How did pretty, flighty Daisy Devreaux find herself in this fix? She can either go to jail or marry the mystery man her father has chosen for her. Alex Markov. Susan Elizabeth Phillips c/o Avon Books Avenue of the Americas New York , New York 1 Daisy Devreaux had forgotten her. susan elizabeth phillips - kiss an tvnovellas.info KB. 4. Like Show likes Does anyone have Ain't she sweet by Susan Elizabeth Phillips? Like Show likes.
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Kiss an Angel. Home · Kiss an Angel Author: Susan Elizabeth Phillips Angel Kiss · Read more · Angel Kiss. Read more · Angel Kiss · Read more · an Angel. How did pretty, flighty Daisy Devreaux find herself in this fix? She can either go to jail or marry the mystery man her father has chosen for her. As humorless as he is deadly handsome, he drags the irrepressible Daisy away from her uptown life and sets out to tame her. Pretty, flighty Daisy Devreaux can either go to jail or marry the mystery man her father has chosen for her. Arranged marriages don't happen in the modern world, so how did the irrepressible Daisy find herself in this fix? He drags Daisy from her uptown life to a broken down.
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She sneaked a look at her new husband and wondered how much her father had paid him to marry her. And some irreverent part of her wanted to know how the actual transaction had taken place.
Excuse me, Alexander Markov, but do you take American Express? As she observed her bridegroom declining a mimosa from the tray being passed by Min Soon, she tried to imagine what he was thinking.
Alex Markov glanced at his watch. Another five minutes should do it, he decided. He watched the servant who was passing a tray of drinks stop to fawn over her. Enjoy it, lady. It'll be a long time before it happens again. While Max showed the judge an antique samovar, Alex gazed at his new wife's legs, revealed for all the world to see by that harebrained excuse for a wedding dress. They were slim and shapely, which made him wonder if the rest of her body, partially concealed by her jacket, would be as enticing.
But even a siren's body wasn't going to compensate him for being forced into this marriage. He remembered his last private conversation with Daisy's father.
Idon't believe Daisy knows how to do anything useful. Granted, it's not all her fault. Lani never cut the apron strings, and she kept Daisy with her until she died. It's a miracle Daisy wasn't on board the boat that night it caught on fire. My daughter'll need a stiff hand, Alex, or she'll drive you crazy.
Her mother was Lani Devreaux, the British fashion model who'd been so famous thirty years earlier. In what could only have been an attraction of op-posites, Lani and Max Petroff had had a love affair when he 4. Max made it clear to Alex in that stuffy way of his that he had offered to marry Lani when she had unexpectedly become pregnant, but Lani had refused to settle down. Nevertheless, Max insisted he'd always done his duty to his embarrassingly illegitimate daughter.
All the evidence pointed to the contrary, however. When Lani's career had begun to fade, she'd turned into a professional party girl and house guest. And wherever Lani went, Daisy went.
At least Lani had once had a career, Alex thought, but Daisy didn't seem to have ever done anything useful with her life. As Alex looked at his new bride more closely, he saw some resemblance to her mother. They had the same black-as-ink hair, and only indoor women could have such pale skin. Her eyes were an unusual blue, so full of color they were as purple as roadside violets. From what he remembered of the old photographs, Lani's profile had been almost masculine, while Daisy's had a blurred quality that was especially evident in that inconsequential nose and silly, soft mouth.
According to Max, Lani had been strong on looks but short on brains, another quality the little airhead across the room had apparently inherited. He'd always been discriminating about female companionship, and alluring as that small body was, he preferred a different sort of woman, one who had more going for her than a great set of legs.
He liked intelligence in his bed partners, along with ambition, independence, and the ability to give as good as she got. He could respect a woman who cussed him out, but he had no use for sulks and pouts.
This little ball of fluff was already setting his teeth on edge. At least keeping her in line wouldn't be a problem. He gazed over at her, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile.
Life has a way of catching up with spoiled little rich girls. And, baby, is it ever about to catch up with you. Across the room, Daisy stopped in front of an antique mirror to check her appearance. She did it out of habit instead of vanity. To her mother, appearance was everything. Lani regarded smudged mascara as a worse catastrophe than nuclear holocaust.
Daisy's new haircut was chin length in the front and a little longer in the back, breezy, youthful, curling softly here and there. She'd loved it from the beginning, but she'd loved it even more that morning when Amelia had clucked over how untidy the style looked for a wedding. Just behind her reflection, Daisy saw her bridegroom approaching. She arranged her mouth in a polite smile and told herself everything would work out fine.
