Bewitched: In Too Deep. Lori Foster
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Praise for New York Times bestselling author
LORI FOSTER
“Say YES! to Lori Foster.”
—Elizabeth Lowell
“Lori Foster delivers the goods.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Known for her funny, sexy writing, Foster doesn’t hesitate to turn up the heat.”
—Booklist
“One of the best writers around of romantic novels with vibrant sensuality.”
—MyLifetime.com
“Foster outwrites most of her peers and has a great sense of the ridiculous.”
—Library Journal
“Foster proves herself as a bestselling author time and again.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Filled with Foster’s trademark wit, humor, and sensuality.”
—Booklist on Jamie
“Foster supplies good sex and great humor along the way in a thoroughly enjoyable romance reminiscent of Susan Elizabeth Phillips’ novels.”
—Booklist on Causing Havoc
“Foster executes with skill…convincing, heartfelt family drama.”
—Publishers Weekly on Causing Havoc
“Suspenseful, sexy, and humorous.”
—Booklist on Just a Hint—Clint
Lori Foster
Bewitched
CONTENTS
IN TOO DEEP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARRIED TO THE BOSS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To Malle Vallik.
Though you’ll no longer be editing at Harlequin Temptation, you’ll be forever remembered as “one of the great ones.” I take comfort in the fact that your Harlequin Temptation novels will go on, pleasing readers for years to come.
CHAPTER ONE
SHE HAD THE soft, sweet mouth of a woman. And as she bent slightly at the waist, peeking out the front window of the quaint grocery shop, he inspected her bottom—and found it equally sweet. His palms itched, and he wasn’t certain if it was with the need to caress—or swat.
Maybe she was a cross-dresser. Or she just had really bad taste in clothes. But she was definitely female, of that Harry was certain. He hadn’t even noticed her until she’d gotten too close to him, and then he’d picked up on her scent. It made him feel like a buck in mating season, it hit him so hard. He stared, unable to help himself, until she noticed he was staring. Then she gave him a sour look and moved away.
And still he stared. The battered brown leather jacket was a couple sizes too big, ripped at one shoulder seam. And the flannel beneath it was baggy and hanging loose over ill-fitting, patched jeans. Scuffed, low-heel boots with chains on the back gave the impression she was trying for a bad-boy biker look. Absurd. Even her slicked back, glossy dark hair, held in a short blunt ponytail at her nape looked more female than rebel male. She had only one pierced ear, a small spent bullet dangling from the tiny silver hoop.
She kept her hands in her back pockets and a sneer on her face. Harry wondered what she’d done with her breasts, for they weren’t noticeable through the bulky clothing. Of course, maybe she was naturally small. He wouldn’t mind. He was a bottom-man himself, and he liked petite women, he…
Harry drew up short, appalled at the direction his wandering mind had taken. He wanted nothing to do with the woman, absolutely nothing.
Whatever her excuse for aping a man, she didn’t need to be here now, at this precise moment, possibly screwing things up for him, definitely distracting him.
Harry Lonnigan eyed the unfortunate female with annoyance, now dividing his attention between her and the two men working their way to the cash register. He had a job to attend to. Yet there she was, trying to saunter like a man, trying to sneer in a manly way. Harry snorted, then despite himself, he breathed deeply, trying to detect her sweet scent again. Not the smell of perfume, but the smell of warm woman, a smell proven to drive men crazy.
He wanted to ignore her, but couldn’t. Who was she and what was she up to with her outrageous costume and bizarre acting? Only a complete imbecile would believe her to be male.
But just then one of the two men turned, eyed her, and gave credence to her costume by dismissing her without so much as a raised eyebrow. Harry was stupefied.
He came out from behind the rack of chips and strolled casually forward, in no hurry to draw attention to himself, but the female was getting entirely too close to the two men, trying it seemed, to keep surveillance out the front display window without being seen. Whatever she was up to, she apparently wasn’t aware of the danger. Harry had no claims on being a hero, far from it, but he also wasn’t callous enough to watch a woman get injured, not if he could stop it.
“Go away.”
Harry halted, then blinked. The little imposter—she barely reached his shoulder—had hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth. How had she known he was behind her? He hadn’t made a single sound!
The two men looked up. They were cocky and obnoxious young men, overly confident because they’d been running their scam in this area for far too long, at least that’s what Harry’s friend, Dalton, had said. He owed Dalton, and stopping these ruffians from their petty extortion would be adequate compensation, but it was a nuisance. Especially if some stray with a weird agenda was determined to interfere and complicate matters.
One of the men turned to face them, propping his elbows on the counter and giving them both an assessing look. “What are you doing?”
Harry pretended not to understand. He stared at a shelf filled with canned goods, finally selecting some potted meat. He shuddered. Nasty looking stuff, potted meat. The little female remained frozen beside him.
After an extended silence where no one seemed willing to move, Harry looked up. “Hmm? You were talking to me?”
The guy pushed off the counter and started forward through the narrow, crammed aisles. His blond hair was long and greasy, like the rest of his body, and his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, red-rimmed and with lashes so light they were nearly invisible. Scraggly whiskers dotted his chin, a discredit to every manly beard ever grown. His partner, heavier and darker, also turned to watch while the proprietor,