RomeAntically Challenged

Book 1: When in Rome

by Marina Adair

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Growing up the lone Asian in a community of WASPs, Annie has always felt out of place. Her solution? Start a family of her own. Not easy when every man she’s dated, including her ex-fiancé, finds “his person” right after breaking up with Annie. Even worse than canceling the wedding eight weeks beforehand? Learning the “other woman” plans to walk down the aisle wearing her wedding gown. New plan—find a fresh, man-free start. Too bad her exit strategy unexpectedly lands her working at a hospital in Rome, Rhode Island, rather than Rome, Italy, and sharing a cabin with a big, brooding, and annoyingly hot male roommate.

Home on medical leave after covering a literally explosive story in China, investigative photojournalist Emmitt embarks on his most important assignment—cementing his place in his daughter’s life. Three men and a baby might work in the movies, but with a stepdad and devoted uncle competing for Paisley’s attention, Emmitt has lost his place at the family table. Then there’s the adorably sexy squatter in his cabin, who poses another problem, one he’d very much like to solve up close and personal. But he can’t win—Annie has sworn off men, Paisley’s gone boy crazy, and Emmitt’s estranged father reappears with a secret that changes everything.

Annie and Emmitt are about to discover love comes in many forms, and sometimes the best families are the ones we make.

Release date: July 28, 2020

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 320

Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1) happily ever after (1) realistic characters (1) terrific writing (1)

Sample

The moment Anh Nhi Walsh stepped into her wedding dress and shimmied the eighty-year-old silk over her hips, she knew there had been a mistake.

A mistake so terrible, all the chocolate in the world couldn’t fix it.

Annie had pulled a thirty-six-hour shift, so her brain was a little slow on the uptake, but the longer she stood in her silver Jimmy Choos and yesterday’s makeup, the more certain she became that even the world’s best push-up bra couldn’t compensate for the obvious.

This was not her dress.

“Oh my God,” she whispered through her fingers.

Sure, the gown had arrived on her doorstep in the trademarked cream and blush-colored–striped box, special delivery from Bliss, Hartford’s premiere bridal design boutique. And, yes, that was the silk gown Grandma Hannah had hand-carried from Ireland, now billowing around Annie’s waist. But this was not Annie’s dress.

Annie’s dress was elegant and sophisticated, a heartfelt tribute to her grandmother, the one person Annie had wanted by her side when she finally walked down the aisle. Grandma Hannah wouldn’t let something as insignificant as death keep her from her only granddaughter’s wedding. But Annie had wanted to feel her in more than just spirit.

Which was why she’d commissioned a modern-day restoration of the 1941 Grecian gown with cap sleeves and embellished mermaid train, cut from the same cloth that the most important woman in Annie’s life had worn on her special day.

Annie pulled the bodice of the gown to her chest and wanted to cry. The too-big, too-long, and most definitely D-cup rendition was that extra-special kick in the gut she needed to find closure.

Six years as an ER physician’s assistant had instilled in her a rational calm that allowed for quick and efficient assessment of any situation. Taught her how to differentiate between the life-threatening and painfully uncomfortable. With that in mind, she pulled up the planner app on her phone.

“Add Murder fiancé to my to-do list,” she instructed.

“Murder fiancé added,” the digitized female voice said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes.” Because Annie understood murder wasn’t a rational response, and besides, Dr. Clark Atwood was no longer her fiancé. Or her problem.

According to the elegant handwriting on the linen thank-you card that Bliss had included with the gown, that responsibility now fell to Molly-Leigh—with a hyphen—May of the pinup curves and double-D’s.

Anh Nhi—always mispronounced—Walsh of the boyish build and perky but barely-a-handful B’s had moved on to bigger and better things. And that didn’t include cleaning up her ex’s messes.

Not anymore.

“Call Dr. Dickless,” she said.

“Calling Dr. Dickless,” the female voice chimed. Annie had deprogrammed her sexy 007 British narrator the day she’d heard of Clark’s upcoming nuptials. She was taking her new man-free existence seriously.

Clark picked up on the first ring. “Jesus, Annie. I’ve been calling you for weeks,” he said, as if she were the one inconveniencing his life.

“I’ve been busy with my new job, decorating my new place, apologizing to my relatives because it seems that ‘The groom’s marrying another woman’ isn’t an acceptable reason for airlines to grant a refund.”

