Good Girls Don't
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2005 by Kelley St. John
Excerpt from
Real Women Don’t Wear Size 2
copyright © 2005 by Kelley St. John.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
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Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover photograph by Daly & Newton/Getty Images
Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee
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First eBook Edition: December 2005
ISBN: 978-0-446-55374-2
Contents
NOW THAT SHE’S LIED HER WAY INTO A DATE,
CAN SHE KEEP UP WITH THE CHARADE?
God help her, she wanted him, and she hadn’t told him. Maybe that’s what she should do.
“For you,” he said, his words feathering against her neck.
She turned and ended face-to-bloom with an exquisite pink rose.
“You didn’t seriously think an afternoon coffee would be enough, did you, Lettie? You do want more. A date. With me,” Bill said.
It wasn’t really a question, but she nodded. “Good,” he said, brushing the petals down her cheek, “because I want to get to know you, Lettie. Even better than before. And I plan to start tonight.”
“A sexy read and pure, fabulous fun!”
—
JULIE LETO
, author of
Dirty Little Secrets
“Kelley St. John’s sexy debut, GOOD GIRLS DON’T, delivers both heat and heart, making St. John an author to watch!”
—
JULIE KENNER,
author of
The Givenchy Code
and
Carpe Demon
“Wow! This is over the top, and all the fun of a sweet
Sex and the City
! Debut author Kelley St. John spins a tale of Colette, who can’t get over the gorgeous guy she loved and lost, and her sister Amy, a designer of award-winning sex toys! Fans of sizzling romance will have a ride on cloud nine with this one.”
—
MAGGIE DAVIS
, author of
Hustle Sweet Love
Don’t forget to turn to the back of this book for a preview of Kelly St. John’s sexy new novel,
Real Women Don’t Wear Size 2.
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To my boys. Who’d have thought having teenagers could be so
fun
?
And to my husband, my hero. With you by my side, I can do anything. Your support means more to me than words can say. I love you.
Monumental thanks to my agent, Caren Johnson, who found the perfect home at Warner for
Good Girls Don’t.
Extreme thanks to Beth de Guzman for noticing my work, and to my editor, Devi Pillai, for saying the words that make any writer’s heart stand still: “I love this book!”
A sincere thanks to Diane Luger for a cover that absolutely rocks.
And last, but not least, my unending gratitude to Susan Goggins. You urged me to share my writing with the world and never doubted I would achieve my goal. I owe this dream’s fruition to you.
D
igging through her briefcase, Colette Campbell snagged her cellular phone in one hand and her contact’s information sheet in the other, while her sister rummaged through her green glitter-embellished duffel bag to grab a bright pink, misshaped vibrator. Both girls were notorious for bringing their work home; tonight was no exception.
“Amy, what the heck is that for?” Colette eyed the odd curve at the end of the oversized contraption. In her opinion, Amy’s current employer had taken its passion line to the extreme, with the most popular products designed by her imaginative sister. But they were shooting for the next must-have sex toy. And Colette had to admit several of Amy’s creations were already must-haves for her own bedroom.
Too bad they were the ones meant for singles.
“This baby will put Adventurous Accessories over the top,” Amy said, grinning with unabashed pride. She made the same claim with each of her toys, though Colette chose not to point that out.
At merely twenty-two, Amy Campbell already had a mind for business. Coupled with an affinity for the intricacies of sex, which she’d obviously acquired from their mother, Amy had a hot combination for today’s boudoir market. Consequently, she fully intended for one of her personally designed products to become the next Jack Rabbit.
Like practically every other female in America, Colette had watched Kim Cattrall’s Samantha lose her senses over the unique vibrator on
Sex and the City
. And, like practically every other female in America, she’d wasted no time purchasing a set of talented rabbit ears of her own.
Thank God. Lord knows that battery-operated bunny helped her numerous times when Jeff hadn’t got the job done. At least she had one “energize-her” in the apartment during her six months dating Mr. Perfect.
“So what does it do?” Colette asked, accustomed to Amy’s tendency of bringing her sex trinkets home to show off her latest idea.
While Amy played Vanna, running a finger down the smooth length of the toy, Colette scanned her client’s data sheet. My Alibi’s customers were extremely specific regarding when she should make calls. In this case, the woman wanted a message left while the contact was gone. A typical request. For some reason, the lie seemed more believable when heard on an answering machine.
Colette’s eyes ventured to the referral line on the bottom of the front page. “Amy?”
“Yeah?” Amy said, still grinning at the toy.
“What’s up with this?” She pointed to the name scribbled across the page. “Referred by Amy Campbell?” Colette read the annotation made by the My Alibi sales associate.
Client specifically requested Colette Campbell as her sales representative.
