Too Hot to Handle

Book 1: Holland Winter

by Sandra Chastain

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Beloved author Sandra Chastain heads for the Georgia hills in this sexy tale of love between a backwoods gal and a city slicker who’s in for the ride of his life.
 
Callie Carmichael doesn’t have a clue how much her granddaddy’s classic convertible is worth. All she knows is that the yuppie from Atlanta flashing an expensive watch won’t be buying it for any amount. However, when she sees that Matthew Holland has sacrificed the knees of his well-tailored pants to help her pick strawberries, Callie wonders whether there’s more to this uptown guy than she first thought. Or is he the kind of two-faced wreck that sent this free spirit packing in the first place?
 
With his millions in the bank, Matt is used to getting whatever he desires. But Callie has him slamming on the brakes. The barefoot, basket-weaving gal with the distracting blue eyes is blowing his mind like no top-down roadster ever could. All of a sudden, the car isn’t as important as the woman behind the wheel. Matt just isn’t sure he can afford the one thing he really needs: to shift gears and take a chance on the road to love.
 
Includes a special message from the editor, as well as excerpts from these Loveswept titles: Mistletoe and Magic, Claimed, and After the Kiss.

Release date: November 11, 2013

Publisher: Loveswept

Print pages: 182

Sample

One
 
“You put one foot on that porch and I’ll break your hairy leg.”
 
To emphasize her stern words Callie Carmichael drummed a warning with her bare heels on the cabin wall. Her feet were high over her head. Her head was pillowed on a colorful folded quilt. She took a long, soothing breath of mountain air and reminded herself that all the fresh blood rushing down to her head was supposed to make her calmer. It wasn’t working.
 
She stared past the ragged edges of the denim at her slender thighs, then over her legs to her dusty toes, where she focused with determination. Relax, she ordered herself. Be calm. You are a child of nature, caught in the eternal flow of the universe.
 
Again footsteps sounded on the porch. Callie sighed. So much for the flow of the universe.
 
“All right, you asked for it. I’m going to twist your ugly face into a map of the Smoky Mountains,” she said loudly.
 
The steps halted, then retreated off the porch. Callie couldn’t suppress a slight victory smile. Her empty threats usually didn’t work this well.
 
“And if I catch you in the garden again, I’ll make you eat collard greens the rest of your life,” she continued. “No more ice cream for you, buddy. Ever.”
 
“No more ice cream?” a throaty made voice asked in dignified tones. “How will I survive?”
 
Callie was so startled that she forgot the grace she’d learned in years of childhood ballet lessons. Her feet tumbled over her head, and she quickly rolled upright on the linoleum floor, bumping the woodpile with her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of her visitor through the screen.
 
“Oh, dear! You’d better come inside. Quick!” she called.
 
The visitor paused, uncertain, it seemed, about her change of heart. “You have to promise not to twist my face,” he began drolly. Callie heard the distinct thuds of small, galloping hooves coming around the corner of the cabin.
 
“Hurry!” she repeated.
 
Unaware of impending doom, the visitor climbed the steps in a leisurely fashion and bent over to shove aside a woven basket filled with wildflowers. “I’m Matthew Holland, from Atlanta,” he said pleasantly. “I’m here because the man down at the garage told me—”
 
“Too late!”
At the same moment that he straightened up, peering at her with a frown through the screen door, Callie heard hooves hit the porch’s warped boards. In the next moment a small goat with curving white horns plowed into the visitor’s long legs.
 
Those legs flew out from under him in classic athletic style, as if he were a quarterback who’d just been tackled by the meanest player in the NFL. He let out an “oooph” of surprise and landed on his behind with an amazing amount of decorum, Callie thought. Dimly, as his feet made an arch into the air, she noted that he wore expensive-looking loafers. Callie shook the unrelated thought away and jumped up.
 
“William, damn your ornery hide!” she yelled. Callie raced out the door, which banged shut behind her, and leaped over the downed man without breaking stride. William paused by a rocking chair at the other side of the porch, looking at her from under bushy white brows as he planned another charge. “Get!” Callie ordered. “You know better than to do that!”
 
William, who knew better but rarely gave evidence of it, started baaing and jumped off the porch, with Callie close behind him. Callie ignored the pebbles stinging her feet and the privet hedge clawing at her skin as she chased the bellowing goat down a path to his chicken-wire pen by the barn. When he was safely locked inside the fence she shook a finger at him, then ran back to the porch to check on his latest victim.
 
The victim had gotten up, and was brushing casually at the seat of his tailored slacks. Once he straightened to his full height, she noticed, the porch’s low ceiling cleared his head by only a few inches. That meant he was well over six feet tall.
 
Callie stopped several yards away from him and wondered why she was leery of getting any closer. It wasn’t just that he was a stranger; it was something else—some impression of his power, his aura of control. He disturbed her.
 
“Are you all right?” Callie asked. He nodded, his face red.
 
“I love being run over by large animals that smell bad.” He paused. “You are Callie Carmichael, aren’t you? I am at the right cabin?” She nodded. His handsome face relaxed into an expression of exaggerated relief. “Thank heaven. I don’t want to have to go through this again. If all mountain people have guard goats, I’ll never set foot on another cabin porch as long as I live.”
 
