"He only plans to teach her to misbehave, but they teach each other how to love."
Reviewed by Annetta Sweetko
Posted December 29, 2012
Contemporary Novella / Short Story | Series | Romance Contemporary
Amber Clark is the program director for Camelot Community
Center. Part of her job is to open every morning and
close at 5 p.m. Most of the time that works just fine,
but today the construction foreman is still puttering away
and she can't leave until he does. She isn't even sure what
his real name is, she never talked to him before, mostly
because she is afraid she would make a fool of herself by
showing her silly crush. Also complicating things is the
weather and when the siren gives the warning she is
expecting. She and "Him" have to go down into the basement
because the expected tornado is on its way. One big
problem; good girls don't go to dark basements with
strangers.
Tony Mazzara is good at construction but he isn't so good
with the dark as the pretty program director will soon
find out. But he has no choice and down into the basement
they go. As the storm rages around them, the strangers
became acquainted and when the lights go out and the panic
sets in Tony is helped by Amber being there.
And Amber makes a decision; she's tired of being the good
girl. She wants this man to teach her HOW TO MISBEHAVE. He
is one gorgeous hunk and he's attracted to her so why not.
No strings just some wild fun. Once the way is clear they
head to her apartment and the one night.
Unfortunately for the both of them, it isn't just mindless
sex for either of them, but Tony has his reasons for
walking away. He wants better for her than he could ever
be. Is it possible for him to work his way out of his past
and find himself worthy of the growing love he is feeling
for Amber? Can she forgive him for walking away without
giving their relationship a real try?
My biggest problem with HOW TO MISBEHAVE is ... it is way too
short. I found it is refreshing to find a book that gives
hints of less than perfect family life and allows you to
see the flaws the main characters slowly show as readers
get to know them. Then of course there are the sizzling
moments the couple shares in the bedroom that leave the
readers breathless. The author [Ruthie Knox] has a way with
words that keeps you hooked all the way to the end, and has
you ready to read more. I look forward to more Camelot
novels from this author.
SUMMARY
Ruthie Knox’s Camelot series continues in this sizzling
eBook original novel, featuring two headstrong souls who
bump heads—and bodies—as temptation and lust bring nothing
but delicious trouble. An accomplished lawyer and driven single mother, Ellen
Callahan isn’t looking for any help. She’s doing just fine
on her own. So Ellen’s more than a little peeved when her
brother, an international pop star, hires a security guard
to protect her from a prying press that will stop at nothing
to dig up dirt on him. But when the tanned and toned Caleb
Clark shows up at her door, Ellen might just have to plead
the fifth. Back home after a deployment in Iraq and looking for work as
a civilian, Caleb signs on as Ellen’s bodyguard. After
combat in the hot desert sun, this job should be a breeze.
But guarding the willful beauty is harder than he
imagined—and Caleb can’t resist the temptation to mix
business with pleasure. With their desires growing more
undeniable by the day, Ellen and Caleb give in to an evening
of steamy passion. But will they ever be able to share more
than just a one-night stand?
ExcerptChapter One
Friday, July 16, 1999
When the tornado siren began to scream, Amber was alone
in the building with him.
Him.
The foreman. The guy with the deep tan and the hard hat
and the oh–my–lord arms.
Everybody had a different name for him. One of the
lifeguards called him "the Italian Stallion." A patron had
referred to him as "Mr. Yummy." Rosalie, the weekday
receptionist, said his name was actually Patrick Mazzara,
and he was trouble.
Amber just thought of him as "him."
She thought of him a great deal more than was good for
her.
Gusts of wind flung the sound of the siren at the
building, drowning out whatever noises he might have been
making behind the thick plastic curtain that separated the
construction zone from the rest of the center. But he was
definitely over there.
Knowing when he left was part of her job. As program
director, Amber opened Camelot Community Center at seven in
the morning and locked up at five. Sometimes, like today,
she had to wait around for him after everyone else had gone
home. She would sit behind the counter of the tall, curved
reception desk and imagine herself pushing aside the
plastic curtain to ask when he might be finished cleaning
up. It's twenty after. I need to head home.