“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” Amy said, scooting closer to Colette on the couch. She pointed to the data sheet. “That’s a friend of mine. She needed a way to spend a week with her boyfriend, and I told her about My Alibi.”
“You’re helping your friend cheat on her husband?” Colette didn’t like lying for a living, and she didn’t plan to do it much longer, only until she had enough money to start her boutique. “I thought you agreed that what these people do isn’t right.”
“I know it isn’t, but Erika isn’t lying to a husband.”
Colette’s attention moved back to the information sheet, specifically the “Relationship to Client” line. “Her uncle?”
“She’s found the love of her life, but she doesn’t think her uncle will approve,” Amy explained, shrugging as though this were no big deal. “She needs an alibi for a week to spend some alone time with Butch and see if he really is the one.”
“Why does she have to lie to her uncle to spend a week with her boyfriend?” Colette didn’t like the sound of this. What was Amy getting her into?
“He’s her guardian, and he’s a bit overprotective,” Amy explained; then, at Colette’s raised brows, she continued, “Listen. I knew you wouldn’t help on your own, so I had her go through My Alibi. That way it’s merely another client, right? And besides, she’s my friend and needs help. You won’t let me down here, will you?”
Letting Amy down was something Colette was determined not to do. And Amy knew it. Occasionally, like right now, she used it to her advantage. However, there was no way Colette would help if Erika wasn’t an adult.
“You can’t hire My Alibi unless you’re eighteen. And if she isn’t eighteen, I can’t help her.”
“She is eighteen. Her birthday was last month.”
Sure enough, the client’s date of birth on the application matched Amy’s statement.
“Come on, she’s an adult looking for an alibi, and she isn’t lying to a husband. She simply wants to spend some time with her boyfriend. You’ll help her, right? Give her a chance at true love?” Amy asked. “For me?”
Colette sighed.“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll help her.”
Amy leaned forward and hugged her sister, while her long ponytail smothered Colette’s face and made her smile.
“You’re rotten, you know that, don’t you?” Colette asked.
“Yep,” Amy agreed, moving back to her bag and holding up the new toy. Her mission had been accomplished, so naturally, she turned her focus back to her newest product.
“Tell your friend I’ll help her this one time, but I don’t plan to do it again. She really shouldn’t be lying to her uncle.”
“Got it,” Amy said, punching a finger in the air for emphasis, but her eyes never ventured from the vibrator. “Isn’t it amazing?” She switched her voice to produce infomercial appeal, flicked the switch and started the thing buzzing. “This exclusive curve allows the smooth, pulsing tip to hit the G-spot precisely. Every time. And if that doesn’t pique your interest, feast your eyes on this.” Sounding like a late-night home-shopping host, she pushed a small button on the handle with her index finger. “Ahhh, see? The end lights up like a rainbow.”
Holding the glowing contraption against her forearm, Amy let the pulsating head play against her skin while she giggled. “Cool, huh?”
Okay. Colette failed to see why illuminating like a multicolored strobe light would be of importance, particularly if you considered where those colors would be located
if
and
when
they hit the proverbial bull’s-eye. But she humored Amy, nonetheless. “Yeah, sis. Real cool. If you have a spot to find.”
Amy punched the switch and dropped Pinky to the couch, where it rolled like a deformed banana until lodging between the back of the sofa and the cushion. “No way. You haven’t found it?
Jeff
hasn’t found it? Geez, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
Colette merely smirked. From what she could tell, Jeff did good to find his own part, much less hers. But rather than elaborate on how extremely dull those six months had been, she dialed the number listed on the My Alibi fact sheet.
“Seriously? Did he, you know, even look for it?” Amy asked, obviously bewildered at this revelation.
Did he look for it?
Hmmm. Let’s think about it. Well, that’d be a definite
no. Matter of fact, all he looked for, as far as Colette could tell, was his own satisfaction. Which he obtained. Every time.
And pretty dang quick, at that.
Funny thing was, Jeff looked and acted every part the ladies’ man. Strutted around with his much-too-muscled chest puffed out, his politician’s smile plastered on tight and every wavy hair in place. Oh, and not a single tan line on his body, thank you very much. Or thank his home-tanning bed, coupled with his ritual to make certain he stayed on each side the same number of minutes.
Colette had mistakenly believed the attention he paid to his looks stemmed from his business, rather than his mega-ego. He’d used his primary asset, his body, to promote a growing chain of health-food stores; therefore, he had to look healthy, right?
Of course, the result was quite phenomenal. Folks saw him as their goal and bought his stuff aplenty. The fact he’d tacked on a couple of Atlanta’s Best Body titles didn’t hurt either. Yep, he was pretty to look at, all right.
But a dud in the sack.
Heck, Colette would’ve bet plenty of money on his ability to please.