“Your name is Matthew what? I didn’t catch it before.”
 
“Holland,” he supplied. His mouth crooked up in a polite smile. “The infamous goat exterminator. I’ll do your goat for free.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, all right. I’ll overlook his rudeness, this time.” He ran a hand through expertly styled blond hair. “I know I’m probably not the first, but after hearing the details, I couldn’t wait to get to your place. I hope I’m not too late.”
 
Callie looked at him in surprise for a moment. Then her puzzlement faded as she understood what he meant. She put her hands on her hips and stared shrewdly at him. After having a parade of single men knocking on her door for over six months, she could recognize her surrogate grandfather’s newest selection for her.
 
John Henry Webster was a seventy-two-year-old cupid, a grizzled mountain man who had been her real grandfather’s best friend. She loved him dearly, but he could be as stubborn as the goat she’d just chased. Worse, he was manipulative as the devil. Here stood evidence of that: a new man, sent here to court her. It was outrageous and embarrassing.
 
“Anything broken?” she inquired coolly. She didn’t want to be sued because of her pet’s eccentricities, so she’d at least be polite to this suitor.
 
“No, but I’ll never tap dance again,” he quipped. Callie felt a twinge of surprise at his good humor in light of the circumstances. She felt other twinges, too, strange, uncomfortable little needles of sensation that she couldn’t quite analyze.
 
John Henry’s other victims never created these feelings. She frowned as she realized why.
 
Matthew Holland was big, blond, and absolutely breathtaking, with the most expressive brown eyes she’d ever encountered. Those eyes were now examining her minutely. He smoothed his hands down the front of a white linen jacket, and the action seemed incredibly sensual to Callie. Oh, Lordy, John Henry Webster, she mouthed silently, how could you do this to me?
 
Callie glanced into the sloping front yard that led to her gravel driveway. A white Corvette sat regally under the huge oak trees. Silhouetted against the smoky blue mountains in the distance, it seemed weirdly out of place. People drove Jeeps and trucks here in north Georgia, not Corvettes. Matt Holland was definitely an outsider. The dear Lord only knew what he had been doing in these mountains when John Henry had latched onto him.
 
She glanced down at the faded cut-off overalls covering her oldest tube top, and nearly groaned. What she wore had never been of much concern before, but today she wished she were wearing something a little less revealing. When she looked up, Matthew Holland was studying her so intently that she almost shivered.
 
“Well,” Callie told him dryly, “I’m getting used to entertaining the local men up here, but having a stranger drop by is new. I apologize for looking so grubby.”
 
His eyes widened. Callie could feel him taking her apart inch by inch, examining her and passing judgment. It rankled. Yuppie city slicker, she felt like saying in her own defense, what are you and your Gucci loafers doing in my lovely backcountry?
 
“I apologize for William’s bad manners,” she said.
 
“William?”
 
“The least John Henry could have done was warn you about William. Everybody in Sweet Valley knows to watch out for William.”
 
“Who—no, what is William?”
 
“William is that long-horned angora goat that ruffled your dignity.”
 
“If he’s such a menace, why isn’t he in a pen?”
 
“A pen?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. William just lets me share the place with him. He belonged to Gramps. He was here first.”
 
“At the rate he’s going, he’s going to be here last, too.”
 
“Oh, no. He knows how far to go. I’d already run him off the porch once this morning. He knows he’s not allowed up here, but he can’t resist the wildflowers.” She pointed to an overflowing basket. “He thinks if he’s very quiet, he can sneak up here and I won’t hear him. When you came up the steps I thought you were William.”
 
“Women rarely mistake me for a goat.”
 
And I bet you have plenty of them, Callie thought disparagingly. Women, that was, not goats. She gave him a taut smile. “You and William do smell different from each other,” Callie admitted. Suddenly she realized that she was leaning toward Matthew Holland, inhaling the light, crisp scent of a cologne she recognized.
 
Once, centuries ago, she’d been an expert on expensive colognes and designer clothes and upscale life-styles, so now she had no trouble identifying all three of those things in regard to him. The cologne was very alluring. She stepped back from him.
 
“So how old are you, Mr. Holland? Thirty-fourish, I’d guess.” Callie tilted her head to one side, ran her fingers through the mass of fuzzy brunette curls that caressed her bare shoulders, and kept her sky-blue eyes fastened on him with what she hoped was disconcerting intensity.
 
After a long pause during which he simply stared at her as if she’d started speaking in tongues, he shrugged. “Thirty-five.”
 
“That’s just perfect,” she said solemnly. Callie thought to herself, Well, John Henry, at least this one’s full grown. Last month he’d sent a college-age boy up here.
 
“Oh, I see,” Holland said suddenly. He nodded, and looked reassured. “You’re sentimental about it. I understand that. Everything has to be just right. You want to save it for someone mature enough to appreciate such a rare find. Someone like me, who knows how to treasure it.”
 
Callie fumbled for a minute. Good heavens, what had John Henry wrought?