It had to. We're leaving. We have a plane to catch. Your luggage is already in the car. She wasn't ready to be alone with him yet. Ihate to disappoint Maria. She's Amelia's jewel, and she does a wonderful brunch.
They were an unusual color, a pale amber that reminded her of something vaguely eerie. Although she couldn't quite remember what it was, she knew it made her uneasy. Someone's awfully eager for his wedding night. Our Daisy is quite a morsel, isn't she? You're fine just the way you are. Just then, her father and Amelia appeared to wave them off. Even though she didn't plan to go any farther than the airport, she wanted to jerk away from Alex's touch as he steered her toward the door.
She turned back toward her father and hated herself for the faint thread of panic in her voice. We've hardly had a chance to visit. If you fail at this, I'm washing my hands of you. For once in your life, let's see if you can do something right. Lifting her chin, she stepped in front of Alex and walked out the door. She refused to meet his eyes as they waited in silence for the elevator that would take them to the lobby.
They moved inside. The doors shut, only to open again on the next floor and allow an elderly woman leading a tan Pekingese to enter.
Daisy immediately shrank against the elevator's rich teak paneling, but the dog spotted her. He drew his ears back, yipped furiously, and sprang. She screeched as he jumped up on her legs and tore her nylons.
She screamed and grabbed the brass rail. Alex regarded her quizzically, then nudged the animal away with his shoe. Mitzi loves everybody. She continued to hold the brass rail in a death grip while she kept her eyes on the vicious little beast as it yipped and snapped at her until the doors opened to the lobby.
That dog hated you. Tell me that doesn't mean you're afraid of them. There were no crepe paper streamers attached to the limousine that waited for them at the curb, no tin cans and JUST MARRIED signs, none of the wonderful silliness reserved for ordinary people who loved each other. She told herself to stop being such a sentimental fool. Lani had teased her for years about being hopelessly old-fashioned, but all Daisy had ever wanted was to live a conventional life.
Not so unusual, she supposed, for someone who had been raised so unconventionally. As she climbed inside, she saw that the tinted glass window separating the driver from the passengers was closed. At least she'd have the privacy she needed to tell Alex Markov her intentions before they reached the airport. You took vows, Daisy. Sacred vows. She shook off the troublesome voice of her conscience by telling herself she didn't have a choice.
He got in next to her, and the spacious interior suddenly seemed cramped. If he wasn't so physically overpowering, she didn't think she'd be so nervous about this. Although he wasn't muscle-bound like one of those freakish-looking bodybuilders, he had the hard, sinewy physique of someone in top shape. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow.
The hands that rested on the slacks of his charcoal suit were strong and deeply tanned, with long, tapered fingers. She felt a small jolt of awareness that unsettled her. They had barely pulled away from the curb before he began to tug at his necktie. He yanked it off, stuffed it in the pocket of his suit coat, and unfastened his collar button with an efficient flick of his wrist.
She stiffened, hoping he wasn't going to take off any more. In one of her favorite erotic fantasies, she and a faceless man made passionate love in the back of a white limousine stuck in a Manhattan traffic jam while Michael Bolton sang "When a Man Loves a Woman" in the background, but there was a big difference between fantasy and reality. The limo began to move. She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together, and smelled the heavy scent of the gardenia in her hair.
She was relieved to see that Alex had stopped taking off his clothes, but when he stretched his legs and began to study her, she shifted uneasily. No matter how hard she worked at it, she would never be as beautiful 6. The hole in her shimmery gold nylons from her encounter with the Pekingese didn't add to her self-confidence. She opened her purse to find a much needed cigarette.
It was an awful habit, and she wasn't proud of having succumbed to it. Although Lani had always smoked, Daisy'd never had more than an occasional cigarette in the evening with a glass of wine. But in those first months after her mother's death she'd found that cigarettes relaxed her, and she'd become truly addicted. After a long drag, she decided she was calm enough to tell Mr. Markov her plan.
Without warning, her cigarette burst into flames. She shrieked and let it go. Sparks flew everywhere. He grabbed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and somehow managed to put out all the embers.
