for you turns out to be exactly who you need?
From best selling author RC Stephens comes
Mr. All Wrong a sexy, new standalone novel.
“Excuse me. May I cut in?” I ask. Her back is facing me and she doesn’t move from her spot or turn her head. The older man stops dancing and she lifts her head to look in his eyes.
“That would be up to her,” he replies. He looks at the beautiful woman in his arms and she turns to look at me but her stare is blank. Her blue eyes sparkle in the dim light of the dance floor and some crystal stones on her dress glimmer off the chandelier lights.
She doesn’t answer me, so I repeat my question and extend a hand. “May I have this dance?”
She smiles and it's brilliant. It also sends a pang of warmth into my chest. She looks at the older man for a moment. “Sorry, I’m busy,” she replies. It’s completely unexpected. I wonder if she knows who I am. I know it sounds cocky but seriously, given my looks and position women are putty in my hands.
She continues to dance with the older guy.
I’m stuck standing in my spot, my mouth hanging open. I'm speechless for a brief moment when I realize I don't want to take no for an answer. I want one dance, one conversation, at least the chance to know what she's like. It's an odd sensation for me, but I'm intrigued.
I take two steps and tap her shoulder since her back is to me. She turns to look at me like I’m a nuisance, her mouth opens to speak but I interrupt her. “Sorry to intrude again, but…” I pause as the memory of the Bachmaker ribbon cutting ceremony replays in my mind. I get a fluttery feeling in my chest, my brows furrow and my curiosity becomes even more heightened because looking at her up close tells me that my memory isn’t mistaken and she’s the pie-whipping bandit. For some reason, I find the situation amusing and my eyes drag up and down her body. Geez, she cleans up nice. She's stunning, classy, elegant. Nothing like the wild, free, and apparently angry woman that threw the pie.
“I’m sorry can I help you?” Her brows are dipped together as she asks the question. She also seems a little nervous like maybe she knows I’ve recognized her.
“I’d really like a dance.” I persist hoping she doesn’t get turned off by my perseverance but now that I see it’s her, I want the dance even more.
She shakes her head.
"Why?" I insist. I'm a little pushy but my ego is hurt and now I also want to know why she's a pie-wielding vixen in her spare time.
The older man gives her a little nudge and with unspoken words of a blink of an eye and a tilt of a chin he tells her to dance with me. She blows out a puff of air and stares at the old guy, her eyes narrowing to slits. I’m pretty sure she’s about to tell him off or me where to go when she says, “Fine. One dance.”
Ha! My ego is taking a real beating tonight. I feel like I’m treading on uncharted territory. In my past relations with women when things got too serious we broke it off. It was an arrangement I always set up off the bat. No complications, no spewing my undying love.
I tilt my head almost in a bow and extend my hand. She takes it and I place one hand on her slender hip. My hand making contact with the silky fabric of her dress. She smells delectable; I'm enthralled. I can't understand it for the life of me. We dance at a distance from each other and as the music continues, all I can think is that this woman is unforgettable.
“Are you going to give me your name?” I finally ask, breaking the silent stare between us.
She bites her lower lip and tilts her head to the side like she’s assessing me. “I guess I could,” she replies but she doesn’t give me her name while her lip curves in one corner. She continues to smile devilishly as we softly sway to the voices of Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole radiating through the hall making the moment feel surreal.
“And it would be,” I coax her into giving me her name.
“Evie,” she says sweetly looking deeply into my eyes. She has an accent I can’t place.
“Evie, that’s a beautiful name. I’m Colton,” I grin.
“I know, Mr. Governor,” she replies her tone terse. It throws me off a little as I wonder what her deal is. My intrigue wins out.
“So, beautiful Evie. What brings you to the Veteran Affairs ball tonight?”
The first time I met Evie Harper, she threw a cream pie at my face. I actually hadn’t met her, just saw her. It was more like she hated everything I stood for and showed me her opinion with an airborne cream pie. Yes, she smacked me front and center on my face. The second time I saw Evie, I didn’t realize she was the cream-pie-throwing bandit, and she took my breath away in a flowing red gown at a gala.
Of course I couldn’t resist her looks, so I asked her to dance. She called me a schmuck and stalked off.
My own Cinderella ran away from me. I shouldn’t have chased her down. We were all wrong for each other. But her fire red hair and feisty personality reeled me in, and I was hooked. Chicago’s most renowned playboy was finally falling head over loafers. At least it felt that way because she was like no other woman I’d met before . . . Evie was special . . .
Problem was I had trust issues when it came to women. Freud would’ve probably said it was my mother’s doing. Somehow Evie made me believe in her . . . trust her . . .
Big damn mistake!
One I hope I won’t live to regret . . .
But then again how could someone so wrong for me turn out to be so damn perfect?
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She watched the movie Dirty Dancing way too many times growing up and Jean Claude Van Damme movies too. Go figure!
After years of saying she would write a book one day, she finally put pen to paper and carved out the plot line for what would eventually become the best selling Twisted Series. Now R.C. is just finishing up her seventh book and can't seem to stop the stories running through her mind. Visit R.C. on her FB page to find out what's new in her life and what releases she has coming up.
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