Ashley Summers - Beauty In His Bedroom

Although she enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.

But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.

Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

Silhouette’s beloved author Annette Broadrick returns to Desire with a MAN OF THE MONTH who is Hard To Forget. Love rings true when former high school sweethearts reunite while both are on separate undercover missions to their hometown. Bestselling writer Cait London offers you A Loving Man, when a big-city businessman meets a country girl and learns the true meaning of love.

The Desire theme promotion THE BABY BANK, about sperm-bank client heroines who find love unexpectedly, returns with Amy J. Fetzer’s Having His Child, part of her WIFE, INC. miniseries. The tantalizing Desire miniseries THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with Baby of Fortune by Shirley Rogers. In Undercover Sultan, the second book of Alexandra Sellers’s SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS trilogy, a handsome prince is forced to go on the run with a sexy mystery woman—who may be the enemy. And Ashley Summers writes of a Texas tycoon who comes home to find a beautiful stranger living in his mansion in Beauty in His Bedroom.

This month see inside for details about our exciting new contest “Silhouette Makes You a Star.” You’ll feel like a star when you delve into all six fantasies created in Desire books this August!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

To Rita Gallagher,

mentor, companion and best friend.

Thank you for being in my life.

is an incurable romantic who lives in Texas, in a house that overflows with family and friends. Her busy life revolves around the man she married thirty years ago, her three children and her handsome grandson, Eric. Formerly the owner and operator of a landscaping firm, she also enjoys biking, aerobics, reading and traveling.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Regina Flynn stepped into the elegant, two-story foyer with a wariness bordering on the absurd. As an employee of Lamar’s Home Maintenance and Security Agency, she had a perfect right to enter this uninhabited home. Yet the sound of her heels on the black-and-white marble floor was shockingly loud, and her heart beat so fast she felt dizzy.

Regina stopped just inside the door, her little blue pot of African violets clutched to her chest like a talisman. Even the August heat did not warm her inner chill. Closing the door, she leaned against its hard surface with a gusty sigh.

“I’ve done it,” she whispered. “I’ve stolen a house.”

A sharp shake of head immediately rejected this preposterous notion; the assistant to Lamar’s regional manager did not steal houses! Her position with the agency placed her in charge of the North Houston area, and this handsome estate, owned by a man named Clint Whitfield, was merely part of her portfolio of managed properties.

“All you’ve done is assign him a house sitter, Regina,” she corrected herself crisply. “You do have that authority, you know. The house sitter just happens to be you.”

Annoyed with herself—and an overly active conscience she could never quite master—Regina felt for the light switch. In the growing dusk, the boxes holding her belongings looked pitifully few; when a chandelier flooded the area with light, they appeared even more misplaced.

Sadness tightened her throat. Everything she owned fit easily into six cardboard boxes. Not much of a legacy for twenty-nine years of living, she thought dispiritedly.

Catching sight of herself in an ornate wall mirror, Regina pushed at the red-gold curls swirling around her face in riotous disarray. “Flynn, you’re a mess,” she snapped at her green-eyed image. Her voice seemed to rebound off the walls.

Edging around boxes, she walked down the hall. White-shrouded furniture haunted darkened rooms. Chilled air blew through concealed vents, a necessity in Houston’s humid climate despite the absence of people. Air-conditioning, not ghosts, caused her goose bumps, she chided her quick shiver.

She paused in the sculptural arch of another doorway. Beyond lay the great room, a huge, airy space that encompassed the kitchen, breakfast nook and dining room wing, the family room, and glass-roofed conservatory forming the rear wall. She felt a little foolish bringing this modest violet into such opulence. With exaggerated care she centered it on the kitchen windowsill. Almost magically it meshed with its setting.

“As if to the manor born,” she quipped, patting a velvety leaf. “You’re just what this house needed.”

Flipping another light switch, she caught her breath at the beauty its mellow glow revealed. Clint Whitfield had built something really special, she thought softly.

So why had he left it vacant for so long?

As usual, her thorny question went unanswered. She didn’t know Clint Whitfield; she’d been in another department when he contracted with the agency. Later, a promotion had put her in charge of his file, and she’d been inside his gracious, white-columned abode several times on routine inspections of the lawn-and-maid services included in his contract.