Three months ago, Annie had awoken to an empty bed, an emptier closet, and an awaiting text on her cell:

It had taken an entire week for her to realize that the wedding, the romantic Roman honeymoon with walks along the River Tiber, the future they’d spent years building toward was gone.

It had taken only a single Instagram post of her—so recent I still have the ring—ex and a perky blonde with the caption “I finally found my one *true love*” for Annie to give her two weeks’ notice—which was more courtesy than Clark had spared her—and apply for a temporary ER position in Rome.

Once the offer came in, she packed her suitcase, sent in a change of address, left the ring and the rest of the gifts behind for Clark to return, and promised herself a future full of exciting opportunities and exotic destinations. She had become a traveling PA because she’d wanted to see the world, and her six-year layover in Hartford was over.

Now, it was her time.

“You do have a lot going on—how did you find the time to add ‘Murder fiancé’ to the top of your to-do list?” he asked, and Annie flipped her phone over to check for a listening device. She was about ready to rip out the battery when Clark added, “You still have me as a recipient on your calendar.”

“Just because I forgot to delete you doesn’t give you the right to read my personal stuff,” she accused.

“Hard to ignore a death threat or my personal favorite, “Alone time with B.O.B.” Clark let out a low whistle. “Five times a week. How many batteries are you burning through?”

“Not as many as when I was with you.” Humiliation vibrated through her as she thought back to the numerous reminders she’d put on her to-do list over the past few months. “And if you saw that, then you had to have seen that I contacted Bliss to cancel the alterations and return my grandmother’s dress. Untouched.” She looked at her reflection in the mirror. “The dress has been touched, Clark. A lot.”

“Yeah, about that.” She could hear the familiar squeak of leather as Clark reclined in his office chair. “I guess there was a mix-up between orders, and your grandmother’s dress was used to make, uh, Molly-Leigh’s gown.”

Annie eased onto the couch and rested her head on her knees.

“How did Molly-Leigh end up at Bliss?” she asked. The question exposed an ache so deep, it was as if she were reliving the breakup all over again. Because Bliss wasn’t the kind of off-the-rack-shop most brides visited. It was a custom gown boutique that specialized in vintage restoration and had a yearlong wait-list.

Bliss didn’t work with just any bride, and Annie hadn’t wanted any old dressmaker to handle her most precious family heirloom. Which was now retrofitted to support Dolly Parton, the New Year’s Eve ball in Times Square, and the scales of justice—that never seemed to tip in her favor.

“She saw a sketch of your dress in the wedding journal and fell in love with it.”

Annie jerked her head up and glanced out the window to the back deck, breathing out a sigh of relief when she spotted her wedding journal. The evening’s marine layer had come in fast, leaving a light dusting of dew, but it was right where she’d tossed it, beside the pool, under the patio table, in a box labeled DIRTY LAUNDRY, DRY OATMEAL, AND BROKEN DREAMS. “How did she see my wedding journal?”

“Our wedding journal,” he corrected, and a bad feeling began to swirl in her belly. “I had one of the nurses make a copy of it for me.”

“That’s an inappropriate use of hospital staff and supplies. And why? You barely went to any of the appointments.”

“I went to the ones that mattered.”

“You mean, the one. The one that mattered to you,” she corrected. “You showed up twenty minutes late to the cake tasting. And only because you were determined that it had to be carrot cake. Nobody likes carrot cake, Clark. Nobody.”

“My mom does. And so does Molly-Leigh.”

Ouch.

“I guess you found your perfect partner then,” she whispered, raising her hand, her ring finger looking heartbreakingly bare.

Other people’s choices are not a reflection on me, she reminded herself.

They were the words her childhood therapist had given her when she began to suffer panic attacks brought on when confronted with situations that left her feeling inadequate. Throughout her teens, she wore it like armor. As an adult, she liked to think it was more of a coping device when insecurities paid her an unwelcome visit.

“You still owe me half of the deposit,” she reminded him.

“That’s my Anh-Bon,” he said softly, and once upon a time, the nickname would have given her heart a flutter. Today it made her want to throw up. “Always calling me on my shit. Without you, I never would have gotten through my selfish stage.”

Annie laughed at the irony.

Growing up the adopted child of two renowned therapists, and the only rice cracker in a community of Saltines, Annie had acquired the unique ability to identify and soothe away people’s fears. She could find a solution before most people realized they had a problem. It was what made her so good at her job. And so easy to open up to.

The nurses at the hospital had taken to calling her Dr. Phil.

