Nothing is going to go wrong. Ashley Miles has worked too hard for her independence to let some Bentley-driving hunk named Quinton Murphy interfere with her plans-or her freedom. Yes, the chemistry is phenomenal. Kind of scary, actually. But that's it. NO emotional commitments. But he's SO wonderful-a woman could fall in lov. How did that happen That wasn't part of the plan! But can she trust him Really trust him The man is just so mysterious. There's only one solution: put it all on the line and see what Quinton does when she tells him how she feels. And hope everything that can go wrong.
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August 31, 2006
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Excerpt from Murphy's Law by Lori Foster
Trailing close behind in the rusted, rattling junk heap of a car, he watched her, plotting, planning...growing tense and hard and excited.
Between two jobs and school she scattered her routine, but he ' d figure it out. Everyone fit a pattern eventually. People were sheep. Predictable. Easily overcome. Especially with his unique brand of tools.
She was the one to blame, the one who ' d fucked up all his plans. She was the one directly responsible for ruining his life.
Before she caught on to him, before anyone could stop him, he ' d have her. Then he ' d have his much-deserved retribution.
She turned into the parking garage at the building where she worked the night shift. Slow and watchful, he drove on past the entrance. And he saw things he hadn ' t expected. He smiled with the discovery. Another way to twist the knife, to get his revenge.
The little bitch deserved no less for putting her nose where it didn ' t belong.
With building impatience and anticipation, Quinton Murphy leaned against the cinderblock wall and checked his watch for the tenth time. How pathetic for a grown man to go to such lengths to talk with a woman.
A woman who had refused him ' after kissing him senseless.
He didn ' t leave. He wouldn ' t leave. Not until she showed up and he had a chance to set things right with her.
Loosening his tie and pulling at the collar of his dress shirt, he cursed the unseasonable warmth of the October night and the stifling stillness of the parking garage. He checked his watch yet again, and then, finally, her yellow Civic pulled through the entrance.
Headlights flashed around the gray, yawning space, now mostly empty except for his Porsche Carrera and the vehicles of the night shift workers. Her brakes sounded a little squeaky, and she parked with a jerk of the gears that shook the aged automobile.