Jo Leigh - Scent of a Woman

Susan closed her eyes and leaned her head back after another spine-melting kiss.

His warm breath on the tops of her breasts made her sigh, and when his fingers traced lazy circles around her lace-covered nipples, she had to steady herself.

David’s mouth closed over her right nipple, and even through the material she felt his delicate lips, his teasing tongue. She broke out in goose bumps from head to toe.

His hand slipped around her waist, pulling her tight against him. His erection was no gentle tease this time. It was hard with promise…and intent.

“David,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

He mumbled something, not moving an inch.

“Bedroom.”

That got his attention. He stood straight, grinned, kissed her hard on the lips, then took her hand. As they passed the ice bucket, he grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck without breaking his stride.

A moment later it was her, him, champagne and a king-size, four-poster bed.

Exquisite, indeed.

Dear Reader,

If you’re a Temptation Blaze reader (and who isn’t?) you might remember two books from the past couple of years: Hot and Bothered and Ms. Taken. I’ve received so many letters asking if my characters, Susan from Hot and Bothered and David from Ms. Taken, were going to have their own happy endings.

Scent of a Woman is the answer.

This is by far my sexiest book, but it wasn’t my fault—honest! I blame it all on Susan and David, who insisted their inhibitions were off limits. Frankly, I was shocked. And intrigued. Well, you’ll see what I mean as you read!

Maybe there are some things you can learn from Susan and David. I suggest sneaking away with your significant other to a hotel room, and letting your imagination go wild. Don’t forget to wear your sexiest perfume…and nothing else.

I’d love to hear from you. Come visit my Web site at www.joleigh.com. And check out the special Blaze site at www.tryblaze.com.

Happy reading,

Jo Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to JJ Medeiros, for the inspiration, the encouragement and mostly, for the friendship. Love you.

And to Jack Galle, for helping me to see what’s what.

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

SHE KNEW BETTER THAN THIS. Buying new shoes was only a temporary fix. It would lift her spirits for what, an hour? Two? Then she’d be right back in the doldrums.

Susan Carrington shifted her gaze from the display window and forced herself to walk away. She was stronger than shoes, right? Even if they were Jimmy Choos. On sale. And those pink stilettos would be killer with her Dolce & Gabbana duchess satin jacket.

No. She had enough shoes.

The thought made her smile. As if there were ever enough shoes. However, despite the joy they brought, the agony they caused her feet, the jealous looks from complete strangers, shoes could only do so much. They couldn’t stop her from wishing things were different. That somewhere out there, and by out there, she meant Manhattan, not the entire planet, there existed her perfect man. Her soul mate. And if she couldn’t find her soul mate, then she’d settle for someone hot, hard and gifted.

It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and her body wasn’t thrilled about it. She’d felt restless all week. And not just a little reckless. She wanted…something. Lust, danger, excitement. Shoes simply wouldn’t fit the bill. She wanted a man. A nice, juicy, strong guy. Someone with a brain. Someone who knew how to turn her on like a light switch. And wouldn’t it be something if her dangerous guy was also her soul mate? Not likely. But she could dream, right?

As she headed down 5th Avenue, she let her imagination go full tilt. She could almost picture him. The unmet stranger. The gaze across a crowded room. He would be tall. At least six-one to go with her five-nine. Dark. Not that blond men were inherently not as cute, but she liked the contrast. A pair of blonds was too Barbie and Ken for her taste.

He’d be handsome, but not pretty. Rugged, but with a smile that changed everything. He’d have expressive eyes, large hands. Large feet. And even though she knew size didn’t matter, etcetera, etcetera, he’d have himself an impressive package. Why not? He was her dream man, after all, so she could decorate him however she wanted.

She crossed the street, as always amazed at the pedestrian traffic. It was Monday, the holidays were over, thank God, yet the bustle at one-fifteen in the afternoon was almost as bad as rush hour.

Not that she minded. She loved the rhythm of Manhattan. The pulse of the city. Nowhere on earth was more alive, and even when the curb snow was mostly gray and slushy, and the cabbies laid on their horns as if it would accomplish something, she was at home here.

A bookstore display window slowed her pace to a crawl. She eyed the newest bestsellers, frowning when nothing struck her fancy. Which meant she had to go inside. She tried to remember the last time she’d passed a bookstore and hadn’t gone in. No good. She always went in.

The music stopped her just inside the door. Wait, wait. She knew it. Closing her eyes, she listened to the symphony, the name of the work teasing her. “Scheherazade,” she said aloud, inordinately pleased with herself. She’d always liked the music by… Rimsky-Korsakov. That’s right. Ha. Pity one of the gang wasn’t with her. She doubted anyone but Peter would have known the piece, let alone the composer.

She opened her eyes again and caught a young man staring. His face reddened and he looked away. Susan brushed the moment aside like so much lint. It had happened before. And before and before. That stare, that slack-jawed ogle. It had, once upon a time, felt wonderful. But after a time, it became clear that the stares weren’t about her so much as about her parts. Her hair, or her height, or her boobs, or her features. None of which she could take much credit for. She’d gotten lucky in the genetics lottery, but dammit, she wasn’t just her looks. At least, she didn’t want to be.

She headed down the aisle, wondering if she could bypass the self-help books altogether. She wanted fiction, not transformation. Definitely not soul-searching. Fiction. Make-believe. Stories.

The music swelled, and her thoughts turned to Scheherazade. The woman who’d saved her own life by spinning tales of 1,001 Nights. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Sinbad the Sailor. Aladdin and his magic lamp.

She knew exactly what she’d ask of a genie. Not three wishes, just one. Love. The real thing. The forever kind.