Annie was a good girl with a good job who managed to attract good guys with the potential for greatness when it came to love. Her life had been a nonstop revolving door of serial monogamists, each with a fatal flaw that kept him from finding the one. For most of their time with Annie, the men were convinced she was the one. Then, ultimately, she’d fix what was broken and make some other woman enormously happy.

Annie had wife-in-training written all over her DNA. She had a knack for helping her boyfriends overcome their issues. Four of her last five met their wives within months of breaking it off with her. The fifth married his high school crush, Robert.

Then came Clark. Her practical knight in surgical scrubs, with an amazing family, a solid life plan, and an unshakable foundation. He was the first guy to get down on one knee, tell Annie that, for him, she was it.

Foolishly, she’d believed him.

And when he’d recanted, confessed he wasn’t husband material, that it was him not her, she’d believed that too. Until mere weeks after ending their engagement, when he and Molly-Leigh had “put a ring on it.”

“You have a lot to be called on. Let’s start with the money for the dress you now owe me.”

He sighed, long and loud. “How much?”

“Four million dollars.”

“Oh, for the love of God.”

“No, Clark, for the love of my grandmother’s dress. My grandmother’s dress.” Her voice cracked, and so did her heart.

“Anh-Bon...” The sympathy in his voice was real. Sadly, so was the pity, damn him.

“Five million dollars. Price just went up! And before you Anh-Bon me one more time, don’t forget you also owe me half of the cost of the cake, the three hundred and fifty invitations,” of which only fifty were hers, “and the deposit I put down to hold the venue.” Being the mature bride-to-be, she had insisted on covering. God forbid she appear incapable of being a full partner in their union. “Since I haven’t received anything from the Hartford Club, I’m guessing the check was mailed to you?”

It was the only reason she could gather for why her bank account was still short ten grand. Ten grand she desperately needed.

“You can forward me the check,” she continued. “I assume you know how to break into my contacts and find my new address?”

“It’s not breaking in if the owner grants you access,” Clark teased. Annie didn’t laugh. “Come on, Annie, don’t be like that. I’ll Venmo your half of the cake cost now, and I’ll pay you back the deposit for the venue after the wedding.”

“Pay me back?” Annie’s hold on the dress slipped, the silk sliding nearly past her waist before she caught it. “What is there to pay back? The planner specifically told me that if the venue was rebooked by another party, she’d send a refund. The venue was rebooked over a month ago. Where’s the refund, Clark?”

“Molls and I met my parents there for lunch, and I remembered what a great location it was.” His tone was wistful. “Historical but with modern conveniences. Intimate but large enough to hold everyone. Classy but not too expensive.”

Perfect but not for me. “Get to the refund.”

“It checked off all our wedding wants and more. When Mom asked about availability, we were told they still had us booked for that weekend.”

“Impossible. My mom told me she canceled it.” Her statement was met with silence. “She never canceled it, did she? That’s why my grandma’s dress was still at Bliss.”

“She said she was hoping we’d work it out.” His words were followed by a long—that’s not happening—pause that caused her insides to heat with embarrassment. A reaction that often accompanied her mother’s matchmaking attempts. “I thought under the circumstances, it would be a shame to let such a beautiful venue go to waste.”

That bad feeling had moved through her chest and worked its way up to twist around her throat. “What’s a shame is that I spent two years waiting for that perfect venue. Half my wedding budget to reserve that venue.” Her hand fisted in the silk at her waist, the pressure wrinkling the silk. “Clark, please tell me that you didn’t promise Molly-Leigh my venue.”

“I didn’t know what to do. She took one look at the giant windows and said the light from the afternoon sun illuminated the hall as if it were lit by a thousand candles. What was I supposed to say?”

“That you’ve been there, done that, dumped the bride, so that venue is off-limits.”

“I tried, but she said after experiencing the magic of the Hartford Club, she couldn’t think of a better place to get married.”

Frustration bubbled up in her throat and the anger expanded, sealing off her airway until breathing became impossible and she feared she might pass out. Reaching behind her, she popped the top two eyehooks of her corset to let her lungs expand far enough to take in air.

It didn’t help so she popped a third.

“Grab a pen and paper,” she instructed, fury vibrating through her words. “Because I can think of a thousand other places to get married. Ready? Great. Now jot this down. ‘Anyplace that isn’t where you were going to walk down the aisle with another woman.’ Or how about ‘Find a place that won’t hold my ex’s money hostage.’ That’s my rainy-day money, Clark,” she stressed. “I need it back.”

