shot Tycoon
âI was actually breathless while reading this bookâ¦.
Itâs a sensual ride you wonât want to lose the opportunity of reading.â âwww.thePinkHeartSociety.com on Public Affair, Secretly Expecting
HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores âthe Big Smokeâ, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). Sheâs been a film buff since her early teens and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon>® novel.
Heidi loves to hear from readersâyou can e-mail her at [email protected] or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com
The Good, the Bad and the Wild
On the First Night of Christmas ⦠Unfinished Business with the Duke Public Affair, Secretly Expecting
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
TAKE a chill pill, pal. This is a make-up emergency.
Pouting into her rear-view mirror, Ruby Delisantro tuned out the blare of a car horn from behind her and concentrated on applying a quick coat of Rose Blush Everstay lip gloss to calm jittery nerves.
Sheâd had the small but exclusive chain of Hampstead brasseries on her hit list for over a year. It had taken her months to get this afternoonâs appointment with their chef and she wanted to look her absolute best before she started the long search for a parking space.
The squeal of brakes and the teeth-jarring jolt that followed was a little harder to ignore thoughâas it shot her forty-quid tube of Rose Blush straight up her nose.
âFor Peteâs sake!â
Extricating the lipstick from her left nostril and hastily repairing the damage, she leapt out of her car. Having some bozo rear-end her was not the best way to prepare for her career-defining moment. Plus sheâd just had Scarlett serviced and MOTâd at a cost of two hundred and twenty pounds. If any harm had been done to her beloved Bug, someone was going to die.
âHey, hotshot. Whatâs your problem? Donât you know where your brake pedal is?â she yelled at the man shielded behind the windscreen of the fancy Italian convertible pressed up against her bumper.
Typical. Only in Hampstead. A boy racer driving a lot more car than he can handle.
Gripping the top of the windscreen, Boy Racer jerked upright and jumped out of his car in one athletic movement. Rubyâs lungs ceased to function and the fervent wish that sheâd actually lost the six pounds sheâd been debating losing for nearly a decade flitted through her mind.
This was no boy. This was most definitely a man.
A tall, strong, long-limbed, super-gorgeous man with close-cropped dark hair, broad shoulders and slim hips expertly displayed in worn, low-slung jeans. His eyes were disguised behind a pair of expensive sunglasses, but the manly dent in his chin and the shadow of stubble defining chiselled cheeks werenât doing a thing for Rubyâs breathing difficulties, especially when his head dipped.
Is he checking me out?
âWhatâs my problem?â He threw up his hands, making his muscular torso ripple under a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan: âBarristers do it on a trial basis.â âWhatâs your problem, lady? Youâre parked in the middle of the road.â
Ruby gulped in air to kick-start her lungs and took a moment to consider her response.
The good news was, Ruby Delisantro loved to flirt. And she was remarkably good at it. She adored the spark and sizzle of sexual attraction, the tantalising tension of verbal foreplayâand a chance to flirt with someone this good-looking didnât present itself every day. Not only that, but the figure-hugging dress sheâd picked up at Camden Market last week turned the extra weight sheâd been carrying around since she was seventeen into a major asset.
The bad news was, Mr Super-Gorgeous also had a super-large stick up his backside about women drivers and seemed to be virtually oblivious to her fabulous frock. Which meant he was either gay, a misogynist or didnât have a sense of humour. Any one of which should have been a major turn-off.