Kelli Ireland - Stripped Down

The men are hot, both on the stage and between the sheets. Their lives are just the way they like them. As the most popular thing to happen in Seattle once the sun goes down, things just don’t get much better than this. But for all they love to please, they have hopes and dreams much bigger than Wednesday through Saturday night work schedules, screaming female fans and G-strings. The one thing they never banked on? Love itself. The idea for the stripper series was born when this criminally sexy hero started whispering to me about what it was like to be trapped in one career that strictly pays the bills so he could pursue his real dream. He talked about paying his dues, fighting his way to the top, craving that elusive thing: respect. The one thing he was certain of? There was absolutely no time for romance or, heaven forbid, love. He had plans! Poor guy should never, ever have thrown down that particular gauntlet. I hope you’ll find a few laughs, a little heartache and a huge amount of redemption in this story. I know, as I wrote it, that I learned what it meant to really root for your own characters’ happy endings. Fondly, Kelli Ireland

Title Page Stripped Down Kelli Ireland www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author ABOUT THE AUTHOR About the Author Dedication 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 Extract Copyright From stable hand to a name on the door of a corporate American office, KELLI IRELAND has been many things. (Never a waitress, however. Thank-you cards for her sparing the unsuspecting public from this catastrophe can be sent in care of her agent.) Writing has always been her passion, though. And writing romance? An absolute dream come true. Her theory is that a kiss should be meaningful regardless of length, a hero can say as much with a well-written look as he can with a long-winded paragraph and heroines are meant to hold their own. She’s no Cinderella, and Shakespeare wrote the only Romeo and Juliet, so Kelli sticks to women who can save themselves and tortured heroes who are loath to let them. Kelli and her husband live in the South, where all foods are considered fry-able and bugs die only to be reborn in bloodsucking triplicate. Visit her online at kelliireland.com anytime.

Dedication To the only man to ever hold my heart in his hands.

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Extract

Copyright

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FEET PROPPED ON the low windowsill and ankles crossed, Cass Jameson focused on her toes. Rather, the polish on her toenails. The electric blue polish, “Ogre the Top Blue” courtesy of OPI, was the only color in her otherwise staid corporate attire. She loved the color with an unholy passion, but it also served a purpose.

After her environmental engineering firm, Preservations, celebrated its first full year of operating in the black, Cass had treated herself to three indulgent days at a luxury spa. She’d purchased the nail polish before she left as a constant reminder she could, would, make Preservations a success. That trip had been the first time she’d allowed herself to breathe in more than three years. Now, eleven months later, she was holding her breath again.

So much hinged on the incoming email from the Environmental Protection Agency. Preservations had been awarded the contracts for establishing rainwater runoff and soil erosion at the proposed site of the elite Chok Resort on Lake Washington. She and her team had busted their asses for months to create long-term, environmentally sound solutions. They were due to present their plan to the resort’s builder, Sovereign Developments, in under a week. Sovereign’s board of directors, made up of old men with even older money, wanted a cheap fix to the runoff and erosion problems, but they also wanted the project endorsed as green construction for tax purposes and public support. She couldn’t deliver on the former. The latter? She had it covered in spades.

But only if the EPA signed off on Preservations’ plans. If it did, Sovereign would be hard-pressed to reject her proposal. She’d have the backing she needed to persuade the tight-assed CEO to move forward. Probably. Maybe. God, she hoped so.

A kernel of dread, her constant companion as this deal had been negotiated, threatened to erupt. Pressing her fist into her diaphragm, she forced her breathing to slow. Just once she’d be the emotionless Ice Princess her competitors accused her of being. Ironic that her father, David Jameson, was heralded for his cold-blooded business dealings while her peers and competing engineering firms lobbed it at her as an insult.

A seagull rode a thermal by the fourth-floor window, drawing her attention. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the Seattle skyline and blanketed pedestrians below in heavy mist. Behind her, her laptop chimed.

Such a soft, innocuous sound, that, the herald of her fate. Her fingers curled around the armrests of her chair, but she didn’t drop her feet or face the monitor. Not yet.

She’d known securing this location had been a good strategy. It hadn’t come cheap, but it positioned Preservations close to the downtown business district and near contractors. Signing the five-year lease had been a calculated risk.

“Greater the risk, greater the reward,” she murmured. Provided the risk pays out. Her father’s baritone echoed through her head, unwelcome. Particularly now.

Muffled voices hummed as the hive of employees gathered outside her door.

Her office door handle rattled as the door opened. She should really call maintenance, have them fix that.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” Gwen’s tone was neutral, guarded even.

Shoving her feet into her high heels, Cass swiveled toward her business partner and best friend. Everything they’d worked for—all the long nights studying, the family expectations, the sexist remarks of her peers, the casually exchanged conversation between competitors that she and Gwen were destined to fail as women in a man’s world—it all came down to this. “Tell me the EPA cleared us to move forward with the Sovereign project. Tell me Preservations is going to be solvent for years to come because our proposal was accepted. Tell me we can hold Sovereign’s board to their agreement to move forward with our solutions if we could get absolute EPA support. Say the words, Gwennie.”

The stunning petite blonde propped a hip on the corner of Cass’s desk. “You need to breathe.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. You know how I get.”

“You’re right. I do. Here’s a news flash, Cass. Your biggest character flaw? You’re always expecting the worst. Negative Nancies aren’t attractive.”

“Negative Nancies?” One corner of her mouth curled up. “This is business. Being an emotionally reserved pessimist has kept us afloat.”

Gwen’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl. “You sound like your father.”

A small hitch in Cass’s chest made her words raspy. “I’m not my father.”

“Then don’t be so afraid to express a little emotion. You’re not an automaton.”

But a lifetime as the oldest child of business magnate David Jameson, a man who valued control above all else, had taught her to smother her reactions. He’d hammered home one thing above all else: to reveal emotion was to reveal weakness, and any opponent worth his salt would use that weakness against her. He’d proved it by using her emotions against her again and again, until all that was left between them was undisguised resentment and, at least on her part, more than a little paranoia.

When she’d founded Preservations, she’d been so concerned about being singled out as Jameson’s daughter she’d gone into business under her mother’s maiden name—Wheeler. She’d also kept her name buried in the company directory, not touting her partial ownership. Distancing herself from both his name and his expectations had been a matter of self-preservation. She hated him for making it a necessity. She hated him more for continuing to steal moments like this from her.

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