Night and Day by Andie J Christopher Book Tour and Giveaway :)
NIGHT AND DAY
One
Night in South Beach #5
by
Andie J. Christopher
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
Pub
Date: 9/18/2018
Letty
Gonzalez is a true romantic. She’s spent her life waiting for
flowers, poetry, the grand gesture that will finally sweep her off
her feet—without any luck. After her latest dating fiasco, she’s
ready to give up on the idea of Prince Charming—but not on down and
dirty fantasies about her new boss—gorgeous, out-of-her-league Max
Delgado.
Maxis more pragmatic
than romantic—and with his looks and charisma, beautiful women
usually fall at his feet. Bubbly, generously curvy Letty just isn’t
for him, and maybe if he finally lets his grandmother set him up with
someone new, Letty will finally believe it.
But the senior
citizen’s matchmaking is trickier than anyone anticipated. And when
Letty and Max find themselves stuck in Key West together for a
seductively sexy weekend, one kiss is enough to light a fire neither
of them wants to put out . . .
**easily read as a
standalone!**
Chapter
1
You
can leave your clothes on the chair was the last thing
Letty Gonzalez expected to hear on her first day of a new job. When
she’d been rather forcefully thrust into starting her own business,
she’d had no idea that nudity would be involved. If so, she’d
started the wrong kind of business. That was more her sister,
Elena-the-swimsuit-model’s area of expertise. Perhaps
she was in the wrong place? She’d double-checked the address her
new—and first—client had sent her via e-mail. But maybe she
should have had a phone conversation with the guy first. If so, she
would have known that his voice was so deep and angry sounding that
it would send a jolt of electricity straight from her ears into her
girl parts. More importantly, she’d have realized that this wasn’t
a run-of-the-mill personal assistant or organizational job—that
sexual favors would have been expected.
“I’m
not—um—that’s not what—I think there’s been some
confusion.” Her mouth was so dry. Why was this giant warehouse
space in the design district the one place in Miami with no humidity?
And, dear God, why was it so hot? She was glad she hadn’t worn a
white blouse, because it would be pitted out right now. Everything
was hot and dry, except for in her underwear, because her client was
insanely good-looking. “What’s
confusing?” The man sitting on a stool behind a table hadn’t even
looked up at her; he’d just barked at her to enter and told her to
get naked. Letty had never had to resort to sex work to make ends
meet—at least not yet—but she wondered if all hooking was this
impersonal. “Take off your clothes and get your ass on the
platform.” “I
mean—” He
made an impatient noise through his teeth. Sort of like a growl mixed
with a sigh. He rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger on
one of his large hands. That’s when she noticed the bottle of
bourbon sitting next to him. And the two fingers of amber liquid in a
glass right next to that. And
the question took her completely off guard. No one was ever aching
for her to take off her clothes, even if that was what she wanted. If
they’d met under different circumstances—like at a bar—she
would have fantasized about taking off her clothes for this guy. But,
if they were at a bar, he might totally ignore her, and be demanding
that someone who looked more like her big sister take off her
clothes. The
idea that she’d want that with anyone
right now—especially someone she worked with—shocked her almost
as much as his sexy voice had. Although she’d spent a lot of time
around artists, they weren’t really her type. Too fucking broody.
She was a happy-go-lucky kind of girl, and someone cutting her mood
off at the knees with his constant existential dread was not
something she looked for in a partner. Not that her choice in
partners was great anyhow. Her
last choice had been the least winning of all, and he was only art
industry-adjacent. Another reason why she shouldn’t be attracted to
her only client so far; getting involved with her old boss had
completely destroyed the life she’d built independent of her
parents. And the kicker was that Simon had been more interested in
her parents’ connections than he ever had been in her—or at least
their money. It all would have been much easier had he skipped
pretending to want to be her boyfriend and just asked for access to
her parents’ checkbook. Diana
and Carlos Gonzalez were such social climbers that they would have
opened up the coffers without Simon having “lower himself” to
date Letty. The shame of him saying those words washed over her and
made it even less likely that she would follow through with this
getting naked with her new boss thing. No
matter how much her girl parts responded to the growly sculptor in
front of her. But
a nun would find this guy nearly impossible to resist. Between the
shaggy dark hair, the T-shirt straining muscles of his torso, and the
denim-testing legs spread wide, it would take a saint not to want to
slide right in there and put her mouth against his. She
squeezed the strap of her bag with her right hand and wiped the
sweaty left palm on her jeans. The e-mail arranging for the job had
indicated that the work might be physical, but she’d thought it was
mostly clean-up and organization. “You’ve
never done this before?” Finally, he looked at her. His green eyes
made the cement floor underneath her dip and sway. They should make a
paint color out of that bright, clear green. She’d
seen a couple of pictures of him while doing research to make sure
that she wasn’t showing up at the den of a serial killer. Part of
her evergreen efforts to stay sexy and not get murdered. Of course,
after she’d said yes to the job, she’d done a deep Google dive.
And an image search. He was an up-and-coming-sculptor from a local
Cuban-American family. But a photograph couldn’t depict the pure
impact of being in the room with him. She couldn’t even hold his
gaze, instead looking at his forearms. Mistake.
Thick and roped with muscle from working clay and other media into
abstract figure sculptures, they made her wonder what it would be
like to have him touch her. She wondered what his blunt fingertips
would do to her flesh, the dents it would make on her thighs. Although
she should have walked out the door as soon as he’d told her to
take off her clothes, her feet seemed glued to the swaying floor.
