“So you’re not shy?”
A wicked smile curved Vito’s lips.
“Definitely not. I just don’t like to jump into anything without weighing the situation carefully,” Christine answered.
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” With a flick of his finger, her sundress lay in a rumpled pile at her feet. She stood before him clad only in her blue bikini bottoms and matching strapless bra.
His bold gaze raked over her, making her ache for his hands to follow the same path.
“A very good trick, Mr. Cesare.” She backed closer to the shower-stall door. “Is that what you learn over the course of seducing countless women around the globe?”
“Hardly.” He reached for his belt buckle and whipped the length of leather out of the loops. “That’s a trick I was only just inspired enough to try. Don’t underestimate the appeal of seeing you naked.”
Oh, he was good. Sexy as hell. Her gaze moved to his hand as he lowered his zipper. She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly too dry.
“I can see the appeal of naked,” she agreed.
Dear Reader,
If you haven’t guessed it already, I love writing about men who love sports. That makes sense, since I’m married to one—my husband spent the first ten years of our marriage as a sports editor. During that time I heard a lot about batting averages, NFL draft picks and shots on goal. None of which I find particularly exciting, but I enjoy seeing men get fired up about them. There’s something about the male competitive drive that makes my pulse pound!
So it is with this hero, Formula One race car driver Vito Cesare. Vito’s been in Europe for the past six years. Now he’s back in Florida to prepare for his sister’s wedding, but he wasn’t expecting to find a green-thumb goddess tooling around his yard with a rake and making herself very much at home.
And of course, Christine Chandler has little use for jet-setting bachelor types when her whole life revolves around planting. I hope you enjoy the sparks when these two get together. Please visit me at www.JoanneRock.com to learn more about my future releases!
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock
Books by Joanne Rock
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
863—LEARNING CURVES
897—TALL, DARK AND DARING
919—REVEALED
951—ONE NAUGHTY NIGHT*
HARLEQUIN HISTORICALS
694—THE WEDDING KNIGHT
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
26—SILK, LACE & VIDEOTAPE
48—IN HOT PURSUIT
54—WILD AND WILLING
87—WILD AND WICKED
104—SEX & THE SINGLE GIRL*
108—GIRL’S GUIDE TO HUNTING & KISSING*
135—GIRL GONE WILD
139—DATE WITH A DIVA
Her Final Fling
Joanne Rock
For Catherine Mann, my fearless critique partner and wonderful friend who consistently pretends it’s a pleasure to read my work, even when it’s two days before Christmas, the day before out-of-town company arrives, or when she’s swamped with her own deadlines. Cathy, please know you have my overwhelming and endless appreciation!
Contents
1
“PLEASE TAKE your hands off my fire bush.” Christine Chandler stared down the man taking too many liberties with her delicate red petals.
Was the urge to manhandle somehow tattooed across the Y chromosome?
“Excuse me?” The sexy stranger dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with the jacket unbuttoned and tie undone slid his hand away from the dewy softness of the unfurling bud.
Sighing, Christine nudged past the man who’d appeared out of nowhere on the Miami property she was currently landscaping.
“The fire bush is very delicate and I can’t afford to disturb the blooms before I transplant it.” She swiped a wrist over her sweaty brow, wondering why she bothered when the man clearly had no business being out here in the sweltering Florida sun. But maybe he was just a nosy neighbor looking out for Mr. Donzinetti’s property. The old Italian eccentric who’d hired her couldn’t have been nicer, so it only made sense he’d have a few friends in the Coral Gables neighborhood. “I need to get back to work before my roots start to dry, but if you’d like to leave your name, I’ll let the owner know you dropped by.”
Christine smiled politely even though her mind was already taking silent inventory of the shrubs she still needed to plant along the rock facing of the sprawling, sixties-style ranch house. She didn’t normally make time for too-handsome men wearing flashy gold watches and expensive sunglasses—even when she didn’t look like the Swamp Thing reincarnated.
But she sure as heck wouldn’t bother kowtowing to a guy whose suit probably cost more than her last month’s rent now, when she had ten pounds of dirt under her fingernails. Where were her gloves when she needed them?
She just had to suffer his picture-perfect presence long enough to be sure she didn’t offend one of Giuseppe Donzinetti’s friends.
“You say you know the owner?” Mr. Armani sounded doubtful of the fact as he surveyed the property in the relentless heat of the southern Florida afternoon, then turned his sleek black Wayfarers toward her.
All five feet four filthy inches of her.
Well