All it takes to be a super-hot lingerie designer is chutzpa and a healthy dose of talent. Right? So why is Bridget Weiss making ends meet selling custom bras and thongs to Chicago’s triple-X dancers? And now, Adam Hale, her brother’s best friend, is in town and thinks she’s a stripper, too! Maybe she’ll just let him sweat over that mix-up….

But everything he imagined

Truth is, Adam’s been secretly lusting after sweet Bridget’s bodacious curves for years. Just being near her is torture. But when she teases him with a private dance straight out of a VIP room, he’s stunned by her bare heat. Tonight, he’ll follow her anywhere. Because tomorrow, he’s taking the lead….

Sexy lingerie will get you everywhere...

Reviews ...

"...an interesting farm setting, unusual characters and great humor." 4 Stars.
-Romantic Times Book Reviews

Excerpt ...

“Tell me again why you insisted on bringing me home?” Bridget unlocked her front door and flipped on the light.

“We need to talk.” Adam followed her into her apartment, his cheek throbbing.

“Talk about what? How you got into a strip club brawl with a dancer and were ejected by the bouncer?”

“Hey, I was not brawling with her. I lost my balance and she kicked me.”

She rolled her eyes. “What were you even doing there? I thought you finally grew up and stopped going to strip clubs.”

“I did! And how do you know I used to go?”

“My brothers have big mouths. So go home and put some ice on your cheek.” She pointed at the door.

Adam was halfway out the door when he stopped. Very slick. “I was dropping off a co-worker on my way home when I saw you arguing with that bouncer. What the hell were you doing at a strip club?”

She paused from hanging up her coat. “The logical assumption would be that I am dancing at Frisky’s.”

He couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.

“Why is that so hard to believe? You don’t think I’m sexy enough?” She glared at him. Uh-oh.

“Come on, Bridge. You, a stripper? You always wear the baggiest clothes possible and blush beet-red if anybody even glances at your—” he gestured abruptly at her breasts, too embarrassed to even say the word.

“Maybe I’ve changed since I moved to the city. Maybe certain things don’t embarrass me anymore.” She moved to her futon and picked up a shiny lime-green bra.

“Whoa, are you serious?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re dancing at Frisky’s?”

Bridget held the green bra to her chest and shimmied a bit. “What do you think, Adam?”

“Oh, my God.” He looked, really looked around her apartment for the first time. A chrome clothes rack held a black corset thingie, a day-glo pink bra and panties, and a white vinyl tube-top. But the kicker was a pair of six-inch clear plastic high heels with straps. Nobody wore those except strippers. “Did you dance tonight?”

She tossed down the bra. “Did you miss my performance, Adam?”

He plopped onto her futon. “Oh, Bridge. What will your family say?”

She just laughed. Here he was picturing her parents’ shock and horror, and her brothers’ anger and disappointment, and she laughed? She had changed since she moved to Chicago, and not for the better. “It’s not funny!”

“Adam, you worry too much.” She plucked the pink bra off the hanger and rubbed her cheek over the shiny fabric. She’d look great in the pink with her fair skin…

“No!” He’d been imagining her in the pink bra and nothing else and hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“No, what?” She gave him a puzzled look.

He jumped up from the futon and walked over to her. “No, you can’t do that. Since your family isn’t here, I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“You are? How?” Then she smiled and trailed the pink bra over his chest. His heart beat faster. “Tell you what. You’re a gambler, big guy. You gamble on corn, soybeans, cattle. Let’s make a bet.”

“On what?” That smile was making him nervous.

“On you.” She drew out the last word, teasing him. “Since you consider yourself my friend, you can give me an unbiased opinion on whether I’m good enough to make it. If you say no, I won’t continue my budding career as an exotic dancer.”

“What? You want to do a demo for me?” His throat grew tight.

“Do we have a bet or not?” Her blue eyes bored into him. She wasn’t the shy little farm girl who’d blushed when they first met. And now she wanted to take her clothes off in public for strange men?

He couldn’t let that happen. “It’s a bet.”