“It’s supposed to be a dry summer, but I promise I’ll pay you back after the wedding. It will just be easier and less confusing that way.”

“For who?” she asked.

Clark was silent, his devastating disregard for her situation sobering. “It’s my grandparents’ wedding date.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Which is the other reason I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I wanted to get your thoughts before we committed to anything.”

“The dress isn’t up for discussion. Period.” Realtering it again would be daunting, maybe even impossible, but there was no way in hell her grandmother’s dress was going to be worn by any woman other than a Walsh.

“Of course not,” he said, doing a piss-poor job of hiding his disappointment. “I was referring more to the day of the wedding.”

Annie had worked with Clark for six years, lived with him for three of those, so she knew his moods and quirks. Knew by the long, soft pauses between words that renowned surgeon Dr. Clark Atwood wasn’t providing options. He was delivering a prognosis.

Whatever hopes Annie had about the possible outcome of this conversation were beside the point. Clark had weighed the possible scenarios, come to his decision, and nothing was going to get in the way of his wedding. It was moving forward regardless.

Any rational person would shout a resounding “Fuck off” to the universe, Clark, the inventor of carrot cake, and—she popped another eyehook—all of Victoria’s rib-crushing secrets. But anger wasn’t a luxury Annie had ever afforded herself.

“Clark, it doesn’t matter what I think or even what I say. It’s your wedding, you’ve made up your mind, and I’m no longer the bride.”

Her heart gave an unexpected and painful bump, followed by enough erratic beats to cause concern. Not with resentment or jealousy. Not even anger. She’d learned long ago that resenting other people’s happiness didn’t lead to her own.

No, the familiar ache coiling its way around her bones and taking root was resignation. Resignation over losing someone who had never really been hers to lose.

Too tired to hold on any longer, Annie released her grip on the silk and the dress slid to her hips, leaving her with only a matching corset set, heels, and an overwhelming sense of acceptance, followed by acute loneliness.

“I know,” he said gently. “But you’re still my friend. When we broke up, we both promised to do whatever it took to keep our friendship. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You convinced me you weren’t ready for marriage, and not even a month later you were Instagraming love sonnets about another woman.”

“That was shitty timing on my part. I should have handled it better.” He released a breath, and she could almost picture him resting his forehead on the heel of his hand. “I don’t even know how to explain what happened. Meeting Molly-Leigh was unexpected and exciting, and I know it seems completely insane but . . . suddenly everything made sense, the pieces all fell into place, and I couldn’t wait another second to finally start my life.”

Annie expelled a breath of disbelief, which sent Clark backpedaling.

“God, Annie, I didn’t mean that how it came out. But when it’s the right one, when it’s your person, you know it. And there’s this urgency to grab on and hold tight. No matter what.”

That’s exactly how Grandma Hannah had described meeting Cleve. A single spin around the dance hall and—bam—they were in love.

“And when you said you loved me? Was that a lie?”

“No. I meant every word I said, and I still do. But over time it became clear that we were better as friends. You and I both know that.”

Yeah, she did. But the rejection was still raw. Her best friend now belonged to someone else. And that hurt most of all.

“Good to know,” she said. “Because I expect all my money to be Venmoed to me by tomorrow.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, then did the whole hand over the mouthpiece while talking to a make-believe secretary. “What? Okay, I’ll be there in one second. Prep OR—”

“—Seven,” Annie said in harmony with him, and he went silent. “Remember I was there when you invented OR seven to get off the phone with your ex?”

“Which is why I’d never be stupid enough to use it on you. I really am needed in the OR,” he lied. “Gotta go.”

“Don’t you dare hang... up on me,” she said the last few words to herself because he’d already hung up.

Annie dropped the phone on the couch and wondered, not for the first time, when it would finally be her time to belong. She wasn’t greedy. One person would be enough.

Her grandparents had belonged to each other. Her parents, to their patients. Which was why she’d been so understanding of Clark’s late hours, his dedication to his career. Because in that world, she knew where she fit. Now she felt like she was in a free fall, spinning out of control, unsure where she was going to land.

If Annie didn’t come up with an escape plan—and STAT—she was going to be stuck in wedding hell. A ridiculous thought, since she was no longer even a bride. But the universe didn’t seem to care.

