Renee Roszel - Surrender To A Playboy

His lips stroked hers erotically as he made the apology.

Mary tried to work up some indignation, but she couldn’t. She’d never been kissed like that before.

“It was wrong of me.” He ground out the words. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’d never done anything like that before?”

He was right. Mary didn’t believe that. Telling her such a bold-faced lie, while managing to look irresistibly anguished and angry with himself, required a lot of talent—and, unquestionably, a great deal of experience!

Did this carousing Boston playboy think his innocent act would really work for a man with such a notorious reputation? Did he think because she was an unsophisticated, small-town girl she’d be easy pickings?

Dare to dream…

Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brand-new miniseries from Tender Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.

Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!

• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?

• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…?

• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?

• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe?

Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!

Enjoy Surrender to a Playboy by Renee Roszel.

And look out for This Baby….#3756 by Caroline Anderson.

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For Shirley Casey, Doug Shipe and Barbara Bancroft Richardson, fab folks who came when I yelled, “Help!”

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE moment Taggart Lancaster stepped out of his rental car he would become an impostor—a black sheep and prodigal son—returning home after an absence of sixteen years.

Taggart stared out through the windshield at the elegant Victorian home with its wooden gingerbread and angled bay windows, a russet jewel in a setting of evergreen. Clutching the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension, he cursed himself. What was he doing? What had possessed him to agree to such a wild stunt?

His gaze drifted over the turreted and steeply gabled roof. Moody and silent, he took in the high-country beauty of the American Rocky Mountains, an unspoiled wilderness of piney forests, striated cliffs, steep divides and rainbowed waterfalls. Distant, snowcapped peaks loomed in all directions, soaring into a boundless summer sky.

Bonner Wittering, Taggart’s oldest friend and most time-consuming legal client, had said Colorado’s Rockies were beautiful. Taggart was reminded of the Swiss Alps, and the remote boarding school, where they both grew up. A wave of nostalgia washed over him and he fought it off. That “we-two-against-the-world” baggage is what got him into this mess.

He did need a vacation, though. That had been another of Bonner’s arguments. The way things stood, Bonner couldn’t come, couldn’t leave Boston as a condition of his bail. Due to the fact that Bonn owned a condo in Paris, the court felt he represented a flight risk.

As Bonner’s lawyer, Taggart knew how unamused bail bondsmen were when one of their clients jumped bail. As an officer of the court, Taggart couldn’t allow Bonner to leave town. Which Bonn swore was exactly what he’d do if given no other choice.

Taggart shook his head, muttering, “I must be nuts.” Nobody else on earth could have talked him into such a bizarre plan. But Taggart and Bonn were closer than most real brothers. Unfortunately for Taggart’s argument against the plan, they actually did look enough alike to be mistaken for siblings.

“Bonn, old buddy, I can’t decide who’s the bigger fool,” he groused. “You, for being such a gullible boob, or me, for agreeing to this—this idiocy.”

He spent another interminable moment strangling the leather-swathed steering wheel. “It’s no crime to do a favor for a friend,” he muttered. “You’re just here to make a sick old lady happy.” He flexed his fingers to relieve cramped muscles. “So move! Get out of the blasted car!” Shoving his misgivings aside, he sucked in a deep breath and flung open the door.

Gravel crunched beneath his polished wing tips as he stepped out onto the drive.

The charade had begun.

He grabbed his suitcase from the car trunk, strode across the drive and up the wooden steps to the wraparound porch. His footfalls echoed on redwood, sounding like threatening thunder. For the thousandth time he shook off nagging misgivings for agreeing to Bonner’s plea. Banging out some of his frustration on the heavy lion’s head knocker, he announced his arrival with the finesse of a machine gun.

“She won’t be able to tell you’re not Bonn,” he mumbled. “He was nineteen the last time he was here. People change. Besides, she’s practically blind and deaf.” Even if she weren’t, he and Bonn both had black hair, brown eyes and were approximately the same height, though at six-three Taggart was an inch taller. They were equally athletic and hit the gym several times a week for their regular racquetball game and weight training. They both played basketball in an amateur league. Besides their physical likeness, Taggart knew Bonner’s history as well as he knew his own. He could do this favor for his friend—cheer an ailing grandmother whose fondest wish was to see her only living relative—just once more.

He winced. Well, she would believe he was her relative. That would make her happy, and that’s what counted.

The front door opened to reveal a well-rounded, solid woman in a floral print dress. She looked to be in her mid-forties with a sprinkling of gray in her short, curly mop of brown hair. The expression she wore on her square face and small, plain features, was polite, but cool. “Mr. Wittering?” she queried in a tone that didn’t sound like she’d been looking forward to meeting him.

Taggart nodded. “I’m a little late. My flight…” He let it drop. Delayed flights were more the norm than the exception.