Waiting For Mr. Wonderful!
He was the pefect man…Tall, dark and handsome, Frenchman Jean-Claude Lasalle wasn't just Mr. Right, he was Mr.Wonderful! Only, his divorce had left him wary. He had made a vow never to marry again…. But Jean-Claude loved women. It had never been his plan to live without them!All he needed was the right womanAnd then he met Georgia Dee. She wanted a man who would say "I do," and mean it! She needed Jean-Claude's help, not his practiced charm. But there was nothing he enjoyed more than crossing swords with a spirited woman. Unless it was making love to her….
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“I do want to help you, Miss Dee...About the AuthorTitle PageCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECopyright
“I do want to help you, Miss Dee...
“Put it down to my passion for helping damsels in distress.”
“So, you’re a white knight in disguise? I stopped believing in fairy tales when I was twelve years old.
“But you still believe in monsters?” The deep blue eyes looked steadily into hers. “And though, alas, I’m definitely no white knight, I can help you fight the monster Duval.”
The next moment, she was drowning in the black-fringed blue eyes, feeling the warm physical aura of him wrap around her like an embrace. Jean-Claude Lasalle was clearly under the illusion that all he had to do to win any woman over was just look at her with those wonderful eyes of his and treat her to one of his heart-stopping smiles. And no doubt it usually worked. Women would drop like nine pins at his feet. She’d very nearly dropped herself. it was the raw sexuality of him. Some rare magic he possessed.
Stephanie Howard was bornand brought up in Dundee in Scotland, and educated at the London School of Economics. For ten years she worked as a journalist in London on a variety of women’s magazines, among them Woman’s Own, and was latterly editor of the now-defunct Honey. She has spent many years living and working abroad—in Italy, Malaysia, the Philippines and in the Middle East.
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGIA knew instantly who the dark-haired stranger was, even though she’d never set eyes on him before. It had to be the Frenchman. She was absolutely sure of it. Deep inside, she felt a quick dart of fear.
He was seated on the wooden bench that stood against the front wall of the house beneath a glorious canopy of April-flowering wisteria. And, though it was obvious that he was waiting for her, he appeared not to have noticed her sudden arrival outside the front gate. His head was bent over the newspaper spread out on his knee.
So, for the moment at least, she had the advantage. Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, Georgia pushed the gate open and stepped onto the gravel path.
‘Excuse me. Can I help you?’ Her tone was clipped as she strode towards him. Who did he think he was, making himself at home in her front garden?
He glanced up at once, quickly folding his newspaper and tossing it down beside him on the bench. Then, as though he hadn’t noticed her angry expression, with a slow, lazy smile he began to rise to his feet.
‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. I am Jean-Claude Lasalle.’
The instant he’d glanced up, Georgia had stopped in her tracks, her anger and fear abruptly forgotten. Suddenly, quite unconsciously, she was holding her breath. He was the most gorgeous-looking man she’d ever seen in her entire life.
Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he was tall and muscularly lean. You could sense the whiplash power beneath the expensive-looking blue suit. And he exuded from every pore a poised, raw dynamism that seemed to turn the very air electric. Georgia felt herself shiver. This man had sex appeal to burn.
He started to come towards her. ‘Forgive me for taking the liberty, but the seat looked so inviting and I didn’t really want to wait out in the street.’
As he spoke, Georgia was aware of his eyes travelling over her. Swiftly. Expertly. Taking in every detail. Every nuance and shadow of her pale-skinned oval face with its wide hazel eyes and—in her opinion—over-generous mouth. Every shiny, shoulderlength strand of her mahogany-dark hair.
Devoured in a single glance! I’ll bet he’s even soused that I curl my eyelashes! she thought wryly.
Then as his gaze moved downwards, taking her in from neck to toe, she had the very strong impression that he’d also worked out the fact that beneath her fitted cerise wool suit she was wearing nothing but her underwear!
To her annoyance, she felt a flicker of warmth inside her. Shame on you, Georgia! she said to herself. You ought to be mad at him, but in fact you actually rather enjoyed that!
He stopped right in front of her, extending his hand in greeting, and now it was Georgia’s turn to take a closer look at him—though she was considerably more discreet about it than he’d been! And the first thing she had to acknowledge, though it hardly seemed possible, was that Jean-Claude Lasalle was even more gorgeous up close.
His tanned, sculpted face with its strong nose and well-shaped mouth exuded a vibrant, powerful intelligence, and he had the most remarkable eyes, which at first Georgia had believed to be brown, but which she could see now were an astonishing deep cobalt-blue and fringed with lashes that any woman would envy. His hair, which flopped engagingly over his forehead, was as glossy as silk and as black as a raven’s wing.
She accepted his proffered hand, which clasped hers with strong, cool fingers in a handshake that sent a delicious electric charge up her arm. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’m Georgia Dee.’
