Alison Kent - No Strings Attached

Chloe’s question snagged his attention as she’d hoped. He studied her face as she brought her champagne flute to her mouth and sipped. His bright blue eyes, focused solely on her, did wonderful things to her senses.

She could still feel the brush of his knuckles through her panties, hear the catch in her breath when he brought her to climax. She could still see the swell behind the fly of his trousers….

His finger began a slow trail up her spine. “What are we doing as in why are we standing here instead of mingling?”

She shook her head.

“What are we doing as in why didn’t we stay in your office where we could be writhing naked by now?”

“Would we be?” She considered him carefully, letting her tongue dip in the bubbles of the wine.

“Look at me like that again and we’ll be writhing here where we stand.”

Dear Reader,

What do you want to be when you grow up?

If you’ve read my bio at www.blazeauthors.com, you’ll see that I didn’t know I wanted to write until I was thirty. And the rest of my family?

My older daughter, twenty, manages a pizza parlor and intends to focus her studies on marine biology. My younger daughter, seventeen and a high-school senior, has decided business is the practical way to go…for now. My son, twenty-two, dabbles in music while putting in ten-hour days at a “real” job. And my husband, a degreed geologist, works as a dot.com graphics specialist.

Life is nothing if not one surprise after another. Interests change. Economics boom, then bust. Any number of reasons can precipitate a change in careers—including capricious whims. (Who, me?)

In No Strings Attached, Chloe Zuniga, vice president of gIRL-gEAR’s cosmetics and accessories divisions, is making good use of her degree in fashion design. Or so she thinks…until she makes a devil’s bargain with Eric Haydon.

Enjoy! And keep an eye out for the third book of the gIRL-gEAR miniseries in May, when I’ll tell you about Sydney Ford’s first time. And her second time, which was Bound to Happen.

Alison Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Hollee, Megan and Casey.

You’re good kids. I think I’ll keep you.

And for my two career partners.

I can’t put into words what you mean to me.

I think I’ll keep you, too.

The gIRLS behind gIRL-gEAR

by Samantha Venus for Urban Attitude Magazine

Welcome back, dear reader, to the second installment in our series introducing you to the women behind the slogan “Urban Fashion for gIRLS who get it!” (And does anyone out there know exactly what it is we gIRLS are supposed to gET?)

Fashion would not be fashion without the finishing touches of cosmetics and accessories. The icing on the cake, so to speak. Which brings us to our gIRL of the month, Chloe Zuniga, veep of gRAFFITI gIRL and gADGET gIRL. Talk about icing! The woman knows makeup like nobody’s business. An absolute stunner!

Though I hear the firm’s recent publicity push is giving Ms. Zuniga a problem with her closet. (So many skeletons inside!) I’ll get the firsthand scoop at gIRL gEAR’s upcoming open house. And don’t think I won’t share every bit of the dirt!

Ms. Zuniga’s expertise will also be on display at the much-anticipated Wild Winter Woman Fashion Show, as well as at the first annual gIRL-gEAR competition, where she will be backstage before the program to advise the contestants. Be sure to visit www.girl-gear.com for the details.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

CHLOE ZUNIGA STEPPED inside the doorway to Haydon’s Half Time and flinched at the unholy blast of noise. What was it about team sports that turned a civilized gathering into a loutish milieu, complete with the roars, growls, honks and snorts of a teeming jungle habitat?

The primitive racket ricocheting off the sports bar’s walls had her longing for earplugs or cotton balls. Protective headgear, even. And she’d trade two gRAFFITI gEAR luxury spa packs for a can of air freshener right about now.

Fanning at a plume of cigar smoke with one hand, squinting into the gaudy neon glare, Chloe searched the raucous crowd for a pair of shoulders worthy of Tarzan.

If Eric Haydon wasn’t here, she was going to kill him.

The man had some nerve, refusing to return her phone calls, forcing her to resort to this ridiculous extreme. It was April, a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. So what if it was—as spelled out on the parking lot marquee—the Houston Astros Season Opener, and Haydon’s Half Time was Houston’s Richmond Drive’s hot spot.

She had better things to do with her time than dodge rabid fans, and certainly better places to put her feet than a floor littered with spent peanut shells and cork beer coasters and whatever that sticky stuff was gumming the soles of her shoes to the glossy concrete.

Uncouth. That’s what it was. Ill-mannered and crude. What was wrong with these people?

The fact that their enthusiastic word of mouth had put Haydon’s Half Time on the map, that their patronage provided Eric’s bread and butter, hardly gave them carte blanche to act like they were raised in a barn. Team sports. Ugh. Chloe gave an affected shudder and blew out a loud puff of breath.

The very idea of all that sweaty grabbing and pawing, that tackling and blocking and sliding into base! The silly pants, the silly nicknames, the silly sports drinks colored like kiddie crayons. What a ridiculous waste of spirit, not to mention entertainment dollars.

Men. Honestly. They could be such children, she thought, even as a feminine shriek of excitement cut through the din.

Okay. So the place was coed.

The women were one thing, standing by their men, rooting for his team or often their own alma mater. And, yes. There were women who did the team sports thing for no other reason than the love of the game. The women didn’t factor into Chloe’s aversion for athletic fanaticism.

The women didn’t stir memories of being sidelined for no other reason than being a girl, a girl who in a heartbeat would’ve traded her secret baseball card collection for the chance to strap on shin guards and play a game with the neighborhood boys.

The women didn’t bring back memories of petticoats and patent leather and the punishing discomfort of the cold metal bleachers where she’d sat primly at her father’s side—Daddy’s little girl, pink-cheeked and petite, come to watch her brothers compete on the field.

The women didn’t leave her heart hopelessly hollow, her body crazy-hungry for heat, as did the incredibly clueless males of the species who, in Chloe’s wide world of experience, preferred their women to remain on a pedestal, between the sheets, or three paces behind.