As months stretched into years, she strongly disagreed with his decision to leave it empty while he was out of the country. But she kept her opinions to herself and did not overstep her authority.

Until the fire.

Regina tensed as painful memories deluged her heart. She no longer had a home. In June, a fire had destroyed her frame dwelling and all its contents. The only silver lining was that her adored young sister had been spared the ordeal; Katie, fifteen, was away at her special school.

Still, it had been a heart-wrenching experience. Although mentally handicapped, Katie’s emotions were unimpaired, and when told of the loss of her childhood home, she’d cried like the devastated child she was. Regina cried with her. Then, resolute, she began putting her life back together.

Despite her good salary, she found it tough; Katie’s school was very expensive. Regina had rented a cheap kitchenette apartment and hated it. And there sat Clint Whitfield’s beautiful, fully furnished house going to waste while he roamed Africa.

Regina sighed. Before the fire, such indifference had been an irritant. Afterwards, it had outraged her. To own such a treasure and not care about it!

She’d made allowances for him. Then he’d renewed his contract for yet another year. After brief but intense thought, Regina made a decision; given his continuing absence he needed a house sitter. Volunteering herself for the task would resolve both their problems.

As required, she’d fired off a letter to him stating her intent, but after two weeks he still hadn’t answered, which wasn’t unusual; except for that prompt, annual check for services rendered there’d been little correspondence from him. So you shrugged off your doubts and just moved in, Regina ended wryly.

Musingly she studied her new abode. Although beautifully furnished, there was no art on the walls, no family pictures. Strange. Why no personal items? She didn’t know much about the man beyond his vital statistics. She hadn’t checked him out—why should she? To her he was just another rich guy who considered beautiful houses as interchangeable as bedsheets.

Beautiful women, too, most likely, she thought tartly. She knew he was unmarried because he’d checked that box on his application form.

Regina shrugged. She didn’t give a hoot about her client’s marital status, or his character, either, for that matter. She only cared about his schedule. Renewing his contract meant Clint Whitfield wouldn’t be home for another year.

Relaxing for the first time since she’d entered his house, Regina pulled the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through the curly, shoulder-length mane. She was through worrying about her actions. When he would notify the agency of his expected return, she’d be out of the house in a flash. Until then, she was…

“Home,” Regina whispered with a trace of defiance, then raised her voice assertively. “I’m home.”

It was half past six on a fine September day when Clint Whitfield came home again. An unsettling impulse, he acknowledged, but hell, he was only in town for one night; common sense dictated that he sleep in his own bed rather than in a hotel.

Entering the circular driveway, Clint parked in front of the house, but made no move to get out. Houston was having one of its rare, exquisitely tender sunsets and the velvety lawn was awash with golden light.

Its loveliness hurt rather than pleased. His broad shoulders stiffened; tension flowed down his taut body. This used to be his favorite time of day. He hated it now. Hated September, for that matter. He’d lost the only thing worth living for on one dark September night.

For a moment longer Clint sat in his car, his gaze fixed on the manor-style dwelling silhouetted against the vast Texas sky. The house he had built for his beloved.

His stomach knotted at all there was to face here. Anger thinned his mouth—dammit, coming home shouldn’t be this difficult! It had been nearly three years since he’d left. Ran, he amended with a twisted smile. But you couldn’t run fast enough or far enough to outrace memory. The nightmarish image prowling the edges of his mind like some caged beast was proof of that.

Clint’s blue eyes narrowed as he gazed at the rose bed to the right of the house. Barbara’s roses. They almost flaunted their vibrant blooms. He felt a gust of outrage that they had outlived the woman who planted them.

Of course she hadn’t done the actual planting; those delicate hands couldn’t risk physical labor. His wife had been a skilled pediatric surgeon. Someone the world needed, he thought bleakly. He was a veterinarian. But she had died and he still lived, and of what real use to the world was one vet more or less?

Clint’s caustic question reflected his inner landscape like a mirror. Wearily he maneuvered his six-foot-plus frame out of the rental car. “This damn thing!” he muttered, pulling himself erect. He needed his old pickup truck, big and roomy enough for a man to sit comfortably, he thought, slamming the door.