Breathing hard, she looked down at her lap and saw tiny burn marks in her gold lace dress and on the satin jacket. I've never heard of anything like that. Of course. Although she was shaken, he seemed perfectly relaxed. Leaning back in the corner of the seat, he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
This past year had been such a disaster that she'd gotten into the habit of giving herself small pep talks so that she didn't fall into the habit of considering herself totally hopeless. She reminded herself that although her education might have been unorthodox, it had certainly been comprehensive.
And despite what her father thought, she'd inherited his brain and not her mother's. She also had a good sense of humor and a naturally optimistic outlook on life that even the past year hadn't entirely destroyed. She spoke four foreign languages, could identify nearly any couture piece by designer, and was an expert at calming hysterical women.
Unfortunately, she didn't possess even a modicum of common sense. Why hadn't she listened when her mother's Parisian lawyer had explained there would be nothing left after Lani's debts were paid? She suspected now that it was guilt that had pushed her into her disastrous months-long spending spree following that numbing time immediately after the memorial service.
For years she had wanted to escape the emotional blackmail that had pinned her to Lani's side on endless rounds of pleasure- seeking. But she hadn't wanted Lani to die. Not that. Her eyes filled with tears. She'd loved her mother desperately, and despite Lani's selfishness, her endless demands, and her constant need to be reassured that she hadn't lost her beauty, she knew Lani had loved her, too. The more guilt Daisy had felt about the unexpected freedom Lani's death had given her, the more money she'd spent, not only on herself but on any of Lani's old friends who were down on their luck.
When her creditors' threats had grown ominous, she'd written more checks to hold them off, not knowing or caring that she didn't have enough money to cover them. Max found out about her extravagant spending the same day a warrant was issued for her arrest. Reality crashed in, and she realized the enormity of what she'd done.
She'd begged her father to lend her the money to hold off her creditors, promising to pay him back as soon as she got on her feet.
That was when he'd resorted to blackmail. It was high time she grew up, he told her, and if she wanted to stay out of jail, she was going to put an end to her extravagance and do as he said. In crisp, uncompromising tones, he had dictated his terms. She would marry the man he chose for her as soon as he could arrange it. Furthermore, she would promise to stay married to him for six months, serving as an obedient and dutiful wife during that time.
Only at the end of the six months would she be free to divorce and benefit from a trust fund he would set up for her, a trust fund he would control. If she was frugal, she would be able to live in relative comfort off the interest for the rest of her life. If you don't agree to this marriage, you'll go to jail.
And if you can't stay married for six months, you'll never see another penny from me. Three days later, he had presented her future bridegroom without mentioning a word about his background or occupation, merely giving her an admonition: For now, that's all you need to know. Out of habit, she withdrew a slim gold compact from her purse to make certain everything was as it should be.
Reassured, she closed it with a snap andput it away. She cleared her throat. Ithink we need to talk. Ithink that gives us a few things to discuss. He'd made a perfectly innocent remark, and she'd merely imagined that husky undertone of sexual innuendo. She fixed a bright smile on her face. As Iremember it, we're supposed to live together and play husband and wife. He's a little dictatorial when it comes to running other people's lives. The beauty of my plan is that he'll never know that we haven't been living together.
As long as we don't set up housekeeping in Manhattan, where he can walk in on us, he won't have any idea what we're doing. You expect me to hand over half of what Max is giving me to marry you? She'd never had to haggle, and she didn't like doing it now, but she couldn't see that she had a choice. After all, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be getting any money at all. I'll pay you back as soon as Ihave access to my trust. I'm only asking for a loan. She had a bad habit of assuming other people would do what she herself would do if she were in their shoes.
For example, if she were Alex Markov, she would certainly loan herself half the money just to get rid of her. She needed to smoke. I'm sure that only one of them was faulty. She quickly lit up, shut her eyes, and drew the smoke deeply into her lungs. She heard the sizzle, and by the time her eyes sprang open, the cigarette was already in flames. With a gasp of dismay, she dropped it. Once again, Alex swept up the butt and embers with a handkerchief.
She pressed her hand to her throat, too stunned to speak. He reached over and touched her breast. She felt the flick of his finger on the inner swell and jumped back, even as the sensitive flesh beaded beneath the satin. Her gaze flew upward to those unfathomable golden eyes. She covered her breast with her hand and felt the trembling of her heart beneath her palm.
How long had it been since a hand other than her own had touched her there? Two years ago, she remembered, when she'd had her last physical exam. She saw that they had reached the airport, and she garnered her courage. Markov, you have to realize that we can't live together as man and wife. We're strangers. The whole idea is ridiculous, and I'm going to have to insist that you be more cooperative about this. Maybe I'd better spell out the ground rules right now, just so you'll know what to expect.
