Sampler: The Wrong Kind of Man by Lolli Powell
November 2, 2020
Her eyes reached his face, and she found herself staring into amused amber eyes. At that moment, she wished she were dead.
At thirty years of age, Maggie Fields has had her fill of “bad” men. Unbeknownst to her, her investment counselor husband had paid for their luxurious Denver lifestyle by scamming his law-abiding clients and laundering money for his law-breaking ones.
He lasted two nights in jail before a client who didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut had him silenced permanently.
Maggie fled to her hometown of Vichy, Indiana, and safe haven with her grandparents. Now all she wants is a quiet life as a reporter for a small-town newspaper.
That quiet is shattered when her ne’er-do-well uncle shows up on her retired doctor grandfather’s doorstep with a wounded and very sexy friend.
Did the friend really injure his shoulder while changing a tire, or is he the man shot by the homeowner during an attempted burglary of a house just outside of town?
Maggie soon has reason to believe the homeowner is not an innocent victim, leading her to wonder if her uncle and his friend are involved in organized crime.
But in spite of her suspicions, Maggie finds herself drawn to the wounded stranger and realizes the bad experience with her husband hasn’t dulled her taste for the wrong kind of man!
Sampler: The Wrong Kind of Man
The door to the guest room was open a few inches. Through it, Maggie could see the figure of a man lying in the bed. She balanced the tray against her hip and gently pushed the door open. Apparently the stranger was still asleep, a fact for which she was grateful. She would have an opportunity to get a good look at him without his being aware of it, and she might even have a chance to search through anything he’d brought with him.
She crossed to the dresser to the left of the window, careful to walk lightly on the hardwood floor. She set the tray on the dresser and turned to look at the sleeping stranger. At that moment, the blue curtains stirred in a gentle breeze wafting in through the open window. A shaft of morning sunlight fell on the man’s sleeping face, and Maggie forgot to breathe.
She had never in her life seen anyone so handsome. “Golden” was the only term she could think of to describe him, a golden creature lying there on her grandmother’s crisp white sheets, the white chenille bedspread covering him from the waist down. His hair was sun-streaked brown and lay in unruly curls around his face, a frame for the finely chiseled features, the dark blond stubble, and the long golden lashes that hid his sleeping eyes. He was breathing deeply, and she watched for several seconds, marveling at the way his nostrils flared ever so slightly with each breath. Then, in spite of herself, her gaze drifted downward over his bare body.
It was as beautiful as his face, and like a connoisseur of fine art, she took her time admiring every inch. His skin was a golden tan, stretched taut over finely muscled arms and a broad chest, the skin glowing even darker against the stark white bandage that her grandfather had applied to his left shoulder. Over it all grew a mat of curly golden hair, thinner on his upper chest, thicker as it traveled across the curved planes of his developed pectorals, thinning again as it disappeared beneath her grandmother’s bedspread.
Maggie’s gaze lingered there at the edge of that lucky spread. She fought a surprising urge to reach over and pull it back, to see if the golden hair continued on down. She couldn’t have said how long she looked and wondered, but finally, her gaze began to drift back up, taking in the scenery one more time. She silently admired each swell and curve of muscle, each tight brown nipple, each tuft of hair, until finally, her eyes reached his face, and she found herself staring into amused amber eyes. At that moment, she wished she were dead.
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