Sarah Mayberry - All Over You

“I’v e had four years of celibacy. ”

Grace made the confession with the air of pride that commitment deserved.

“You mean you’ve gone four years without sex,” Mac scoffed.

She sat up a little straighter, stuck her chest out a little more. “Four years, three months and five days to be exact.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because nobody with a body like yours could go four years without sex,” he said bluntly.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that.”

He didn’t say a word as his gaze slid down. “Yeah, you do,” he said finally.

Grace was unbearably aware of the brush of her clothes against her skin. Her nipples had hardened, and she squeezed her knees together in a vain attempt to quell the slow ache growing between her thighs.

Images flashed across her mind: Mac’s superbly muscled chest, the firm perfection of his butt in jeans… As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she wanted him. Now.

SARAH MAYBERRY

lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her partner, Chris. In addition to writing romance novels, she also writes scripts for television shows. While she has never even shaken hands with a star on any of the shows she works on, she has a rich fantasy life and a vivid imagination, and she has definitely written her share of shirtless scenes for hunky male actors.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Grace’s story. I must confess to a serious case of living vicariously through this book. Grace and Mac each drive one of the most beautiful cars ever made. If you’re not familiar with what a ’57 Corvette looks like, check it out on the internet – it’s a lovely beast and a must for any romantic heroine.

I also had a lot of fun researching Grace’s vintage wardrobe. I know what you’re thinking – no one can actually see what she’s wearing. But when I write, it’s a little like watching a movie in my mind, and Grace’s wardrobe was spectacular. My hearty thanks go to www.vintageous.com, a great online retailer of vintage clothing. This is a fabulous place to waste a few hours!

Of course, the story isn’t really about the clothes and the car – it’s about the people. Mac and Grace are both flawed, cynical people who battle to the death to see who can out-cool the other. We all have our reasons for needing to protect ourselves. I hope you enjoy discovering theirs.

Hearing from readers makes my day. You can contact me via my website – www.sarahmayberryauthor.com.

Keep an eye out for the last instalment in THE SECRET LIVES OF DAYTIME DIVAS miniseries, Hot for Him , due out in June 2009.

Happy reading!

Sarah Mayberry

BY

SARAH MAYBERRY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book was a battle, and I wouldn’t have survived it without chief medic Kirsty, my great friend and writing partner, and Chris, my own personal hero. Without his patience, ideas, soothing arms, tissue passing, massages, chocolate therapy and sounding board, this book would not exist. You’re the best. And, as always, thanks to Wanda, super-editor, for lifting my game.

1

GRACE WELLINGTON slid into a chair at her favorite Santa Monica café, arranged her shopping bags beside her and glanced at her watch. Sadie Post and Claudia Dostis, her two best friends, were meeting her for lunch but neither of them had arrived yet.

Might as well use the time to gloat over her latest find. Sliding a hand into the brown-paper shopping bag propped against her chair leg, her fingers encountered the sensuous softness of angora. Unable to resist a full gloat, Grace tugged the sweater out and spread it across her lap. A soft cream color, the sweater had embroidered flowers garnished with sequins above one breast and three-quarter sleeves. Best of all, it bore the label of a prestigious 1950s knitware manufacturer. Genuine vintage, and she’d picked it up for a song.

Resisting the urge to purr like a contented cat, she folded the sweater and put it back in its bag. Feeling every inch the satisfied, smug shopper, she glanced at her watch once again and picked up the menu. Would it be terribly wrong to have a cocktail in the middle of a Sunday afternoon? Some people would think so, but Grace had never been too worried about what other people thought.

She ran her finger down the list until she found something fresh and bright to suit her mood. The sun was shining, she’d just cruised all her favorite vintage-clothing boutiques, and she was about to have lunch with her two best friends. Did life get any better?

The sound of a motorcycle engine roaring to a stop drew her attention to the street outside and she smiled, bracing herself for her daily exposure to love’s young dream. Crossing one leg over the other, she sat back and crossed her arms, prepared to indulge her cynical side.

There were two riders on the bike—a male driver and a woman clinging to his back. Only the woman dismounted, unfolding legs that seemed to go on forever as she pulled off her helmet and shook out a mane of honey-blond hair. Having slid his own helmet off, the man watched her appreciatively. He said something, then pulled the woman close and kissed her so thoroughly that Grace actually felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. Feeling distinctly like a voyeur, she glanced away.

Sadie and Dylan were so happy, so in love. So perfect together. If they weren’t her friends, she’d be making gagging noises right now and telling them to get a room. But even though she didn’t believe in monogamy and marriage and all that other hoopla for herself anymore, she absolutely respected Sadie’s joy. Each to her own, right?

She risked another look and saw the coast was clear—they were just talking now, smiling goofily at each other, their fingers intertwined.

Watching their interplay, noting the teasing glint in Dylan’s eyes, the gentleness in their hands as they caressed each other almost unconsciously, an odd yearning sensation spread out from the region of Grace’s heart, sneaking up the back of her throat and triggering the hot sting of tears behind her eyes.

Whoa! What the hell was that about?

Blinking furiously, Grace reached for her sunglasses and sniffed surreptitiously. Trying to shake off the moment, she shifted in her chair and frowned at the tabletop. Maybe she was allergic or something. Maybe the angora sweater would have to go back.

She snorted at her lack of belief in her own excuses and forced herself to look at her friends again. What she saw made her swallow, hard. Dylan had cupped Sadie’s face, and he was talking intently as he stared into her eyes. Grace didn’t need to hear him to know what he was saying—he was telling Sadie he loved her, how important she was to him, how he was going to miss her even though she would only be lunching with her friends for a few measly hours. It was written all over his face and, as his thumb caressed Sadie’s cheekbone, Grace felt such a stab of longing in her belly that she actually pressed her hands to her stomach.

Tearing her eyes away from the scene outside, she stared unseeingly in front of her.

She wasn’t jealous of Sadie and Dylan.

Was she?

It was a ridiculous idea. Absurd. It had been four years since she’d let a man into her bedroom and her life, and they had been the happiest, most productive and content years of her life.

Even discounting her ex-boyfriend, Owen, and his spectacular contribution to her lack of faith in human nature, life had taught Grace plenty of salutary lessons about what to expect from the male of the species—not much, was what it boiled down to. Once she’d accepted that concept, her life had become so much easier. She’d become mistress of her own domain, so to speak.