Julie Kistler - Just A Little Fling

She slipped one hand inside the heavily draped four-poster. She thought she could hear him breathing. Her palm closed on warm, smooth skin. Oh yeah, he was in there.

The bed frame squeaked as she moved across the mattress. Her fingers slid over the firm ridges of his ribs, the strong expanse of his muscled torso.

“Is that you?” she whispered, even as she knew that no way in hell that chest belonged to safe, reliable Baker Burns.

What was worse, she didn’t care!

His hand snagged her wrist suddenly, hauling her on top of him. She was sliding up his body, taking in the hard feel of him against her skin. A moan of pure bliss escaped her lips. He groaned almost in unison.

Had she ever felt pleasure like this? Not a chance!

She pressed closer, fitting herself to his long, lean body, making herself tingle from head to toe. So this was what a fling felt like. Like one big beautifully wrapped package that she got to keep opening all night long.

Lucie smiled wickedly into the darkness. Oh, yeah. Happy birthday to me….

Dear Reader,

Some of my favorite authors and dearest friends have written for Harlequin Temptation over the years, so I was absolutely delighted to get the chance to write Just a Little Fling for this terrific line. I love fast-paced, sexy, funny books, so THE WRONG BED miniseries seemed like the perfect place for me under the Harlequin Temptation umbrella.

As I mused on the Wrong Bed theme, I came up with all kinds of intriguing ideas. After all, I thought, what could be more fun than a hotel full of gorgeous groomsmen, all wearing kilts at a Scottish-themed nightmare of a wedding, too many similar keys, identical bridesmaids’ bags and one plucky bridesmaid facing her thirtieth birthday in desperate need of a little fling? It worked for me. I had a wonderful time writing the story, and I hope you enjoy it, too!

Cheers!

Julie Kistler

HARLEQUIN DUETS

19—CALLING MR. RIGHT

30—IN BED WITH THE WILD ONE

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

740—TUESDAY’S KNIGHT

782—LIZZIE’S LAST-CHANCE FIANCÉ

Just a Little Fling

Julie Kistler

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Vicki Lewis Thompson, Temptation doyenne, and to Birgit, who is such a pleasure to work with

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

LUCIE WEBSTER WAS already itching to bolt the chapel—and they weren’t even up to “Do you take this man?”

Lucky thing it wasn’t her wedding, or she would’ve.

But no, it was her much younger half sister, Steffi, who was tying the knot. With nine years between them, she and Steffi had never been close, which put Lucie well down the line at number thirteen in a collection of fifteen bridesmaids. She knew she was picked out of desperation—it was hard to come up with fifteen willing attendants, for goodness sake—but she could hardly say no when her father started twisting arms on behalf of his beloved Steffi.

So here she was, squashed together with the other losers at the end of the line, right where they ran out of space around the altar and had to sort of huddle against a stone wall. Well, she thought, trying to look on the bright side, at least this way she had something to lean on, which took some of the pressure off the nasty, high-heeled granny boots Steffi had chosen for the bridesmaids.

Quietly shifting her weight, Lucie glanced around the chapel. Actually, this place was rather pretty, in a gloomy, Gothic way, with crumbling stone and flickering candles giving it a romantic glow.

It did seem kind of strange as churches went. But what could you expect from a chapel attached to a golf course? If someone needed divine intervention to get out of a sand trap, this would be the place to turn. Still, Lucie felt sure it wasn’t intended for a crowded, over-perfumed spectacle like this one. Under the circumstances, St. Andrew’s Chapel felt more like Sardines R Us.

Plus, Steffi’s super-Scottish theme had necessitated itchy kilts and even itchier wool jackets for the whole bridal party. Except for Steffi herself, of course. She was radiant in a white lace dress that stood out like a beacon in this sea of dark, rather menacing, red-and-black tartans.

Maybe it was the overabundance of plaid making Lucie swoon. That or the heat of a sultry June evening, the close conditions, the thick odor of roses and melting wax, or the tight, uncomfortable clothing.

As the voices up in front droned on, Lucie used her bouquet as a block so she could reach inside her kilt and give her waistline a good scratch.

“Aaah,” she breathed. More dirty looks. Well, good grief, it wasn’t her fault if Steffi’d stuck them all in these silly outfits. So she was marrying a guy named Mackintosh. So his family owned golf courses and resorts with goofy Scottish names—all “Bonnie Brae” and “Glen Loch Laddie”—all over Chicagoland. Did that mean Steffi had to dredge up kilts and tams and bagpipers out the wazoo just to marry the guy?

Apparently.

Lucie’s nose began to tickle. Uh-oh. Sneeze coming on. She tried her best to stifle it into her bouquet, but that made her inhale half a rose petal, and the sneeze came barreling out with a loud “ha-ha-ha-chooooo!”

Oops. A rustle ran up and down the wedding party, and she felt her cheeks flush with warmth.

Par for the course, Steffi stamped her tiny foot, smacked the maid of honor with her bouquet, and demanded, “What was that? Who did that?” Nobody answered her, but they were all craning their necks. Even the best man turned back to see who’d made the rude noise.

The very, very cute best man. Lucie managed a weak smile.

His name was Ian. Even though they hadn’t been introduced, she still knew that much. He was the groom’s brother, practically a twin, and every single one of the fifteen bridesmaids had had her eye on him since the festivities began. He also looked a heck of a lot better in a skirt than she did.

He caught her eye, sending her a wink—bless his gorgeous heart—and then he turned back to the waning moments of the ceremony like everyone else.

Nice legs. Lucie’s smile widened behind her bouquet. What a picker-upper to have someone like Ian Mackintosh wink at her. But, for now, she’d just have to content herself with the view and speculating on what he might be wearing underneath that thing.

“Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, feeling a little tingle run down her spine at the very thought.

Guys like Ian—all dark good looks and arrogance sculpted into a dynamite package—would rather die than wear briefs or boxers under there. That seemed like a given. But she’d love to check it out, just to be sure. What would the petulant bride do if her half sister dropped to her knees and crawled up to the altar to peek under the best man’s kilt?

But she didn’t. No, she was good. She stood where she was, and she didn’t sneeze or scratch or faint or peek or any of the other things she wanted to do.