Carly Phillips - Simply Scandalous

CROSS MY HEART

“Who doesn’t love a reunion of long-lost loves? Add a diabolical villain, as Carly Phillips does, and you have everything you need for a beach read.”

—Columbus Dispatch

“Smart, engrossing and totally addictive! Cross My Heart is a definite must-have in this season’s beach bag.”

—www.FreshFiction.com

SUMMER LOVIN’

“Phillips’s light touch assures a happy ending to this diverting beach read.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A funny and touching family drama.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A fun, yet emotional story. A story that will keep you hooked with its kooky, yet charming characters.”

—Romance Reviews Today

What’s steamier than a New York City summer? Carly Phillips’s Hot series!

HOT ITEM

“Saving her best for last, Phillips wraps up her jocular Hot Zone trilogy….”

—Publishers Weekly

“Phillips has penned a charming, fast-paced contemporary romp-through-the-sheets.”

—Booklist

“Hot Item is a winner.”

—Romance Reviews Today

HOT NUMBER

“A veteran romance author who climbed to star status in Harlequin’s Temptation line, Phillips is certain to capture a new bank of fans with the fresh venue and stylish dialogue featured in this perky series.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Hot Number is a fun, sexy read. For everyone who has ever wished to turn the head of a guy, this book definitely allows you that fantasy while giving you a satisfying love story. Ms. Phillips has proven herself more than capable of delivering stories that touch your heart and your funnybone.”

—In the Library Reviews

“In the follow-up to last year’s Hot Stuff, Phillips once again dives into the high pressure world of sports. Micki and Damian each have quite a few issues to resolve, which adds spice to an already volatile mixture.”

—Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)

“Carly Phillips hits a home run with the fun, yet touching Hot Number.”

—Jennifer Bishop, Romance Reviews Today

HOT STUFF

“This breezy book will likely score a touchdown with readers looking for sexy thrills and instant gratification.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This first book in The Hot Zone trilogy shines with Phillips’ trademark sizzle and sensuality. She delivers strong, appealing characters while exploring the dynamics of families—what brings them together and what draws them apart. The ending emotionally satisfies and gives readers a tantalizing peek at the romantic quandaries awaiting the rest of the family.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)

“Hot Stuff is a surefire hit.”

—Jennifer Bishop, Romance Reviews Today

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

“TARGET AT ONE O’CLOCK.”

Logan Montgomery listened to his eighty-year-old grandmother and groaned. “You’ve been watching James Bond again, Gran.”

“Just Sean Connery. That Pierce Brosnan is too new and the other one is a pansy. He wouldn’t know how to please a real woman if she bit him on the—”

“Gran!” Startled, Logan shot a glance at his grandmother.

An impish gleam lit her knowing gaze. She’d learned to use shock value to her advantage, he thought wryly. “I think that’s enough.”

“You never used to be a prude.”

He stifled a laugh and chose to warn the irrepressible older woman instead. “And you never used to go so far. Better watch yourself.”

The white-haired woman gave an unrefined, unladylike snort. “If you aren’t careful you’ll end up a stuffed shirt like your father.”

“With your influence? Not a chance.” He drank from a glass of hundred-dollar cham pagne, tasting bubbles and little else. Damn waste of money. A cold beer would taste a hell of a lot better, especially on such an unusually hot and balmy May afternoon. “So tell me why you summoned me to the annual Garden Gala.”

He’d hoped he could ignore the formal invitation, hand-delivered to his house, as it had been hand-delivered to dozens of others. Although the Garden Gala was as much a part of Montgomery tradition as baseball was a part of spring, Logan didn’t feel the same sense of anticipation for this event. His grandmother, Emma, was a different story. He adored her.

“Because of her.” His grandmother waved a wrinkled finger in front of his eyes. “Over there by the Dogwood tree. She catered this whole party herself. Talent personified.”

Logan narrowed his gaze. He couldn’t see much besides the overwhelming sea of floral prints on the female guests and the stark black-and-white uniforms worn by the help. “All I see is a bunch of penguins,” Logan muttered.

“I believe waiter or waitress is the politically correct term,” Emma said.

“Couldn’t you get the judge to relax the dress code for God’s sake? These poor people look like they’re attending a formal wedding, not serving cocktails on a spring day.”

He liked parties as much as the next guy but this uptight excuse for a gathering wasn’t the way he’d choose to spend a Saturday afternoon.

“Your father has his standards,” Emma said in her haughtiest voice, in imitation of her son, Judge Montgomery. “He believes the help should dress as such. Ridiculous,” she muttered. “The man ought to come into the twenty-first century. Anyway, enough about Edgar for now. Look around. What else do you see?”

Logan took two steps to the right so he could see around a ridiculous-looking parasol held by one of his mother’s friends, to protect her skin from the nonexistent sun and impending rain.

“Well?” A bony elbow nudged Logan in the ribs.

He looked once more and was rewarded by what he saw at the elaborate bar set up in front of the pool house, on the perfectly manicured lawn—a delectable-looking creature in uniform. She stepped around the bar and into full view. The clouds had begun rolling in but this woman radiated pure sunshine. Not even the standard waitress uniform looked ordinary on her supple curves.

She reached over to clean the bar of used glasses, and Logan was treated to a backside view that was just as enticing. Black running shoes, obviously worn for comfort, and black tights with a vertical seam ran up the length of her well-toned legs. As she reached forward to sweep the top of the bar with a damp rag, the hem on her black miniskirt inched higher. He stepped closer in time to catch a hint of lace peeking beneath the black hem. Interest replaced curiosity and the temperature outside hitched up a notch. So did strategic body parts. He stuck one finger inside the constricting collar of his white shirt, giving himself some breathing room.

She rose to her full height, which wasn’t much. Petite, with blond hair pinned on top of her head, she couldn’t have been more than five foot three. Considering he had one sister who had traipsed more friends through the house than he could count on both hands, Logan considered himself an expert on all things female.

And this female intrigued him. His gaze traveled over her form-fitting white blouse, which was buttoned to her chin but failed to hide well-rounded breasts, lingered on the belt cinched over a small waist and settled on the white socks pulled over the sheer stockings. She wasn’t a typical waitress by any means.