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Japanese art expert Megan Michiko O’Malley has many talents, but seduction isn’t one of them. Yet after meeting a sexy stranger at a wedding, not only does she have an impromptu romp in the upstairs bedroom, but it’s the most sensual sex she’s ever had.

Meg might have slipped out of Rick Sokol’s bed without leaving her real name or phone number, but that won’t stop him from finding her. He isn’t one of the best private investigators for nothing. Besides, he needs her expertise. He’s just discovered an erotic Japanese pillow book and is hoping Meg will be his study partner!

Reviews ...

"Very sexy, with interesting cultural details...also has a suspense subplot that never gets in the way." 4 Stars.
-Romantic Times Book Reviews

Australia /New Zealand edition
March 2007

Excerpt ...

Lost in her thoughts, she bounced off a blue wall. The wall turned and she saw one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. No, she corrected herself, not handsome, exactly, but compelling. Magnetic. He had wavy hair with streaks of blond, brown, and red all tumbled together, kind of like an old color photo of JFK. His eyes were bright blue with tiny glints of gold, set in sharply angled, tanned cheekbones.

“I’m sorry.” His deep voice buzzed across her already jangling nerve endings. She stared at him. He mistook her silence for incomprehension and repeated his apology in careful Cantonese.

“Oh. I’m Japanese, not Chinese.” It was nice of him to try, though. How many men apologized in one language, much less two?

“Sorry. I only know a few phrases in Japanese. But one I do know is ‘Hajimemashite’.”

Meg tried not to cringe at his accent. “That means ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’”

“Exactly.” He gave her a white smile, revealing a dimple in one tan cheek. “And I hope you’d say you were pleased to meet me too.”

Meg raised her eyebrows. He certainly was fast on his feet. She wondered if he was fast off his feet as well. “I might be pleased to meet you if I knew whom I was meeting.”

He extended his hand. “I’m Rick Sokol.” She took his hand. Rick’s grip was gentle but enveloped her smaller one. His right wrist was banded by a gold watch that was expensive, but not ostentatious. She wondered if he was a lefty.

He released her hand and she fought a peculiar sense of loss. “What’s your name?”

“My Japanese name is Michiko.” Where did that come from? She almost never introduced herself to Americans as “Michiko”, but she didn’t correct herself.

“Mitchy-coe,” he repeated, mangling the pronunciation.

Meg giggled, fighting the urge to cover her mouth like a good Japanese girl. “No, that’s not how you say it. It’s Mee-chee-ko.”

He tried again, getting closer. “Better?” He smiled down at her and her stomach flipped.

She nodded, realizing she was in over her head. She tended to attract either short guys who wanted to tower over her, or pale, weedy types who had seen Memoirs of a Geisha twenty-seven times and were fascinated by a Japanese girl with light eyes.

Tall, tanned, gorgeous men did not smile at her like this and ask her a question, which she had totally missed. “Excuse me?”

“I was asking if you’re here for a wedding?”

She glanced at her attire and was tempted to reply that no, she always wore green satin dresses around hotel lobbies, like some kinky bridesmaid hooker, but no good Japanese girl would even think that, let alone say it. “Yes, my friend got married this evening.”

“Mine, too.”

They both glanced at the ballroom and turned to each other. He took a closer look at her, his blue gaze traveling from her face to glide over her bare neck and shoulders. Her nipples tightened and swelled against the snug satin bodice. His blue eyes brightened to an almost cobalt shade, lingering on her breasts. She tottered on her dyed-to-match sandals, a flood of lust washing over her.

Then he grinned. “I thought I recognized that dress. You’re a bridesmaid.”

He’d been checking out the damned dress, not her. Well, she could at least still be the exotic Michiko. “Yes, I was the maid of honor. Are you a friend of the groom’s?”

“Oh, yeah, we met right after college and have been friends ever since. I’m sorry I missed seeing you at the ceremony, but my flight from Hong Kong was delayed. I just had time to toss my things in my room upstairs and rush down to the reception.”