Kicking off her shoes, Annie reached back for the next eyehook. Either her arms were too short, or the hook was too low, but she was willing to bet her last piece of pepperoni and green olive pizza that even Houdini couldn’t liberate himself from this dress.

Gripping the cream silk and lacy cups with both hands, she pulled the bodice to the side. It didn’t budge. She gave a hard tug while sucking in her belly, then again while jumping in the air.

“Shit!” The stupid thing had been so easy to put on and now she was afraid she’d have to cut herself out. “Shitshitshit!”

She’d relocated far away from everyone she loved and everything she knew to steer clear of Clark’s wedding. Cut her long black hair—much to her mother’s horror—into choppy layers that framed her face. Worked thirty-six-hour shifts to avoid answering the phone and reassuring her parents that she was fine—and her mother that she did not look like a boy. Which meant reassuring herself that she was fine.

And there she was, so not fine, stuck in some other person’s wedding.

Even moving one hundred miles from her past hadn’t changed the trajectory of her future. It was as if she were still back in Hartford instead of making her fresh start in Rome—Rome, Rhode Island not Italy. Which explained the missing four thousand miles on her travel itinerary.

Sadly, when the temp agency e-mailed her a job offer in Rome, Annie had been head deep into a pity party for one—hosted by none other than Jose Cuervo. So she’d responded with a resounding yes. Which was how she’d arrived at this remote cabin on the banks of Buzzards Bay in historic Rome, Rhode Island, instead of a villa on the River Tiber.

Yup, Annie was living in the one state that was shockingly less diverse than Connecticut. Her ex-fiancé wanted her opinion on what lighting would make the first kiss most romantic. And her wedding was moving forward with a replacement bride.

“I guess if the medicine route doesn’t work out, I could always start my own business,” she said to the moose head that hung above the fireplace. “I’ll trade in my PA for a PPA, Professional Practice Fiancée, and give men lessons on being a proper husband.”

She’d make millions. She was already five for five in the happy-couples department.

Huffing her hair out of her face, she bent at the waist and tugged the fabric toward her head while making a shimmying motion with her torso. Finally! With a small tearing sound, which she’d feel for years to come, the dress fell to the floor.

Sweaty and overheated, she closed her eyes and let her hands dangle toward the floor. “What is up with my luck?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question. In fact, I’ll give you twenty bucks if you promise not to stop,” an unexpected male voice said—from inside her house!

A lump of terror materialized in her throat as every horror movie Annie had ever watched came rushing back.

Telling herself it was still Clark on the phone, she opened her eyes and squeaked.

A big, broad figure loomed behind her—in her bedroom doorway. Even from her upside-down between-the-legs view, he looked mean and menacing, and very ax-murderer-esque.

Her heart pounding as if it were going to shake apart, she gripped her stiletto and whirled around. As a weapon, it wasn’t quite as lethal as she’d like, but she leveled him with her most intimidating glare. A glare, Clark had said, that could scare small children, ward off vampires, and cause even the most impatient of patients to take a seat.

Clearly, ax murderers were immune. Or hers was, because he lifted a single brow and she swallowed—hard.

Huh. Simple, but effective.

“Who the hell are you?” She took in his bare chest, boxers, and bedhead—no sign of the ax. “And why are you sleeping in my bed?”

His eyes took in her attire while his lips kicked into a crooked smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Goldilocks.”

Emmitt Bradley was exactly two days out from a three-week stint in Shenzhen’s finest ICU, and already he was experiencing some disturbing symptoms. Hallucinations being the most concerning.

She was certainly the sexiest little hallucination he’d ever conjured. He’d take it over the blinding headaches any day. Hell, maybe he was still overseas, and waking up to find nothing but cream lace and toned skin traipsing around his house could be some kind of medically induced wet dream.

No, he remembered the explosion, the crushing force of the blast that had leveled both him and the subbasement of the concrete factory he’d been covering. The ride to the hospital and following few weeks were a bit fuzzy, but the cold sweats and stabbing pain as the cabin pressurized on his flight home would be forever branded into his memory.

The doctor had warned him about flying before he was ready. Even gave him a strict list of things to avoid upon being discharged:

Work.

Whims.

Whisky.

Women.

Okay, the last had been his addition, because without bossy women he wouldn’t be sidelined while someone else covered his story. Something he didn’t want to talk about just yet, which was why he’d kept his homecoming on the down-low.