For better or worse, the two of us are married until six months from today. You can walk away any time you want to, but you'll have to do it on your own. And in case you haven't figured it out by now, this isn't going to be one of those modern, talk-things-through-so-we-can-compromise marriages like you read about in all those ladies' magazines.
This is going to be an old-time relationship. If you don't, you'll suffer some pretty unpleasant consequences. The good news in all this is that after the time's up, you can do whatever you want. Iwon't give a damn. Maybe you should just come right out and tell me what these consequences are that you're holding over my head.
By tonight you'll have figured it out all by yourself. The plane, she had discovered, was heading for Charleston, South Carolina, one of her favorite cities, and she tried to take that as a positive sign in a chain of events that had been growing more disastrous by the minute. First, Mr. High-and-Mighty Markov had refused to go along with her plan. Then he'd sabotaged her luggage. When the chauffeur had unloaded only one overstuffed carry-on bag from the trunk instead of the full array of suitcases she'd packed, she'd assumed there'd been a mistake, but Alex had quickly set her straight.
Ihad the housekeeper repack for you during the wedding ceremony. She'd barely been able to hoist her cumbersome piece of luggage, and her ankles had wobbled on her too-high heels as she'd dragged it after him.
Feeling miserable and self-conscious, she'd struggled toward the gate, certain everyone she passed was noting her holey nylons, scorched gold lace, and bruised gardenia.
When he'd disappeared into the rest room, she'd hurried to download a fresh pack of cigarettes, only to discover that she had nothing but a ten-dollar bill in her purse.
With a sense of shock, she'd realized it was all the money she had left in the world. Her bank accounts were closed, her credit cards canceled.
She'd returned the bill to her wallet and bummed a cigarette from an attractive businessman instead. Just as she stubbed it out, Alex emerged from the rest room, and as she saw the way he was dressed, her stomach sank.
The well-tailored dark suit had been replaced by a denim shirt that looked soft from many washings and a pair of jeans so faded they were nearly white. Frayed cuffs fell over scuffed brown leather cowboy boots. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, suntanned forearms lightly dusted with dark hair and a gold watch with a leather band. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Of all the things her father had done to her, she'd never imagined he'd marry her off to the Marlboro Man.
He came up to her, his own carry-on bag dangling easily from his loose grip. The fit of his jeans showed narrow hips and legs that went on forever. Lani would have been in ecstasy. Let's go. If you'll just lend me a third of the money that's rightfully mine, we can put this behind us. Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but it's a matter of honor with me. You sold yourself to him! You let my father download you! What kind of honor is that? Of course, if you insist on walking away, Iwon't stop you.
Idon't have any money. She had no checking account, no charge cards, and her father had ordered her not to contact him. With a sinking stomach, she realized she had run out of options, and she picked up her bag. Ahead of her, Alex reached the last row of chairs, where a teenage boy sat smoking.
As her new husband passed by, the boy's cigarette went up in flames. She set her jaw. If he thought she was going to beg him for help, he could think again. Her arms screamed in protest as she struggled to hoist the cumbersome bag over the side. She felt his eyes on her, and although she suspected that she'd eventually be grateful her father's housekeeper had managed to stuff so much into one carry-on bag, at that moment she would have given anything for Louis Vuitton's smallest tote.
She grabbed the handle in one hand and the hook at the bottom in the other.
With a mighty effort, she heaved. Just a few more inches. She wobbled on her high heels. She yelped as she hit the pavement, then yelped again out of pure rage. As she stared straight up into the sun, she realized the bag had cushioned her fall, which was the only reason she She also realized she had sprawled into an ungainly position, with her short skirt stretched tight across her upper thighs, her knees pressed together, and her feet splayed.
A pair of scuffed brown cowboy boots appeared in her peripheral vision. As her eyes slid up along denim-clad thighs and over a broad chest to a pair of amber eyes glinting with amusement, she mustered her dignity. Bringing her ankles together, she propped herself up on her elbows. Then he hauled her to her feet, unlocked the door of the cab, and pushed her into the sweltering interior.
She didn't trust herself to speak until they had left the airport far behind and were traveling on a two-lane highway that seemed to be heading inland instead of toward Hilton Head, as she'd hoped.
