Читать книгу French Kiss - Lori Wilde - Страница 6

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Joe Everhart realized his plan was wicked, but he’d been having the most erotic fantasies starring his sexy next-door neighbor Summer Jacobs ever since she’d leased the upstairs apartment two months ago and it was high time he did something about it.

From the first moment he’d heard Summer lugging packing crates up the steps, enthusiastically belting out an off-key rendition of “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” he’d known she was special.

“I regret nothing,” she’d sung the cabaret torch song in fluent French and his heart thumped crazily.

Who could resist a woman without regrets? He wished he could be so confident in his life choices.

And then he’d gone out side to offer his help and he’d gotten a good look at her.

Long auburn hair, with chunky streaks of blonde shot throughout, that swung provocatively down her back. Her gorgeous butt cupped in those low-rise bell bottom jeans. She wore funky red cowboy boots and a skimpy little white tank top that revealed not only a flat expanse of taut tummy but also a turquoise navel ring.

And that’s when he knew had to have her.

He just hadn’t known how.

He wasn’t the most suave guy on earth. He was an introvert who loved fossils and artifacts and ancient history. Socializing had never come easy and he spent more time with books than with people. Plus, Summer was so full of sass and daring, pulsating with energy and life. She was far too busy piloting hot air balloons or climbing rocks or crafting her one-of-kind southwest jewelry to notice an archeology geek like him.

So he’d bided his time, waiting for the right opportunity, the perfect segue into asking her out. But the longer he waited, the more she treated him like a brother.

If she only knew the very unbrotherly thoughts prowling his head!

Problem was, she’d already formed an image of him as the nice guy next door. A buddy, a pal, a soft place to land. What he needed was for her to view him in a completely different light. But he’d had no idea how to achieve that goal.

Until this morning when she’d said she needed a stripper and he’d recklessly blurted out that the Masked Monsieur was a friend of his.

Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He was a friend to himself. And if tricking Summer into giving him a chance was wrong, then he didn’t want to be right.

“Psst, Joe,” Steve, the bartender, called to him from the dressing room door.

“Yeah?” Hurriedly, he tugged black pleather pants up over his sparkly gold g-string.

“She’s here.” Steve gave him a thumb’s up and scooted back to the bar.

Panic punched Joe’s gut. Summer was in the club. She’d be watching him strip.

“We want the Masked Monsieur,” the crowd of women on the other side of the curtain chanted as his theme song “You Can Leave Your Hat On” oozed from the surround sound speakers and the fog machine belched a fine white mist “We want the Masked Monsieur.”

He almost turned and high tailed it out the back exit. Conquer your fear. Don’t blow this chance. Joe exhaled heavily, took off his glasses and set them on the dressing table. Then he reached for the black leather mask and pulled it down over his face.

It was now or never. The time had come to strut his stuff.