âTrust me. Your technique leaves nothing to be desired.â
Eve breathed in deeply.
Carter leaned into her. âNow that weâve established that, maybe itâs time I seized the opportunity.â
âSeized the opportunity?â
âTo have my way with you.â
Oh. His offer should have sounded tacky. Instead, because it was offered in such a lighthearted, self-mocking tone, it sent shock waves of desire through every fiber of her being. âDo you have a habit of saying things like that to all women?â
âNo. Never. It must be something you bring out in me.â He gave her a little squeeze.
She worked her lower lip. She wasnât the kind of person who could ignore the obvious. Yes, she wanted Carter. She looked up into his face, noticing for the first time that he had a freckle half-hidden in the hairline at his temple. It looked entirely kissable. And thatâs what scared her silly.
Dear Reader,
Lingerie is one of the few things a woman can indulge in that doesnât add extra pounds to her hips. Besides, as we all know, itâs also a necessity. Whose mother hasnât advised her to always wear good underwear in case of an emergency?
And speaking of indulging, what better profession to give my newest heroine, Eve Cantoro, than owner of an upscale lingerie shop? After years of being responsible for four unruly younger brothers, Eve finally achieves blissful independence and a chance to focus on her professional ambitions. But her successful business attracts trouble, starting with a serial lingerie thief. Enter Carter Moran, a police detective with a seriously sinful smile and a passel of secrets all his own. The solution to the crimes, as well as true happiness, means they both need to learn a few things along the way. Not surprisingly, a silky little camisole comes in handy on the journey.
So curl up with Eve and Carter and indulge in your own silken fantasies. After all, your mother was right about some things.
Many thanks to Anne Zuckerman for teaching me the finer points of the lingerie business.
All the best,
Tracy Kelleher
IF IT WERENâT FOR THE RED tap pants, Eve Cantoro never would have known that she had problems.
Of course, problemsâlike underwearâcame in all shapes and sizes. And one thing Eve knew was underwear.
Men, especially relationships involving men, were another thing. Take the man standing next to her.
âYou say they were here?â Detective Carter Moran pointed his index finger dangerously close to the hairless, triangular juncture of the modelâs legs. He hesitated, then dropped his hand abruptly. âI mean, there?â
Eve nodded. âYes, there.â She looked at the stylized, gray mannequin and sighed.
Why was it that when confronted with womenâs lingerie, men inevitably fell into two categories? The first were the sniggering lechers who sounded off about âsome women always wanting it,â implying they could easily supply the âit.â The second were the embarrassed types who, in contrast, seemed incapable of saying or doing anything beyond spouting beads of sweat along their upper lips and getting a petrified look in their eyes.
Detective Moran stood thereâon the verge of jumping into one or the other category. He stared at the model in the store window and rubbed his jaw. A very nice, square jaw, Eve noted. âGive me a second, will you?â he said slowly. âIâm trying to be cool hereânot make some tasteless comment or drool out of the side of my mouth. Either would, Iâm sure, be totally offensive to you andâat least in terms of my fragile male egoâabsolutely mortifying. Iâd be forced to find the nearest brick wall and bang my head against it repeatedly.â
My God, the detective was different after all. What a surprise.
Eve didnât normally like surprises. They tended to mean extra work, extra time, even extra pain. The one and only time she had submitted to getting her legs waxed was in the throes of an unrequited infatuation with her car mechanic. Well, the man did know his way around her carburetor.
But it wasnât very often that a surprise came so neatly packaged, and rarely had a male specimen done so much to promote a positive image of law and order. At least, not in Eveâs thirty years of experience. At well over six feet, Detective Moranâs broad shoulders very nicely filled out the jacket of his charcoal-gray suit. And while fine tailoring seemed to be the order of the day, Detective Moran didnât appear to need any added padding, thank you. If it werenât for the high price tagâpresumably beyond a copâs salaryâshe would have sworn the glad rags had the definite look of Paul Stewart, traditional but definitely more stylish than Brooks Brothers. Just look at the trousers.
Yes, look at them, Eve thought. Most conservative trousers were usually cut so generously that there was enough material to fashion a spinnaker for a forty-foot yacht. But Detective Moranâs trousers, on the other handâor on his particular legs, to be more preciseâdiscreetly highlighted the well-developed muscles of his thighs.