Flat stretches of palmetto and scrub stretched on both sides of the road, and the blast of warm air coming through the truck's open windows whipped feathery strands of hair against her cheeks.
Keeping her voice determinedly pleasant, she finally broke the silence. I'm getting blown to bits. More miles ticked by, and signs of civilization grew increasingly sparse. Once again, she asked the question he'd refused to answer when they'd gotten off the plane. The place doesn't have a cocktail lounge. Maybe he was a rancher! She knew that there were all kinds of wealthy cattle ranchers in Florida. Maybe they were taking a roundabout way south.
Please, God, let him be a rancher. And let it be like a Dallas rerun. A beautiful house, tacky clothes, Sue Ellen and J. You answered a question with a question. Inever visited one. You're obviously much too well-adjusted. She gazed out the window at the hypnotically flat stretch of highway. Off to her right, she saw a dilapidated house with a scraggly tree in the front yard holding a collection of bird feeders made from gourds.
The hot air blew over her. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was inhaling. Until today, she hadn't realized how addicted she was to nicotine. As soon as things settled down, she'd have to quit. She'd be in a new setting, and she'd make some rules for herself. For example, she wouldn't ever smoke in the ranch house. If she wanted a cigarette, she'd slip out onto the veranda or lie on a chaise next to the pool.
As she drifted into sleep, she once again found herself praying. Please, God, let there be a veranda. Let there be a pool. Sometime later, the jolting of the truck awakened her. She jerked upright, opened her eyes, and gave a choked gasp. A real, live elephant. The beast picked up a clump of hay in its trunk and tossed it on its back. As she gazed into the glare of the late afternoon sun, she prayed that she was still asleep and this was only a bad dream.
Markov, but please don't say you work here. The sun-parched vacant lot held a red-and-blue striped big top, several smaller tents, and a variety of trucks and trailers. In addition to a number of shackled elephants, she saw a llama, a camel, some large animal cages, and all kinds of disreputable people, including some dirty-looking men, most of whom seemed to be missing their front teeth.
Her father had always been a snob. He loved ancient lineages and royal titles. He boasted of his own descent from one of czarist Russia's great aristocratic families. The fact that he'd given his only daughter to a man who worked for a circus was the clearest message he could have sent of his feelings for her. By the time she'd climbed down, he'd taken both their bags out of the back and set off with them.
She tottered awkwardly after him over the uneven ground, her high heels sinking into the sand. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Her knee poked through a widening hole in her shredded nylons, the singed gold satin jacket slipped off one shoulder, and her shoe sank into something ominously soft.
With a sinking heart, she looked down, only to see that she'd stepped in exactly what she'd feared. Instead, he kept walking toward a row of house trailers and motor homes.
She wiped the sole of her shoe in the sandy soil, filling it with grit in the process. With a strangled exclamation, she set off again. He approached two vehicles that sat close together. The nearest one was a sleekly modern silver motor home that had a satellite dish on top. Next to it rested a battered and rust-streaked trailer that might have been green in a past life.
Let him be going to the motor home instead of that horrible trailer. She groaned, then realized she was so numb to shock she wasn't even surprised. He reappeared in the doorway a moment later and watched her wobbly approach.
When she reached the bottom of the bent metal step, he gave her a cynical smile. Do you want me to carry you over the threshold? Maybe a small bow to sentiment would help both of them salvage something positive from this terrible experience. Even an igloo has a threshold.
Alex noticed, too. In case no one has ever pointed it out, it's an annoying habit. She stood at the bottom of the step, her knees shaking with dread, but still trying to hold her ground. As it shut, he dumped her onto her feet. Before she could make up her mind whether she'd won or lost that particular skirmish, she became aware of her surroundings and forgot everything else. Cramped and cluttered, it smelled of mildew, old age, and stale food. A miniature kitchen sat just in front of her, its blue Formica top faded and chipped.
Dirty dishes had been piled in the tiny sink, and a crusty pan sat on top of a stove, just above an oven door held shut by a piece of twine. The threadbare carpet had once been gold but now held so many ancient stains its color could only be described in terms of body functions.
To the right of the kitchen, the faded plaid upholstery of a small couch was barely visible beneath stacks of books, newspapers, and remnants of male clothing. She saw a chipped refrigerator, cupboards with peeling laminate, and one unmade bed.
She whirled around looking for another. What you see is what you get. Her throat felt dry and her stomach quivered. The bed took up most of one end of the trailer, separated from the rest only by a sagging length of wire holding a faded brown curtain that was pushed back against the wall.