“Hong Kong? You are so lucky—I love Hong Kong.” She smiled up at him, remembering days and days spent in the art museum archives examining scraps of calligraphy.

“Have a drink with me and we’ll talk about Hong Kong.”

“A drink?” She froze mid-step and turned. Standing on the fourth or fifth step, she was eye-level with him and the view was even better.

Rick shrugged, his wide shoulders moving elegantly under the well-tailored navy blazer. “To apologize for bumping into you.”

How long had it been since she’d had a drink with a hot-looking guy? Too depressing to calculate. “Yes, I’d like to have a drink with you.”

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When sculpting a nude, the artist must…

…understand the male body

Chicago sculptor Rey Martinson has always worked with nudes, but she is floored by her new model’s male perfection. Cuban-American Marco Flores’s body is more than inspiring—it’s irresistible.

…be good with her hands

Because it turns out that Marco is incredibly talented with his--on Rey! After each wildly arousing modeling session, they find release in intense lovemaking.

…have an eye for detail

Rey can’t ignore that there’s something suspicious about Marco. He’s the first lover she’s ever had who sleeps with a gun under his pillow! But for Rey, being with Marco is worth the risk. Because she’s never been with a man who stimulates her so strongly—as an artist…or as a woman.

Reviews ...

"A fantastic romance, with a fast paced plot, well-written, sexually explicit while giving us the intense emotional aspects of each character. I loved this book and read it in one sitting…readers are sure to delight in this story offering glimpses into Cuban culture and the art world of Chicago. If you only read one Blaze this late summer, be sure and get this one. I guarantee you won't be disappointed." 4.5 Plugs.
-Jeri Neal, The Romance Readers Connection.com

"My, my my, Her Body of Work is a deliciously sensual and highly charged romance…the sparks fly between these stimulating protagonists and create a red-hot experience for the reader. The vibrant emotions of its leading characters make for a steamy read. Every woman should have a taste of ecstasy now and then." 9 of 10.
-Teresa Sanders, Suspense Romance Writers/Romance Designs.com

"Her Body of Work is bursting at the seams. The passion between Marco and Rey shimmers0". 3 Stars.
-Page Traynor, Romantic Times Bookclub

"Ms. Donovan has written one hot book with Her Body of Work. A little danger, a little suspense, and a lot of sensuality make this a very enjoyable book." 4 Blue Ribbons.
-Laurie, Romance Junkies.com

"Marie Donovan has written a real winner with Her Body of Work. The passion is hot enough to scorch the pages. Readers will either fan themselves through the steamy sections or hang on through the action sequences. Enjoy the ride!" 4.5 Roses.
-Paula, A Romance Review.com

"I enjoyed this book from the very beginning…a flawless read. I'll definitely be reading more of Marie Donovan's books." 4 Stars.
-Audria L., The Erotic Reader/We Write Romance.com

Dutch Edition December 2006 NAAKT ONDER HAAR HANDEN (NAKED UNDER HER HANDS)		UK edition April 2007		Greek edition March 2007 GYMNO MODELO (NAKED MODEL)

Excerpt ...

Marco craned his neck to double-check the address on the loft building in Chicago’s North Side Bucktown neighborhood. Dios mío, it was cold. The icy wind blew a crushed paper cup along the salt-crusted sidewalk. He pulled up his collar in case anyone was following him.

Francisco owed him big for this one. His younger brother had also left his fancy down coat at the cleaners and it wouldn’t be ready until Monday, so Marco was stuck with his own thin leather coat. As he pressed the buzzer, blobs of dirty snow slid off the overhang and slipped down his neck. A string of curses burst from his lips.

The wide steel door slid open. ¡Caray! Although Marco definitely wasn’t familiar with Nordic mythology, the tall blonde in front of him had to be the reincarnation of some winter goddess. Her long pale hair curved on her shoulders, framing a pink-and-white complexion. Ice-blue eyes sparkled from between light brown lashes.

“You must be Francisco. Come in and get warm.” She reached out a paint-stained hand and tugged him inside. Her full breasts bounced gently under her light blue sweater.

