Rebecca Winters - A Groom For The Taking

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The Wedding Date by Ally Blake When PA Hannah heads back to Tasmania for her sister’s wedding, gorgeous TV presenter Bradley joins her to scout a new shooting location. But with flowing mojitos, will these two go-getters be able to stay professional?To Catch a Groom by Rebecca Winters Greer inherited her money with a condition attached: she must use it to find a husband! So when Greer spends it on a holiday to the Italian Riviera instead, the last thing she expects is to catch a groom – especially not Italian aristocrat, Max di Varano…Wedding Date with the Best Man by Melissa McClone Tristan MacGregor knows that gorgeous Jayne Cavendish is off-limits – she’s engaged to his best friend! But when their engagement falls apart, Tristan knows that the fun-loving girl he fell for is still there…and he’s just the man to save her!

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The guy cleared his throat and blushed.

Only when she nodded did he open the door.

Bradley placed his hand against the small of her back and gave her a not too subtle shove. In fact she practically had to trot to stop from falling over.

‘Somebody has a fan,’ Bradley murmured against her ear once they were inside and the doof-doof-doof had become music so loud she could barely hear herself.

‘I do not.’

‘That big, burly bouncer back there thinks you look more than fine tonight. He thinks you look downright gorgeous. And you know what?’

Hannah was feeling so dizzy from the effects of that voice skimming her ear she was amazed she had the ability to speak. ‘What?’

‘He has a point.’

Then the door swung shut behind them, and it was too loud to do anything but shout to be heard.

The club was rocking. Tasmania-style.

There were men with burnt-orange copper mine dust stained into their jeans and the grooves of their hands, mixed with women and men in business suits, twenty-somethings in classic black club attire, and tourists in sensible layers.

And then there was Hannah.

Bradley might not have been to a wedding in his life, but he had seen his fair share of bachelor parties. Leaving studious, polite and pleasing Hannah to her own devices at such a do, looking the way she did, was never going to happen.

Smoky make-up and glossy pink lips. Tousled hair that seemed to shimmer every time she moved. And an outfit that seemed demure at first glance only to cling in all the right places the second she breathed.

Not that his imagination needed help. All that talk of her running naked down Main Street had brought her dash from the bathroom back to the front and centre of his mind. In full 3D. Technicolor. As for her perfume … It had his nostrils flaring like a horse in heat every time she moved.

If she’d come to the wilds of Tasmania looking for a wild fling then she was going the right way about it. Hell, without even turning his head he could see a dozen men checking her out, and the look in their eyes was creating a red mist behind his.

Because he had her back. He’d promised he would, and he was a man of his word.

He moved in closer, putting his hands on her shoulders as she began to snake a path through the club, so he wouldn’t lose her in the crowd. Her hair spilled over his fingers, silky soft. His thumbs rested against the back of her warm neck.

The fact that those men with room keys burning holes in their pockets might consider his touch some kind of brand was their problem.

And possibly, he admitted, his.

It would only take one of those goons to show her the time of her life this long weekend and she’d have reason to wonder if sixty-hour weeks working for a stubborn perfectionist was actually a form of sado-masochism.

Resolve turned to steel inside him. Hannah must have felt it in his grip. She glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in question. He tilted his head towards the bar, and lifted a hand off her shoulder to motion that he needed a drink.

She gave him a thumbs-up and a wide, bright smile. Even in the smoky half-darkness the luminosity in those eyes of hers cut through. Showing the lightness of spirit that made her easy to have around.

The goons could go hang. She’d be damned hard to replace.

The crowd bumped and jostled. Then out of nowhere lumbered a guy carrying a tray of beers who looked as if he’d drunk a keg by himself already that night. Instinctively Bradley slid an arm around Hannah’s slight waist and lifted her bodily to one side. She squeaked as she avoided having a cup of beer spilled over her in its entirety by about half a hair’s breadth.

He found a breathing space in the gap around a massive pillar covered in trails of fake ivy, and let her down slowly until her back was against the protective sconce.

His breaths came heavily. Then again, so did hers. Her chest lifting and falling, her lips slightly parted. Pupils so dark he couldn’t find a lick of green.

A wisp of hair was stuck to her cheek. He casually swept the strand back into place, tucking it behind her ear where he knew she liked it. But there was nothing casual about the sudden burst of energy that coursed through his finger, as if he’d had an electric shock. He folded his fingers into his palm.

‘You’re making a habit of coming to my rescue this weekend,’ she said, shifting until the hand that had remained on her hip nudged at her hipbone. ‘A girl could get used to it.’

‘Don’t,’ he growled, shocked at the ferocity of the urge to slide his hand up to her waist to see if it was as soft and warm as the sliver of skin he touched indicated. ‘I’m no Galahad. I was thinking of myself the whole time. Of the griping I’d have to put up with if you ended up soaked head to toe in beer.’

He pictured it now. Her skin glistening. Her white top rendered all but see-through. Her tongue sliding between her lips to clean away the amber fluid shining thereupon.

He’d never felt himself grow so hard so fast.

But this was Hannah. The woman whose job it was to de-complicate his life. Hannah, whose hair smelt of apples. Whose soft pink lips were parted so temptingly. Who was looking up at him with those wide, bright and clear open eyes of hers. Unblinking. Unflinching. Unshrinking.

He stood his ground for several beats, then slowly, carefully, removed his hands from her body, sliding one into a safe spot in the back pocket of his jeans and placing the other on the column above her head.

‘Now,’ he said, his voice as deep as an ocean, ‘do you still want that drink?’

She nodded, her hair spilling sexily over her shoulders. It took every ounce of his strength not to wrap his fingers around a lock and tug her the last few inches it would take for those wide, soft pink lips to meet his.

‘Boston Sour, right?’ he asked.

She nodded again. A waft of that killer perfume slid past his nose. He gripped the pillar so hard he felt plaster come away on his fingernails.

‘I’m guessing beer for you,’ Hannah said. ‘Imported. Sliver of lime.’

Her words carried a slow smile, and behind that a hesitant note of flirtation he’d never heard from her before. He knew her drink of choice. She knew his. And now they both knew it.

‘Stay here,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t move. I didn’t save you from that booze-soaked clod so that some other mischief might befall you the second I leave you alone.’

He’d moved to push away, to get her drink and whatever they could pour quickest for himself, when she lifted a hand and flicked an imaginary speck from his shirt. ‘Whether you want to admit it or not, beneath the tough guy exterior you are, in fact, an honest-to-goodness nice guy.’

Through the cotton of his shirt her fingernails scraped against the hair on his chest, which sprang to attention at her touch. He clenched his teeth so hard a shot of pain pulsed in his temple.

Nice? Hardly. The truth was her tough relationship with her mother had unexpectedly slid beneath his defences and connected with his own. And in a rare fit of solidarity he’d felt he had no choice but to help.

He wasn’t being nice. He was choosing sides in battle. A battle whose lines were fast blurring. Dangerously fast.

It was time to make the boundaries perfectly clear. So that she understood just how close to the fire they were dancing.

‘Honey,’ he drawled, ‘looking out for you this weekend is purely professional insurance. I want you back on dry land this Tuesday, ready to work—not all hung-over and homesick, addled by wedding-induced romantic thoughts. That’s it. End of story. You think your mother is egocentric? She has nothing on me.’

He dropped his hand till it rested just above her shoulder. Edged closer till she had to arch back to look him in the eye. Till his knee brushed against the outside of hers. The rasp of denim on suede shot sparks up his leg which settled with a painful fizz in his groin.

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