The bedsheets tangled with a few items of clothing, a bath towel, and something that appeared from a distance to be a heavy black belt.
Unfortunately, Ihaven't had time to call my interior decorator. It's the only thing I've had time to clean up.
You can try to fit your stuff into that storage closet behind you. Spec starts in an hour; stay away from the elephants. Iguess it needs a woman's touch. There's some cleaning stuff under the sink.
The next thing she knew, he had crossed back to the counter and repocketed his wallet. She was deeply offended. And let's just keep it that way. Be at both of them. Ican't stay in this awful place, and I'm not cleaning up your filth!
She gazed into those pale golden eyes and felt a quiver of dread, along with a sensation of heightened awareness that she was afraid to examine too closely.
He slowly lifted his hand, and she flinched as he clasped it gently around her throat. She felt the light abrasion of his thumb as he began rubbing the hollow just beneath her ear in something that felt very much like a caress. Either way, I'm going to win. You decide how it'll be. In a moment that lasted forever, he wordlessly demanded that she submit to him.
His eyes seemed to burn through her, dissolving her clothes, her skin, until she felt naked and open, with all her weaknesses exposed. She wanted to run away and hide, but the force of his will held her in place. His hand moved across her throat, then brushed the boxy satin jacket down on her arms. It fell to the floor with a whisper. He touched the lacy gold strap of the dress beneath and slipped it over her shoulder.
With the tip of his finger, he drew the lace down on her breast until it caught on her nipple. Then he bent his head and put his teeth to the soft flesh he had exposed. Her breath caught as she felt the nip. It should have been painful, but her nerve endings registered the small bite as pleasure.
She felt the brash of his hand in her hair, and then he turned away, having left his mark on her, just like a wild animal. That was when she knew what his eyes had reminded her of. A creature of prey. The trailer door swung on its hinges.
He stepped outside and gazed back at her, dropping the white gardenia he had stolen from her hair. It burst into flames. What kind of man had the power of fire under his command? As her heart thudded under her hand, she reminded herself that this was a circus, a place of illusion.
He must have picked up a few magic tricks over the years, and she wasn't going to let her imagination run wild. She touched the small red mark on the curve of her breast, and her nipple beaded in response. Gazing at the unmade bed, she sank down on one of the chairs by the trailer's built-in kitchen table and tried to absorb the irony of what had happened. My daughter is saving herself for marriage.
Lani used to toss out the statement as dinner conversation to amuse her friends while Daisy swallowed her embarrassment and pretended to laugh right along with the rest of them. Lani had finally stopped her public announcements when Daisy had turned twenty-three for fear her friends would think she'd raised a freak. Now that she had reached the age of twenty-six, Daisy knew she was a throwback to the Victorians, and she also understood enough about human psychology to realize that her resistance to premarital sex had its roots in rebellion.
From the time she was a small child, she'd watched the revolving door on her mother's bedroom and known she could never be like that. She craved respectability. Once, she'd even thought she'd found it. His name was Noel Black, and he was a forty-year-old executive in a British publishing firm who she'd met at a house party in Scotland.
He was everything she admired in a man: It hadn't taken her long to fall in love with him. She'd always been a woman who'd craved touch, and Noel's kisses and expert caresses had inflamed her to the point where she'd nearly lost her mind. Even so she hadn't been able to set aside her deeply entrenched principles and go to bed with him. Her refusal initially irritated him, but gradually he'd grown to understand how strongly she felt about it, and he'd proposed marriage.
She'd eagerly accepted and floated through the days until the ceremony could take place. Lani had pretended to be overjoyed, but Daisy should have known that her mother was terrified of being alone, to the point of desperation. It hadn't taken Lani long to embark on a carefully calculated plan to seduce Noel Black. To Noel's credit, he'd managed to resist for nearly a month, but Lani always got her man, and in the end, she'd gotten him.
My God, you'd have been miserable if you'd married him. Lani's suicide attempt had put a stop to that. Now she pulled the lacy strap of her wedding dress up over her shoulder and sighed. It was a deep and hurtful sound, the sort of sigh that came from the bottom of her soul because she'd lost the words to express her feelings.
