The Shameless Playboy

“Grace …” Something urgent was overtaking him, almost shaking him.

“Do you really think I don’t know you want me too?”

They were so close, the rain pounding down all around them, stranding them beneath a noisy umbrella. Wolfe Manor, with all of its howling ghosts and terrible memories, faded away until there was nothing but the weather, this umbrella, and this overly polite, overdressed woman who had somehow wedged herself under his skin.

And she was dismissing him.

“I want a great many things that are no good for me,” she told him. “No one should get everything they want. What kind of person would they be?”

“Me,” Lucas said, an odd note in his own voice, “They would be me.”

“Well,” she said after a moment. “Life is not about want, Mr Wolfe.”

Something passed between them, electric and alive, dancing in the breath of space between their bodies and jolting into him. “If I kissed you right now,” he said, his eyes trained on hers and the truth he could see there—the truth that resonated in him no matter what words she threw out to deny it, “I could make you forget your own name.”

That hung there like smoke for heartbeat, then another, and then, impossibly, she laughed.

At him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CAITLIN CREWS discovered her first romance novel at the age of twelve. It involved swashbuckling pirates, grand adventures, a heroine with rustling skirts and a mind of her own, and a seriously mouthwatering and masterful hero. The book (the title of which remains lost in the mists of time) made a serious impression. Caitlin was immediately smitten with romances and romance heroes, to the detriment of her middle-school social life. And so began her lifelong love affair with romance novels, many of which she insists on keeping near her at all times.

Caitlin has made her home in places as far-flung as York, England and Atlanta, Georgia. She was raised near New York City, and fell in love with London on her first visit when she was a teenager. She has backpacked in Zimbabwe, been on safari in Botswana, and visited tiny villages in Namibia. She has, while visiting the place in question, declared her intention to live in Prague, Dublin, Paris, Athens, Nice, the Greek islands, Rome, Venice, and/or any of the Hawaiian islands. Writing about exotic places seems like the next best thing to moving there.

She currently lives in California, with her animator/comic-book artist husband and their menagerie of ridiculous animals.

A powerful dynasty, where secrets and scandal never sleep!

THE DYNASTY Eight siblings, blessed with wealth, but denied the one thing they wanted—a father’s love.

A family destroyed by one man’s thirst for power.

THE SECRETS Haunted by their past and driven to succeed, the Wolfes scattered to the far corners of the globe.

But secrets never sleep and scandal

is starting to stir …

THE POWER Now the Wolfe brothers are back, stronger than ever, but hiding hearts as hard as granite.

It’s said that even the blackest of souls can

be healed by the purest of love… But can the dynasty rise again?

GRACE Carter glanced up from her computer, frowning at the figure that sauntered so confidently into her office high above the cold, wet February streets of central London, without so much as a knock on her door as warning.

And then she went very still in her chair. Something that felt like fire rolled through her, scorching everything in its path. She told herself it was indignation because he had failed to knock as any decent, polite person should—but she knew better.

It was him.

“Good morning,” he said in a low, richly amused and somehow knowing voice that seemed to echo inside of her. He seemed to smolder there in front of her, like a banked flame. She straightened in her seat in reaction.

“By all means,” she said, her voice cool, ironic. “Come right in.”

He was dressed in a sharp, sleek Italian suit that clung to the hard planes of his celebrated body and looked far too fashion-forward for the staid and storied halls of Hartington’s, one of Britain’s oldest luxury department stores, where conservative was the watchword in word, deed and staff apparel. His too-long dark chocolate hair was tousled and unkempt—rather deliberately so, Grace thought uncharitably—and fell toward his remarkable green eyes, one of which was ringed by a darkening bruise. It matched the split lip that failed, somehow, to dampen the impact of his shockingly carnal mouth. His cuts and bruises gave him a faintly roguish air and added to the man’s already outrageous appeal.

And well he knew it.

“Thank you,” he said, those famous green eyes bright with amusement, quite as if her invitation was sincere. His decadent mouth crooked to the side. “Is that an invitation into your office or, one can only hope, somewhere infinitely more exciting?”

Grace wished she did not recognize him, but she did—and this was not the first time she’d seen him in person. Not that anyone alive could fail to identify him on sight, with a face that was usually plastered across at least one or two tabloids weekly, in every country in the world. Showcasing exactly this kind of inappropriate behavior.