Exposed: Misbehaving with the Magnate

Luc reached for her the momentthey were seated in the relativeprivacy of the car.

His fingers were in her hair, expertly seeking and removing pins as his lips slanted over hers and demanded she open for him. He groaned when she did, the raw and needy groan of a man pushed to his limits, and his tongue began a fiercely sensual invasion, stripping her of everything but the need to respond. Gabrielle wrenched her lips from his and pushed him away with an unsteady hand.

‘Drive,’ she ordered raggedly.

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere.’ Although… ‘Maybe not Caverness.’ Her courage did not extend to flaunting her intimacy with Luc in her mother’s face—not because of what she might think of her, but because Gabrielle feared that somehow, heaven only knew how, she would turn her feelings for Luc into something ugly. ‘My room.’

‘Caverness is my home, Gabrielle.’ His voice was as ragged and strained as hers. ‘Sooner or later I will want you there.’ But he drove towards the old mill, and said, as they exited the car and strode towards the front door, ‘I aim to stay the night.’

Accidentally educated in the sciences, Kelly Hunter has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds, and losing herself in a good book. Husband… yes. Children…two boys. Cooking and cleaning…sigh. Sports…no, not really—in spite of the best efforts of her family. Gardening…yes. Roses, of course. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home. Visit Kelly online at www.kellyhunter.net

Kelly’s novel SLEEPING PARTNER was a 2008 finalist for the Romance Writers of America RITA^>® award, in the Best Contemporary Series Romance category!

Look out for

REVEALED: A PRINCE AND A PREGNANCY

the second book in Kelly’s deliciously sexy duet

Hot Bed of Scandal

Available later this year!

Dear Reader

I found the setting for this story on my way from the Netherlands to France via the back roads. The history of this part of Europe captivated me: the castles and the caves, the churches and the cafés… My stepsisters, born and raised in this part of the world, delighted in bringing the cultural details alive for me. I had my setting. I had my characters. I had a smart, sophisticated tale of true love all lined up.

I never dreamed that when I returned to Australia and finally began to write out would pour a simple coming home story. Oh, I love coming home stories—don’t get me wrong. Barbara Samuel’s superbly written NoPlace Like Home saw to that. But where was my smart, sophisticated tale, rich in all those cultural details I’d collected? Could it really be that the most joyous moment of a fascinating trip came at the very end, when I walked through the doorway of my home and into the arms of my family?

Yes. Yes, it could.

Write what you know. I’ve heard that before. Not always practical when writing about heiresses and princes and billionaire tycoons. Not always practical when your childhood was wonderfully ordinary and life is better than fine. Sometimes what you know simply isn’t enough, and you have to imagine the rest. I imagined plenty when it came to writing this story, but there was one truth I clung to—one vivid and powerful emotion that made this story real for me. I wanted my heroine to find her way home.

Happy reading!

Kelly Hunter

BY

KELLY HUNTER

To Maytoners.

And Puppies.

CHAPTER ONE

‘BREATHE IN, breathe out,’ muttered Gabrielle Alexander as she stood and stared at the daunting wooden door that led to the servants’ quarters of Chateau des Caverness. She knew this door, knew the feel of it beneath her palm and the haughty hollow sound the brass knocker made when it connected with the wood. Gabrielle had been sixteen when she’d last walked through this door; sixteen and shattered at the thought of leaving everything she knew and loved behind. Such turbulent times, thought Gabrielle with a wry smile for the girl she’d once been. How she’d pleaded with her mother to be allowed to stay; Lord, how she’d begged and argued and finally wept. But the people she’d loved had not loved her. Josien Alexander had shipped her daughter off to Australia with a heart as hard and as cold as an arctic iceberg.

All because of a kiss.

‘It wasn’t even a good kiss,’ muttered Gabrielle as she stared at the door and dug deep for the courage to put her hand to the knocker and make it do its thing. Seven years had passed; Gabrielle knew a lot more about kissing these days. She knew the feel of hot sweet kisses on her lips. Ragged greedy kisses on her skin. ‘It was a very ordinary kiss.’

Liar, said a little inner voice that would not remain silent.

‘A practice kiss. A practically meaningless kiss.’

Big fat liar.

‘So shoot me,’ she murmured to that little voice inside her. ‘You remember it your way and I’ll remember it mine.’ She grasped the knocker and lifted it. ‘Better still, let’s not remember it at all.’