For other women, sex seemed to come so easily. Why not for her? She'd promised herself she would never have sex outside of marriage, and now she was married. But, ironically, her husband was more of a stranger to her than all the men she'd refused. The fact that he was brutally attractive didn't change anything. She couldn't imagine giving herself without love. Her eyes wandered to the bed. She rose and walked toward it. Something that looked like a piece of black rope peeked out from beneath the pair of jeans tossed carelessly onto the rumpled blue sheets.
She reached down to touch the soft, worn denim, then ran her finger along the open teeth of the zipper. What would it be like to be loved by a man? To wake up every morning and see the same face staring at you over the pillow? To have a home and children? A job? What would it be like to be normal? She set the jeans aside, then abruptly stepped back as she saw what lay beneath them.
Not a piece of rope at all, but a whip. Her heart began to pound. We can do this easy or we can do it rough.
Either way I'm going to win. Her husband had told her there would be consequences if she disobeyed him. When she'd asked him what they were, he'd said she'd figure it out for herself by tonight.
Surely he hadn't meant that he intended to beat her? She tried to force her breathing back into its regular pattern. Men in the eighteenth century might have been able to get away with beating their wives, but times had changed.
And she would call the police if he so much as laid a finger on her. She wouldn't be a victim of any man's violence, regardless of her desperate circumstances. Surely there was a simple explanation for all this: She was exhausted and unsettled by the shake-up in her life, and it was hard for her to think clearly. Before she could do anything, she had to get out of her outfit. Once she'd put herself back together, she'd feel better.
She dragged her bag up on the couch where she opened it and found that her dressy clothes had been removed, although what was left didn't seem much more suitable for this ragtag place. She settled on a pair of khaki slacks, a melon-colored knit poor-boy top, and sandals.
The tiny bathroom proved to be much cleaner than the rest of the place, and by the time she'd repaired her hair and makeup, she felt enough like herself to go outside and explore. The smell of animals, hay, and dust hit her nostrils as soon as she stepped down into the sandy soil. The warm breeze of late April blew across the lot, making the sides of the big top gently billow and snapping the multicolored pennants that decorated the midway.
She heard the sound of a radio playing from an open window in one of the house trailers and the blare of a television quiz show coming from another. Someone was cooking on a charcoal grill, and her stomach rumbled. At the same time, she thought she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. They got the name of a publisher at Dell who liked the book and published it under the pen name Justine Cole.
Her friend moved into a legal career, but Phillips continued writing and publishing, this time under her own name. She released what she calls her big books, titles like Fancy Pants and Honey Moon featuring Hollywood starlets and jet-setting London socialites. Her stories, she has said, moved outside of the mainstream after that.
She gives her romantic characters emotional wounds and personal difficulties that often impede their inevitable happy endings. But without such obstacles, there would be no story.
Ive grown increasingly interested in writing about family dynamics and much less interested in sticking a psychopath with a gun in any of my books, she said in an interview with the web site iVillage. Technically, Ive simply learned how to capitalize on my own distinctive voice and how to be a better storyteller.
The healing process that the characters go through is what makes the novels work. Creative plotting adds sparkle, and entertaining, well-drawn secondary characters round out the novel, but it is the growing, healing relationship between the protagonists and how they finally form a family that touches the heartstrings and makes this contemporary romance an unforgettable read, the Library Journal wrote in a review of Phillips book First Lady.
The dialogue, she has said, is also important. The exchanges in romance novels are satisfying to women who love to communicate, she told USA Today. Women really like to talk. Thats one of our processes. We talk to gather information. Women love the connection that comes from conversation, she said. My husband says we broadcast.
He thinks through things before he talks, but he says women just kind of broadcast until they zero in on what they want to say. Phillips has also disputed the notion that romance novels are nothing more than books about throbbing thighs.
They arent about sex, she told the Chicago Tribune in , but are instead complicated fictions about women taking charge of their lives and being the stories heroes.
Details of Kiss an Angel.
Some brief overview of this book Arranged marriages seldom happen in modern America, so Daisy Devreaux hates her fathers ultimatum: Rendezvous ove stories that she and her fellow romance novelists pen. Good To Know Phillips wanted to publish her first novel under the pseudonym Chastity Savage, but her best friend and co-author nixed the idea. See more interesting books: May need free signup required to download or reading online book.
Biography Susan Elizabeth Phillips believes if Jane Austen were writing today, novels like Pride and Prejudice would be sitting on the bookshelf alongside the love stories that she and her fellow romance novelists pen. TOP15 e-Books: Artificial Intelligence: An American History. Small FAQ about download Book files are stored on servers owned by you?
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