The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress
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Swim naked in the moonlight
Play in a high stakes card game
Ride an elephant
Be painted sans clothing.
Take a lover. . .
Lucy Merryweather has inherited a fortune--and her great-aunt's list of unfulfilled wishes. What better way to honor her memory than by accomplishing as many of them as possible? And with Lucy's family an ocean away in New York, nothing stands in her way--if one ignores the private investigator hired to spy on her.
Yet Cameron Effington is infuriatingly difficult to ignore. . .
As a reporter, Cameron is always looking for a good story. An American heiress running rampant between Millworth Manor and Mayfair is the perfect subject. Not to mention captivating. And extremely kissable. And if Lucy believes he's a detective? Well, the truth should never get in the way of a good story--or hinder delicious, impetuous passion. . .
nothing more than to kiss her again. “Do you find this amusing, Mr. Fairchild?” “On the contrary, Miss Merryweather. I found that”—he grinned—“absolutely delightful.” “Did you?” Her brow rose. “Oh my, this is awkward.” “Awkward?” “Well, I thought it was cursory at best. As kisses go, I really don’t think it was exceptional.” “You don’t.” He drew his brows together. “I must say, Miss Merryweather, I have never had a complaint before.” “No, I don’t imagine you would have.” She winced. “Ladies
are generally polite about this sort of thing.” “But not you?” “I was being honest, Mr. Fairchild.” She shrugged. “It’s not as if your affections were engaged, after all. As if this kiss meant anything. Although, admittedly”—she sighed—“I have not had a great deal of experience. But I do think I have been kissed enough to recognize an unremarkable kiss. In fact, I would say I am well acquainted with unremarkable kisses.” “That’s a very great pity, Miss Merryweather.” “I have always thought
she warranted watching. But she wasn’t the least bit stupid. He’d realized that almost immediately. She was perhaps a bit naive, although it was wise of her to have asked him for references. No, he would allow his fictional American heiress to get into all kinds of trouble while keeping Miss Merryweather as safe as possible. She was right. It was going to be an adventure. And the next time he kissed her, unexceptionable would be the farthest thing from her mind. And wasn’t that interesting?
in the light cast by the street lamp he could see her wince. “There. Is that better?” “Much.” “Have you ever kissed a woman with a mustache, Mr. Fairchild?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “Not that I can recall. And certainly never deliberately.” “What a shame that you missed your opportunity then.” She smirked and turned toward the door. “I do hate to miss an opportunity.” He grabbed her, pulled her into his arms, and stared down at her. “Miss Merryweather.” Before she could protest he
than an impression, a feeling perhaps of beauty and serenity and sensuality. It was obviously unfinished but was already most evocative, reminiscent of the works of a Monet or a Renoir, but not as refined and yet striking in a raw, abstract sort of way. More a vision than a truth, a dream more than reality. “It’s unique,” he said at last. “It is at that.” She laughed. “When Jean-Philippe visited yesterday he showed me two works. One was a portrait, nicely done and quite realistic. He says one