Karen Kendall - Borrowing a Bachelor

“So I guess we’re even, huh?”

Nikki leaned forward to set down her cup on the cocktail table. Her robe gaped open as she did so, and Adam’s gaze fell straight to her spectacular breasts.

Noticing where his attention was, she put her hands up to tug the edges of the robe together.

“Please don’t,” he asked softly.

She swallowed, hesitating. Then, blushing furiously again, she tugged the lapels of the robe open. And then, to his stunned disbelief, she let her breasts spill out to greet him.

The air went out of him so fast that his lungs almost collapsed.

D cups. Perfect, high and round and cherry-capped. Fair? No, this was incredibly un fair. Because Adam wanted to touch them in the worst way.

He was crazy; he shouldn’t have brought her here.

Dear Reader,

Over the years, we’ve all read stories about brides, grooms and bridesmaids. One day a thought came to me. I couldn’t recall ever reading romances that revolved around those other hot guys in tuxedos at a wedding: the groomsmen!

And so the idea for my series All THE GROOM’S MEN was born. I decided that the first book would begin at the groom’s bachelor party, and I started making notes. Out of nowhere came an image: a girl exploding out of a cake and knocking one of the bachelors to the floor.

The heroine of this book, Borrowing a Bachelor , was very clear in my mind. She wasn’t a professional dancer—she was an accidental stripper, someone who had taken a one-time gig out of financial duress. And the hero told me that he didn’t want to be at the party in the first place…

I hope you enjoy reading about the misadventures of Nikki and Adam as much as I enjoyed writing them! I love hearing from readers, so let me know. Feel free to e-mail me at Karen@KarenKendall.com, and check my website www.KarenKendall.com for upcoming stories, contests and more!

Have a great year filled with joy and good books!

All the best,

Karen Kendall

KAREN KENDALLis the author of over twenty novels and novellas for several publishers. She is the recipient of awards such as the Maggie, the Book Buyer’s Best, the Write Touch and RT Magazine ’s Top Pick, among others. She grew up in Austin, Texas and has lived in Georgia, New York and Connecticut. She now resides in south Florida with her husband, two greyhounds, a cat…and lots of fictional friends! Of course, she claims to have real ones, too.

Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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With thanks to Young Royce for the information on

medical school courses and texts!

xo, Karen

MEDICAL STUDENT ADAM Burke was deeply engrossed in his anatomy text when a size-twelve foot kicked it out of his hands. It flew up and banged him in the chest.

“Pull your head out, nerd! We have a bachelor party to go to. Ogling strippers is a much better way to study anatomy.”

Adam hated strip joints—the cheesiness of them and the overpriced drinks, just for starters. He groaned. “Devon, I have a killer exam on Monday. And it’s not on the finer points of silicone implants.”

“All work and no play will turn your hair prematurely gray,” Devon said, seizing the twenty-pound anatomy book and tossing it onto the king-size bed in their hotel room.

“No, you will. Where did you come from, anyway?” Adam frowned and then belatedly noticed the open door.

Devon followed his gaze and laughed. “Good detective work, Holmes. I can’t believe you didn’t hear me come in—you’re scary intense when you study.”

That was true—though there had been a time in high school, when he’d been “in love” with the class bad girl, during which Adam had been just as intense about screwing off to impress her. He’d tried his best to mess up his life.

“I have to be. You don’t get into, or through, med school without the ability to focus.” Adam, now twenty-five, ran a hand through his hair and reluctantly got up from the armchair he’d been sitting in. “Bachelor party, huh?” He said it without a trace of enthusiasm.

“Fire up, buddy. Mark’s getting married—going over to the Dark Side. We’re the groomsmen. We gotta send him off in style, with lots of drinks and lots of well-endowed women.”

Adam saw the glint in Devon’s eye. It told him that protesting would do no good. His only hope was to go to the damned party and wait the requisite hour or so until all the guys were so shit-faced that they wouldn’t notice him sneak out. He really didn’t have time for this.

Devon started to describe the various abilities of the “talent” that awaited them. “They’ve got this one chick who walks around with a selection of cigars tucked in her G-string. You get a lap dance while you choose one. Then another girl will hold your cigar for you between her hooters while girl number three bends over and lights it with a match between her teeth.”

“I can’t wait,” said Adam without a trace of sincerity.

“And that’s just the beginning. This place we’re going gets wild. Later, this other chick, the star attraction, will take it all off and do things that you can’t even imagine. She’s got a prehensile—”

“Enough. I get the picture.”

“No, really, she can pick up a lit cigar from an ashtray with her—”

“Gross. Dev—”

“—and bring it up to your mouth again. I once saw a guy—”

“Devon! Enough. And do you have any idea how unsanitary that is?”

“Dude. I’m not saying I’d smoke it again myself, just that it was a trip to watch.”

Blek. Adam would rather have a root canal. Not that he didn’t like naked women. But he liked them a little more wholesome than that. He wasn’t a fan of strippers and blatant womanly wiles. The whole scene was so far removed from his daily life, where most of the females he encountered wore either sweats, jeans or surgical scrubs—not fishnets or pasties.

Adam also didn’t care for most of the men who hung out at these clubs. They were generally either creeps or assholes. After they left the clubs, it wasn’t unusual for the former to use their fists to abuse themselves and the latter to use their fists to abuse others. Emergency rooms were full of bruised and bloody idiots who had limped out of bars.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dev urged him. “You got ten minutes to grab a shower and pull yourself together.”

“I am together,” said Adam, looking at Devon’s spiky, product-laden hair and the chain around his neck. He looked like some kind of designer dog. “And at least I don’t have grease in my mop like some others I could mention. You’re the one who needs the shower. Also, if you’re going to wear a choke chain, where’s your rabies tag?”

“Grease? This is Pomade à l’Hommes, imported from Paris, and it costs a mint, thank you very much. I’m going to ignore your gratuitous comment about my—”