“I’m not here for sex.” His
face contorted in confusion. “Of course not.”
“But
the clothes?” “You’re
here to model, right?” A
semi-hysterical laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it.
This whole interaction had been surreal. The idea that—for even a
second—this perfect specimen of man would hire her to have sex
with him was ludicrous. The
idea that she’d nude model was even more farfetched. The only times
she’d gotten naked with anyone else in the room, they’d hadn’t
seen her. Her college boyfriend hadn’t questioned her preference to
get busy in the dark. And Simon had preferred sex in the dark,
especially since—as he’d shared when breaking up with her—he
apparently couldn’t stomach her stomach rolls. So, the idea that
anyone would want to look at any kind of rendering of her—no matter
how abstract—in a gallery or in their home made another crazed
giggle bubble up in her throat. “You’re
not here from the agency, are you?” She
shook her head. Under his gaze, even the brush of her hair against
the bare skin where the sleeve of her top ended registered as
sensual. With him looking at her, she could feel everything in a way
she’d never experienced. Definitely
not with Simon.
Thinking
of her former lover and former boss doused the tingling sensations
aroused by Max all at once. It wouldn’t do to forget that she was
out of a job, becoming an entrepreneur, and close to the end of her
savings account. If this didn’t work, she’d have to beg her
parents for help. Or—shudder—move back into their mausoleum of a
house.
Maybe
she could get over her embarrassment about her body and do what he
asked. Just this once. No one would ever recognize her. Still,
she needed to tell the truth. Too many lies had landed her in this
tough spot. “No. I’m here to organize for you.” Another
confused look. “You
e-mailed my company.” She motioned around the cluttered warehouse
studio. “You said you needed someone to get all your ‘stuff under
control.’”
His
jaw flexed underneath his thick, black beard. It was an angry
gesture, but there was something so primal about this man that it
turned her on. “I didn’t e-mail your company. I’m organized
just fine.” Her
stomach dropped through the cement floor to the pits of hell. Without
a reference from Simon, she’d been blackballed from every gallery
in the city. No one was going to hire her on if the executive
director of Art Basel refused to give her a reference. Never mind
that it was his
inattention and philandering that had lost them a couple of large
sponsorships last year. No one would believe her. She was a nobody,
and her parents were considered tacky. If
she’d just been able to establish herself as a competent personal
assistant and professional organizer—sort of a Girl Friday—for a
few local artists, she might have been able to repair her reputation
enough to get a real job. Her plan as soon as she’d gotten the
e-mail from Max, or apparently someone posing as him, had been to
parlay working with him to working with his cousin’s new wife, Maya
Pascual-Hernandez. With two clients, she would have been able to get
back into a respectable gallery. But,
this was all just a joke. Max’s bewilderment at her presence meant
that someone had posed as him just to fuck with her. Maybe
Simon? But she couldn’t fathom him being that cruel, not
even after what he’d done to her.
Hot
tears threatened to flow down her face, but she rolled her shoulders
back and pushed the tears away. She looked down to reach into her
purse. The most hopeful scenario was that he’d forgotten sending
the e-mail. In her experience, creative types sometimes got so lost
in the work that things like e-mails didn’t register. And
Max Delgado didn’t even have a website. She could only pray that he
was forgetful as well as a troglodyte. She
quickly scrolled through the e-mail on her phone, found his last
message, and walked toward him, noticing him reaching for his whiskey
glass and stiffening his spine as she approached. Had her whole plan
for getting her life back on track not been crumbling around her
ears, she would have giggled again. The idea that a man taller than
her, who probably—in a surprise twist—weighed more than her,
would shrink away when she walked toward him was as laughable as
anything that had happened today. He was probably sure she was going
to kiss him. “I
just want to show you the e-mail.” He
grimaced. “I told you. I didn’t send an e-mail.” “Yes,
you did.” Her mother had always told her that her stubborn streak
would get her into trouble, but today it was going to save her. She
had receipts and he was going to listen to her. Shaking her phone at
him. “Here, read it.” Given
no other choice, he glanced at the phone and read the short
confirmation e-mail he’d sent yesterday. “I didn’t send this.” “So,
someone hacked you and hired someone to help you clean up your studio
and design a website?” That was almost as unbelievable as someone
thinking that she should be a model. “No.
Not someone.” “What
are you talking about?” It was though they were speaking an
entirely different language. Even though his speech revealed a subtle
accent, something that made the cadence of his voice all the more
appealing, she could understand his words, just not their meaning. He
made the growling sigh again and pushed her phone back into her
hands, careful not to touch her. Somehow, the disappointment of that
sunk in even though her panic was near total. “My grandmother.”
Previous
Books in the Series:
STROKE
OF MIDNIGHT
One Night in South
Beach #1
DUSK
UNTIL DAWN
One Night in South
Beach #2
BREAK
OF DAY
One Night in South
Beach #3
BEFORE
DAYLIGHT
One Night in South
Beach #4
Andie J. Christopher writes edgy, funny, sexy contemporary romance. She grew up in a family of voracious readers, and picked up her first Harlequin romance novel at age twelve when she’d finished reading everything else in her grandmother’s house. It was love at first read. It wasn’t too long before she started writing her own stories—her first heroine drank Campari and wore a lot of Esprit. Andie holds a bachelor's degree from the University of Notre Dame in economics and art history (summa cum laude), and a JD from Stanford Law School. She lives in Washington, D.C., with a very funny French Bulldog named Gus.
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