Seduced on the Red Carpet


Order Book for/from:

More order options »

Seduced on the Red Carpet

Parties, perks, private jets and photo shoots…She’d give it all up for love …

Discovered at sixteen, supermodel Livia Blake has lived a life most women only dream of. But beneath the glitz and glamour is a small-town girl who yearns for babies, a permanent home—and the man to go with it. Then she meets Hunter Chambers at his family-owned Napa Valley winery. The sexy single father tempts
Livia with a desire she’s never known…and with a dream she was afraid wouldn’t come true.

Hunter knows Livia’s type—and she’s not his type at all. But he can’t deny the passion surging between them. But what happens once Livia jets off to her next photo shoot, taking Hunter’s heart with her? Is their love strong enough to create their own private paradise, far from the glare of the spotlight?

What the Critics say

“A unique storyline presented in a romantic backdrop makes this a page-turner.”
— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Read an Excerpt

Livia arrives at the winery and meets Hunter…

“I’ll just take my bag and check in—”

“Let me.” Before she could object, and she planned to object because she hated it when overzealous bellhops or doormen snatched the bags out of your hand in their relentless quest for a big tip, even when you could clearly handle the bags yourself, he reached for her bag. “I’m happy to help.”

She studied his grim face. “I can see that. But really, I’ve got it—”

Ignoring her, he set the bag on the ground and walked around to peer inside the car’s window for who knew what. Seeing nothing but empty car, he looked back up the drive, as though he expected the imminent arrival of someone or something.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Your luggage? Your entourage?”

Oh. Oh, okay. She got it. He, like other idiots worldwide, assumed that because she was a famous model, she was a diva-licious bitch. Or maybe he’d read some of her press coverage from back in the day, when she was young and stupid, and thought she was still as big an airhead as she’d ever been. Whatever. Clearly he needed a little schooling in both manners and customer service relations, and she was just the woman to do it.

“I take it you know who I am.”

Nothing at all changed in his expression, but the quick skim of that light brown gaze down her body and back up again all but ignited sparks across her skin.

“Every man who’s ever bought the Swimsuit Issue knows who you are.”

Livia froze, her pulse galloping away like a bee-stung horse, because she realized, with sudden excruciating clarity, that this man was trouble. Men checked her out all the time, which was no big deal. She was used to and impervious to it.

This was different.

This was the subtle peeling away of her cute little Capri pants and fluttery top. There was banked heat in those eyes, as if he could look at her now and see her as she’d appeared on that Sports Illustrated cover when she was nineteen: sun-kissed and dewy, wearing a white triangle scrap of a bikini bottom, with the strings undone and dangling on one side, and a loopy crocheted top that displayed every inch of her upper body — except for her nipples — in vivid detail. She’d had her wind-blown hair in her face, her hips cocked to one side, her lips and thighs parted, and sand dusted across one side of her body while the blue waters off Fiji lapped in the distance.

She’d been a young dingbat then, but as beautiful as she’d ever been — or probably ever would be — in her life. This man, whoever he was, remembered all that. He’d looked at that cover shot and now thought he knew her, but he knew nothing about the girl inside that shell.

Men never did, and she was used to their snap judgments.

What she wasn’t used to was the responsive curl of heat in her belly and the tug she felt toward this jerk, as though she’d been secretly magnetized and he was the North Pole.

Shake it off, girl.

“You might know who I am,” she said, painfully aware that her Georgia accent was thickening the way it always did when she was upset, so that might became maht and I became Ah, “but you don’t know me. I don’t travel with an entourage when my job doesn’t require it, and I only brought one suitcase.” She snatched it up from the ground before he could touch it again. “And I will carry it myself.”

Propelled by her wounded dignity, she stalked off toward the house, well aware of the surprised widening of his eyes. She’d put several feet between him and his mangy dog when he spoke again.

“Whatever you want.”

The subtle mockery made something snap in her brain, covering her vision with red. Halfway to a graceful exit, she discovered that she couldn’t let this jackass have the last word. It just wasn’t in her.
So she marched back up to stand in his face, suitcase in tow, and pointed her free index finger right at his perfectly straight nose. “You’re very rude,” she informed him. “You better believe I’m going to complain to the owners about you.”

To her further annoyance, this pronouncement only amused him, if the slow smile creeping across his face was any indication. “You do that,” he said. “They’ve had problems with me before. Make sure you tell them my name’s J.R.”

It would have been so nice to smack that wicked smirk right off his face and teach him a thing or two about the right way to treat a) women; and b) paying guests, but that would have required moving, and she found she couldn’t do that. There was something so sexy about this man, so unabashedly masculine and unaffected, that he made her breath hitch and her heartbeat stutter. And that was something that athletes, actors and rock stars alike hadn’t been able to do to her in more years than she cared to remember.

The amusement slipped off his face, leaving something altogether more disturbing and intense.

Something that, as the old folks liked to say back home, scared the stuffing out of her.

Time to go, Livia.

Pivoting, she walked off toward the house.

The dog scrambled to his feet and ambled along after her.