Blazing Midsummer Nights. Leslie Kelly

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      “So, sex camel, what are you looking for, a Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp oasis?”

      Dimitri would probably be considered every bit as handsome as those men. Still, there was no fire. When he kissed her, she always thought, well, that’s nice. But she never had the urge to rip off his pressed shirt, shove him against a wall and thrust her tongue down his throat. And they’d never done anything more than kiss. He hadn’t pushed, and she hadn’t wanted him to. Because, for a sex camel, nice sex wasn’t an oasis, it was just the last few drops of water from a nearly empty canteen.

      If she really wanted an oasis, she needed hot.

      Forget it. Heat burns. A lukewarm canteen is good enough.

      “I honestly don’t know,” she finally admitted. “He’s everything I should want.”

      “But not what you need? Not what you crave?”

      Needing and craving didn’t begin to describe what she felt for Dimitri. Respecting and appreciating did. “Like I said, there’s more to life.”

      “You tell yourself that the next time a gorgeous, hot, half-naked man lands at your feet.”

      “I think I’ll go for a walk during the next thunderstorm. I’d have a better chance of getting struck by lightning.”

      “Thunderstorm?” Dimitri asked. “It doesn’t look like rain.”

      Glad he hadn’t overheard their entire conversation, Mimi took the glass of wine he offered, murmuring, “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome. How about a dance when you’re finished?”

      Dancing under the stars with a handsome man. It should sound heavenly. But instead it sounded … just okay. As okay as everything else in her life lately.

      Okay is fine. Okay is better than wounded and lonely. Okay is better than wondering what the hell is wrong with you since the last few rounds of ring-around-the-relationship ended with you in the used-and-heartbroken seat.

      She’d been following her libido instead of her brain and had lived to regret it. So her brain needed to be in charge from now on. And her brain said okay was good enough.

      “Sure, thanks,” she said, lowering the glass.

      She let Dimitri lead her to the flagstone patio, which was being used for dancing. Mimi held her breath, looking up at his handsome face—all slashing, GQ-magazine-cover cheekbones, haughty brows, dark green eyes that watched her closely. She was waiting for a frisson of sensation, a spark at the brush of his tall, lean body against her own, but it just didn’t happen.

      Maybe it never will. Maybe acknowledging that he’s handsome and smart, and liking him will do.

      She did like him, and respected him. She doubted he’d hurt her—the fact that she wasn’t desperate for him should be enough to insulate her from too much pain if things went south. And it would certainly make things nice in terms of the business, not to mention her rocky relationship with her dad.

      In this day and age, no self-respecting woman would marry a man just to please her father, and Mimi wouldn’t, either. But considering her old man swore she’d said every word in the dictionary except “Dada” as an infant, just to spite him, she didn’t think extending an olive branch was such a bad thing. It wasn’t just wanting to keep things smooth at work. She also didn’t want to fight with him because she knew it upset her mother, who’d been playing the role of peacekeeper since Mimi took her first steps. So would it really be such a hardship to let herself drift into a relationship with a man most women would consider a Greek god, who was also rich, smart and nice?

      No. It wouldn’t.

      It was time to rid herself of the I-want-it-hot fantasies and move into the next phase of her life. The settle-down-and-marry-a-nice-handsome-man-and-have-a-family phase. Which meant maybe it was time to move her relationship with Dimitri up a notch … and closer to her bedroom.

      She thought about it. The party would wind down in an hour or two. Afterward, she could invite him into her apartment for a drink. They’d kiss. She’d move close, let her breasts brush against his chest. Tangle her legs between his. She wouldn’t resist when he slid his hand up her thigh, edging her dress ever higher. Until he reached her. “Oh, hell,” she mumbled.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked.

      “Nothing,” she insisted, feeling heat stain her cheeks.

      Nothing except she was in no way dressed for seduction. Oh, sure, she was on the outside. But underneath her slinky, sexy dress, she wore what every other self-respecting American woman who didn’t want a single bulge showing wore: Spanx.

      She’d loved this dress the minute she saw it, though it had been a size smaller than she usually wore. A pair of superstrong control-top panties had seemed a small price to pay … but they weren’t going to lend themselves to a romantic atmosphere. He’d probably have to get power tools to drag them off her.

      Only one thing to do. Ditch the drawers.

      The evening was getting late, it was dark, people were drinking. Who’d notice if she switched into something sexy and her dress suddenly fit a little too tightly? Nobody, that’s who. And maybe doing it—getting ready for seduction, feeling the silky glide of lingerie against her most intimate parts—would get her in the mood to act on her plan to seduce him.

      “Would you excuse me? I need to run inside for a minute.”

      To pry off my underwear.

      “Of course,” he said, releasing her. No argument, no suggestion that he go, too, so they could continue their dance in private. How—boring—refreshing.

      Thrusting aside those thoughts, she turned away from him toward the house. But she hadn’t taken one step when she heard a woman nearby whisper in a loud, tipsy voice, “Whoa, mama, who’s that?”

      Curious about the comment, which sounded as though it should have been accompanied by a purr, she glanced toward the gate, and her breath caught in her throat.

      Anna stood there, and beside her was a stranger. A tall, dark-haired stranger, wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else.

      The jeans looked good. The nothing, fantastic.

      He was shirtless, shoeless, sweaty. His slick, tanned body gleamed under the twinkle lights, lines of oh-so-interesting skin striped with equally interesting shadow. His broad shoulders looked Atlas-size, and his thickly muscled arms flexed as he swiped a hand through his jet-black hair.

      She couldn’t make out whether he was as handsome of face as he was of body. But she definitely noted that his six-pack abs were so perfect they ought to be sold in a liquor store and come with a warning label.

      Whoa, mama, indeed.

      “Mimi? Are you all right?”

      She tore her attention off the stranger and glanced at Dimitri, who was watching her curiously.

      “I’m fine,” she told Mr. Handsome.

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