She had called him Francisco. There was no way he wanted to hear his brother’s name come out of her sexy mouth. “Actually, I go by Marco.”

“Oh, I probably misheard your agent. My name is Rey Martinson.”

Rey? The blonde goddess was the artist? She hustled him inside the foyer to a large loft space full of canvases, drop cloths and what looked like chisels and hammers. Gloomy afternoon light filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining a long red brick wall. He craned his neck and saw a rumpled bed in the far corner of the loft.

“I’ll hang up your coat so you can go change in the dressing room.” She pointed to a small curtained cubicle next to a platform.

“Change?”

“So I can see if you’d be a good fit for my new project.” She hustled off to adjust a camera tripod.

Francisco had told him this wasn’t a fashion modeling audition. He stood still for a second and decided to go along with whatever Rey wanted. He shut himself inside the drafty cubicle and shucked off his ice-crusted black jeans, cold fingers fumbling the buttons on his short-sleeved black shirt. He looked for the outfit he was supposed to model but the only clothing was a ratty-looking bathrobe.

“Your agent said you’ve done life modeling before?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ve done it before,” he answered. Life modeling? He’d briefly dated a chain-smoking artist who painted what she called still lifes, big ugly bowls of rotting fruit that were supposed to say something deep about the futility of existence or some garbage like that. Maybe Rey wanted him to hold a fruit bowl while she painted his picture.

“Oh, great. I always find experienced life models easier to work with,” her cheerful voice floated over the wall. Her English was very precise, with a slight lilt on the vowels as if she’d grown up speaking two languages like he had.

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” he finally had to ask.

“You are so funny.” Her giggle made him smile, but he had no idea what the joke was. “Just put on the bathrobe.”

The clothes must be hanging outside. He left on his black bikini briefs and tugged the well-worn black terrycloth around him. It gaped across his chest and skimmed the tops of his thighs.

Pulling at the robe one more time, he stepped out and almost bumped into her. She had stripped off her blue sweater and wore a tight white tank top. She was as smooth and pale as a marble statue.

She looked up from the digital camera in front of her. “Come stand on the platform and take off the robe.”

What? Marco tried to examine her expression for some clue, but she had returned to fiddling with that damn camera. Remembering his younger brother’s excitement to audition in L.A., he loosened the belt and dropped the robe. She circled him, appraising his pecs and abs, circling him slowly. Francisco actually got paid for this?

“Would you be willing to shave?”

He fingered the stubble on his jaw. Not wanting to get the job, he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. “I thought the unkempt look was in now.”

“Not your face, your chest. Most models actually wax their chests.”

His stubbled chin nearly hit the floor. “Wax my chest?” He’d have to have a serious talk with his younger brother about what was and what was not acceptable for Cuban men to do.

She shrugged. “Or not. Your chest hair isn’t so thick that I can’t see your muscles underneath.”

“Okay.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He jumped as her finger stroked his back. “You have quite a few scars. You must live an interesting life.”

“I haven’t always been a model.” Hell, he’d only been one for about thirty seconds.

“You’re a welcome change. Most male models are cookie-cutter pretty boys. But you, you have quite a unique look.” He fought to stare straight ahead as her warm breath tickled the nape of his neck.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Marco managed, as he tried to control his hardening penis. Even though Francisco could be a pain, he didn’t deserve to have his modeling career wrecked because his brother got a hard-on in front of the boss.

“It’s a very good thing,” she reassured him. “Seeing you has given me some great ideas for my newest commission.”

“What kind of artwork do you do?” He hadn’t seen any fruit bowls, so he might be spared from still lifes.

“All sorts—painting, photography and sculpture. My body of work has a definite unifying theme.” She gestured to the expansive loft.

He looked around and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. All the paintings and sculptures in Rey’s studio were of men.

Naked men.

He muttered another Spanish curse that would have earned him a smack from his mamá. What had his brother gotten him into?

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©copyright 2005 Marie Donovan