The Last Marchetti Bachelor. Teresa Southwick

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      Contents

      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

      Chapter One

      “I understand leaving without telling me goodbye.” Luke Marchetti’s deep, accusing tone said he didn’t understand at all. “But I don’t get why you didn’t tell me you were a virgin.”

      Madison Wainright froze in her bedroom doorway and took a deep breath.

      Turning to face him she whispered, “Luke.”

      “In the flesh.”

      And what exceptional flesh he had. He stood beside her queen-size four-poster bed, his thick dark hair still damp from his shower. His smoldering bad-boy good looks took her breath away—the well-shaped nose, square jaw shadowed with whiskers, and dormant dimples. When he scowled, like now, they were barely there. But she’d seen him flash a smile, unleashing dimples that looked as if a sculptor had pressed thumbs into soft clay. The effect could melt most feminine hearts. Except hers, of course. But with that white terry cloth towel loosely knotted and slung low on his lean hips, he could be the poster boy for tall, dark, dangerous and tempting.

      “Why, Maddie?”

      While he’d showered, she’d debated whether or not she could face him after doing “the deed.” Finally she’d slipped on jeans and a T-shirt. Now she pressed a cardigan against her breasts, as if that could shield her from his gaze. Since he’d already seen her without a stitch, it was rather like closing the barn door after the horse got loose.

      “Why am I leaving my own condo? Or why didn’t I tell you about the ‘V’ issue?”

      “Either. Both.” He lifted his powerful shoulders in a shrug.

      He was her three-dimensional definition of the word hunk, not that she’d had gobs of personal experience evaluating the opposite sex in various stages of undress. But she was nothing if not opinionated. And her opinion was that she liked his tall, lean body. She liked the hair on his chest.

      Stubbornly she resisted the urge to sigh. Even now she remembered the way her right palm had tingled as she’d run her hand across the oh-so-masculine contours. Now, in the daylight, she added visual to her tactile memory and saw that the dusting of hair tapered to a vee just above the spot where his pesky plain white towel tenaciously clung as if by magic to his hips.

      He looked out of place in her frilly, feminine surroundings: lace curtains covered the windows; vases filled with flowers adorned the dresser and nightstand; wreaths and bows and pictures of Victorian women hung on the walls; even the bed, covered in white eyelet, shouted that this was a woman’s world. The sight of floral sheets, twisted and tangled from loving Luke the night before, flooded her with guilt.

      She was no longer Southern California’s last twenty-five-year-old virgin. But, why, why, why had she let it be Luke?

      She swallowed twice before regaining the power of speech. “I realize this is my place. As a thoughtful hostess concerned about your privacy, I figured it would be better if I slipped out quietly.” She tried for an impersonal, businesslike tone, so the breathless quality in her voice was a dismal failure. “Just call me Martha Stewart,” she added, struggling for lightness.

      Ignoring her humor, he asked, “Better for who?”

      His manner was almost friendly and conversational, but his blue eyes narrowed at the same time as his full, sensual lips thinned. She knew she would never forget the feel of his mouth on several of her most super-sensitive spots.

      “Better for both of us—to spare us the awkward morning-after-the-night-before dialogue.”

      “Sharing the experience afterward is the best part. But you wouldn’t know about that, since it was your first time.”

      “Are you making fun of me?”

      “Never. I’m annoyed that you neglected to tell me.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

      The defensive pose limited her view. But her disappointment was mitigated by the impressive muscles that bunched in his biceps.

      “Okay. Busted. You’re right. I’ve never done this before. On top of that, I don’t read women’s magazines. I don’t know the top ten topics of discussion the morning after spending the night with a man for the first time. Or the politically correct behavior. My experience СКАЧАТЬ