She never actually did it, though. She'd never been
brave enough to initiate the conversation, and there was
nothing so pressing on her agenda that she couldn't wait
for him.
Except, right now, the siren seemed kind of pressing.
Herding all the inhabitants of the center down to the
basement in the event of an emergency was another one of
Amber's responsibilities, which meant she should probably
get off her tush and round the man up.
But then she'd be alone with him in the basement.
The notion simultaneously thrilled and frightened her.
On the one hand, it felt a little bit like Providence
tapping her on the shoulder. Is this what you wanted? Here
you go! Carpe diem!
On the other hand, she was female and alone. She didn't
go in dark basements with strange men, and especially not
with large strange men who'd been described to her
as "trouble." Because what if? What if seven hundred
different horrible things?
Smart girls didn't ignore the what–ifs.
They didn't ignore tornado sirens, either.
She might have sat there forever, immobilized by
indecision, if the phone hadn't rung at the exact same
moment his shape materialized as a red–and–blue
blob behind the plastic sheeting.
"Camelot Community Center, this is Amber, can I help
you?"
"Why are you still by the phone? Don't you hear the
siren?"
Her mother. Perfect.
"Yeah, I hear it."
He shoved the curtain aside and walked across the lobby,
past the desk toward the front doors. Surely he
wasn't—
"—have to go to the basement," her mother
continued. "It's not safe near all that glass. Really, you
should be—"
He was. The man pushed open one of the entry doors, and
Amber shot out of her chair.
"Hey!" She dropped the phone and scooted quickly around
the desk. "You can't go out there. The siren."
When he frowned, he looked even more intimidating than
usual. "I'm only checking it out."
He had the door propped open with his right arm and leg.
Not leaving.
"Right. Sorry." All the blood in her body attempted to
relocate to her cheeks. "I'm, uh, supposed to take you down
to the basement. Hold up a second, and I'll get off the
phone."
She crossed back to the desk in a rush and leaned way
over to retrieve the phone from the far side. "Mom, I have
to go. Be safe. I'll call you when it's over."
"Who were you talking to?"
"The guy from the construction company."
She didn't know if he was technically the foreman or the
owner or what. He seemed to boss a lot of people around,
particularly another man who looked like a shorter,
angrier, tattooed version of him, but he also did plenty of
work.
She'd mentally designated him the foreman on the basis
of the fact that he seemed to come and go as he pleased. He
did half days sometimes and skipped other days altogether,
which made her think he was off running the show at another
site.
"You mean that man who keeps you late? You can't go down
to the basement with him."
"Of course I can. I have to."
"He's a stranger."
"Yes, but there's a tornado."
The storm noise died down as the door eased shut behind
him.
His boots squeaked over the polished linoleum of the
entryway, and then metal clicked on plastic as something
hit the desk beside her.
She looked sideways. His belt buckle. Holy Toledo.
"I know there's a tornado," her mother was
saying. "That's why I called. But you can't go running down
into the basement with a man. It's unsafe."
"I think this is one of those situations where you have
to pick your poison, Mom."
"Ask him his name, at least, so if something happens I
can report him to the authorities."
"His name is Patrick Mazzara." Her face got even hotter.
Why not just wear a sign that read, I Know Your Name
Because I Have a Huge, Inappropriate Crush on You? "I have
to go."
He shifted beside her. The buckle scraped over Formica.
"Mazzara? Is he the one who—"
"Bye, Mom."
Amber hung up the phone and closed her eyes. Inhale,
exhale, inhale, gosh darn it, she hoped he hadn't heard
that.
But she wasn't any good at lying, even to herself. She
worked the phone all the time, and she knew perfectly well
that the volume stayed cranked up loud enough that it was
possible to hear both sides of any conversation from
several feet away. Rosalie was a little hearing impaired.