Maybe he’d gone to the local bar and invited some barfly back to see if his bed was too big, too small, or just right. In his condition it was doubtful, but not out of the realm of possibility.

He sized her up with a single glance. Nah, a woman who looked like this one didn’t hang around the Crow’s Nest looking for one-night flings. And guys like Emmitt never offered more.

He was back to the coma theory. And if there was one thing Emmitt knew how to do better than anyone, it was testing a theory.

“Normally, I’d say the more the merrier.” He ran a hand through his hair and—damn—even his follicles hurt. “But tonight’s not good for me.”

Her fear was immediately replaced with contempt. “I’m so sorry to intrude on your precious man-time,” she said, then slung her heel at his head. “Now, get out!”

“Jesus.” He ducked, because hallucination or not, that thing looked dangerous. Bright red, pointy toed, and sharp enough to pierce steel, or—he looked up at the spot on the wall where his head had been two seconds earlier—wedge itself into sheetrock.

“Seriously, who put you up to this?” he asked.

“What?”

“It was Levi, wasn’t it? All self-righteous about dating, telling me my luck was bound to run out and I’d end up attracting one of those Crazy Cuties.” He took his time giving her another once-over, paying extra-special attention to her panties—cheeky cut, if he were a betting man. “You don’t look like one of those. But I’ve been wrong before.”

“Crazy?” She snatched the remote control off the coffee table.

“See now, Goldilocks, you’re missing the whole cutie part.”

She stood there, straddling that threshold between retreat and retaliation, remote poised and aimed for complete castration, and contemplating her next move.

Emmitt stepped closer, dwarfing her with his size, then leveled her with a Come at me, I dare you look that would scare most grown men shitless.

This woman was neither scared nor intimidated. Stubborn, narrowed eyes met his and made him wonder where the meek people-pleaser he’d heard on the phone had disappeared to. There was nothing meek about the woman standing in front of him. She looked like a genie who’d broken free from her lamp. Not that blond babe who granted wishes either. No, this genie looked as if she had a thousand years of anger stored up and ready to unleash on some poor SOB.

“My name is Anh Nhi Walsh. Or Annie if that’s too cosmopolitan for you to manage.”

He was about to inform her that his passport had more stamps than a philatelist when she decided he was the poor SOB.

Clutching the remote for all she was worth, she pulled back and smiled. Emmitt knew that smile well. He’d invented that smile.

In fact, he was the grand fucking master of smiles, with double-barreled dimples that he’d hated as a boy and exploited as a man.

Emmitt Bradley was a certified chameleon who could comfort, intimidate, or seduce with a simple twitch of the lip. But her particular smile promised war—painful and bloody.

So he took that smile and raised her a grin—Cheshire with a just enough How you doing to make her pause—and that was his window. Without giving her time to react, he did some quick maneuvering, pressing her against the adjacent wall, her hands pinned above her head.

With a startled gasp, she looked up at him with eyes that had to be the darkest shade of brown he’d ever seen.

“Let go,” she shouted, her breath coming in erratic bursts. With every breath she took, the lace of her corset brushed his chest, reminding him that, between the two of them, they were barely wearing enough fabric to floss their teeth.

“You done?” he countered. When she narrowed her gaze, he took the remote from her hand, then tossed it on the chair. He gave her wrist one last warning squeeze. “We good?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to take your word for it.” He studied the stubborn set of her chin, her full pouty lips, and those dangerously dark and tempting bedroom eyes that could make a man forget his good sense. She was trouble. And, damn, he loved trouble—almost as much as he loved women. “You break that trust and try to throw anything other than panties my way and I’ll pin you to the floor. Got it, Anh Nhi Walsh?”

She froze the moment he spoke her name. And yeah, it had been good for him too. Kind of slid right off his tongue, coming out more a promise than the threat he’d intended. But hey, he’d go with it. Everything behind his boxers was demanding he rethink that no-women rule.

“Annie’s fine. And my panties aren’t going anywhere.”

He stared her down for a long minute, then let her wrists go. He didn’t back up though. He could pin her to the floor, but he was pretty sure he was sporting a woody and didn’t want to bring any more attention to it.

She must have noticed, because her cheeks turned the sexiest tint of pink.

“Annie it is.” He glanced at his home security panel. The light was blinking a steady red. It was armed. “Now, you want to tell me how you got past the security system?”

She opened her mouth to shout again—he could tell—so he put his fingers over her lips. His head was one word from the jackham. . .