Karen Kendall - Unzipped?

Hal protested, determined to make his final stand. Shannon had already decimated his entire wardrobe, and he wouldn’t let her take these with her. “This is my favorite pair of jeans and you’re not getting them off my body.”

Shannon rubbed her hands together evilly. She raised an eyebrow. “What if I made it worth your while?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What would you like me to mean?”

Was she offering him sex if he took off his pants for her? He grew hard at the thought. “Well, a guy can always fantasize,” he said before he could stop himself.

“So can a girl,” she purred. “But the reality is so much more satisfying, don’t you think?” Then she whipped off her top.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever despaired over something that your boyfriend was wearing? And worse, you were unable to stop him from wearing it out of the house?

When you subtly tried to tell him that something else might look better, he just shrugged and said he didn’t care, right? Or when you told him flat out that his clothes would embarrass you, he got mad, and wore them just to spite you.

I have been in this situation many times! And of course it’s led to fantasies of smoking the offending clothing on the barbecue grill, or tossing the guy’s entire wardrobe into the garbage. While I’ve never actually done this, I decided that it was high time I wrote a character who did…and gave her justification for her actions by making them part of her job.

I hope you’ll enjoy Shannon making over Hal—and the sizzling results. Making a guy “cool” has never gotten Shannon so hot!

Be sure to look for Open Invitation?, the next book in THE MAN-HANDLERS series.

I love to hear from readers, so feel free to contact me at Karen@KarenKendall.com or write to me c/o Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

Happy reading,

Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

SHANNON SHANE FIRED into her office like a bullet and ripped through her appointment book. “Oh, thank God it’s tomorrow, not today.” She fell into her bright yellow leather office chair, her long legs sprawled in front of her.

Jane O’Toole, her business partner, followed her in and said dryly, “Last time I checked, today really is today. Tomorrow never comes.”

Shannon turned, pulled aside the blond curtain of hair hanging over her face and rolled her eyes at Jane. “Funny. Not. I meant my appointment with Doris Rangel. I’ve misplaced my Palm Pilot somewhere, and I couldn’t remember. Whew. She’s the new junior senator from Norwich, and we’ve got several wardrobe and media-training sessions set up.”

Jane walked into the common area of Finesse, their business, opened the drawer of the reception desk—a somewhat useless accoutrement since they couldn’t yet afford to hire a receptionist—and pulled out the missing personal organizer.

“Shan, you are no longer allowed to put anything down while you set the office alarm. It never makes it out the door with you, whether it’s sunglasses, keys or a Palm Pilot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shannon said ruefully. “Give me that, thanks. I need to chain it to my wrist.” She stuck the device on her desk and blew out a breath. “Do we have coffee?”

“Yes. Lilia made some. If you’re nice to her and say please, she might give you a cup.” Adorable, but excruciatingly proper Lilia London was their third business partner in Finesse, a training center for personal and career enhancement.

Jane, benign control freak that she was, excelled at the job of CEO. She also did counseling and employee management consulting. Lilia, their resident Miss Manners, handled business and social etiquette. And Shannon herself was their image consultant and media trainer.

“Hey, I’m always nice,” she said. “I’m your little ray of sunshine around here.”

“Well, you’re definitely a breath of fresh air…” Jane’s voice trailed off as she inspected Shannon’s ensemble for the day: hot-pink suede pants, black spike-heeled boots and a short, black leather jacket over a lacy camisole. “Hon, you live in Connecticut now. You have left Rodeo Drive. It rains here, it’s gray seventy percent of the time, and New Englanders don’t wear pink pants.”

“This one does,” Shannon said firmly. “It’s April, therefore it’s spring. Pink is perfect for the season. And you can wear all the gray and khaki you want, but I refuse. It’s boring.”

Jane adopted a resigned expression as she looked beyond the tasteful reception area, furnished with antique reproductions, an oriental rug and traditional paintings, and into Shannon’s office. She closed her eyes against the tangerine-colored walls, the movie posters, the strange contemporary art.

Shannon just laughed. “Image, honey. That’s what I do. My image is different from yours.”

“Thank you, God,” muttered Jane. “At least you’re no longer wearing that green nail polish.”

“That might be a little too much for the average preppy to swallow,” Shan agreed.

Lilia emerged from the kitchen with two cups of coffee and handed one to Shannon, having to look up as she did so. Five foot one herself, she complained, “I think you grew another inch last night. It’s not fair.”

“Thanks for the java,” Shannon said. “And I keep telling you, being six feet tall is not that wonderful. With a pair of heels, I dwarf most men.”

Lil raised an elegant, dark-winged eyebrow. “But I’d like to be worshipped. It must be nice.”

Shannon shook her head and drained a third of her coffee in one gulp. “Stop it. Nobody worships me.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane’s tone was sardonic. “I was out with you last weekend. I saw the men in person—at least four Worshippers From Afar, three Droolers, a couple of would-be Leg Humpers and one Pathetic Pick-up Liner.”

“Oh, him.” Shan shuddered. “The nice-girl-in-a-place-like-this guy. I didn’t think anybody still dredged that line up. Horrific.”

What nobody, including her closest friends, seemed to understand was that it wasn’t enjoyable to be the subject of all that male attention. It was more annoying—and the guys weren’t really interested in who she was, but what she looked like. Some glossy blond American ideal. However, Shannon didn’t say anything. She had learned long ago that most women considered hers high-class worries. Six-foot, one-hundred-twenty-five-pound blondes never inspired much pity. Hatred, yes. Envy, certainly. But sympathy? Out of the question.