He wasn't several feet away. He was breathing. Right
next to her.
He cleared his throat.
She turned.
"Basement?"
She beamed as if she were offering him a cocktail.
Because she was excellent with men. So very excellent and
savvy. Not at all a flushing, bumbling Bible college
graduate who'd lost the faith and misplaced her virginity
but somehow accidentally managed to hang on to her air of
dewy inexperience.
It was her face—her giant eyes and big round
cheeks. She looked like Bambi. The kind of men who were
attracted to her wanted her to be as sweet and innocent as
her face.
"I'm not Patrick."
Amber blinked. I'm not Patrick was the last thing she'd
expected him to say. Though to be fair, she was
hard–pressed to come up with a list of things he
might reasonably have said.
I adore you, Amber.
I want to marry you.
Or maybe, I want to take you out to my truck and teach
you what sex is supposed to feel like.
She wasn't innocent enough to think it would be romantic
if he said any of those things. Not at all. It would be
creepy. And probably also terrifying.
"Patrick's my brother," he added. "My name's Tony."
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's all right. People get us confused a lot."
Patrick had to be the tattooed guy, then. The shorter
brother, who didn't do as much of the work or the bossing
around.
Patrick the troublemaker.
Maybe Tony was the nice one.
Though if he'd looked like the nice one, she certainly
wouldn't have developed such a desperate, inadvisable crush
on him. No, she liked his rough edges. The way his hair
stuck out underneath his hard hat and clung to the back of
his neck, a few weeks overdue for a visit with the
scissors. The way his hands always looked so beat up when
he held the door open for her—a dark blood blister
under his thumbnail, a crack in one knuckle.
A man who worked hard, knew what he wanted, and didn't
take flack from anybody.
"I live over in Mount Pleasant," he said. "Sunnybrook
Lane."
She flapped one hand and made a dismissive shape with
her mouth, as if to say, No, no. Though what she was
denying, she couldn't say. That she'd wanted to know where
he lived? That she minded going into basements with strange
men?
She did mind. Or she would, normally. It was just that
the tornado siren had short–circuited her brain.
And also, his voice was rich and dark and delicious. He
wasn't a big talker, and maybe that was because his voice
was such a valuable substance, he had to ration it. She
might actually be able to live on it for the next week.
"You need to know anything else to be sure I'm not gonna
maim you?" he asked. "Social security number? Height and
weight?"
She shook her head with too much energy.
He smiled.
Amber thought she just might die.
It was dazzling. Tony Mazzara had a dazzling smile. Like
a toothpaste commercial dipped in a porn movie.
"Now we're at the part where you tell me your name," he
said.
"Sorry?" She had an urge to shake her head and clear
away the smile vapors, but she managed not to. Just.
"Your name, honey."
"Amber."
"Amber what?"
"Amber Clark."
His eyes were laughing at her, but they were doing it
kindly. He had nice eyes. Dark, dark brown eyes and wavy
black hair. A face like his name, like it should have been
chiseled out of marble, with a big Mediterranean nose, high
cheekbones, and one of those brows that could go dark and
menacing and make a girl shiver.
His mouth was probably illegal.
She needed to stop cataloging him, because it only made
the blushing, perky thing worse. The guy she now realized
was his brother gave her sly looks whenever the two of them
passed her. Looks that said, I see the way you watch him.
Everybody sees.
She wanted to tell him, It's not like you think. I'm not
mooning over him. I'm trying to figure out a way to drag
him into my bed and tie him up.
But that was such baloney. She was mooning over him.
"And you live . . . ?"
She pointed out the door in the general direction of her
place. "Camelot Arms apartments. A mile or so over that
way."
"And if I go into that basement with you, you're not
going to attack me? Compromise my virtue?"
"I'll call your mother and swear to it if you want."
He huffed, half a laugh, and his mouth curved into a
sideways kind of smirk that lit her panties on fire.
"All right, Amber Clark. Shall we go find ourselves a
corner to huddle in?"
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy