© 2005

Advertising executive extraordinaire, Prada shopaholic, and all-around tough-as-steel LA Mia Appleby could put a good spin on anything, but waking up in the bed of a man when she'd only meant to admire his motorcycle wasn't one of those things.

Apparently, you could take the girl out of the trailer park, but you couldn't take the trailer park out of the girl. She hated that, but she'd long ago accepted it-in her avid appreciation of the male species, she was her mother's daughter.

Never a dip-her-head-in-the-sand type of woman, she faced the music. She opened her eyes, took in the pale pink June dawn streaking across the skylight above her, and blinked, which turned into an involuntary squeak of surprise when the view was suddenly hampered by a head.

A male head.

A gorgeously rumpled male head with sleepy, heavy-lidded light caramel eyes and a slow smile that had all sorts of wicked, naughty trouble in it.

God, she was a sucker for wicked, and with that bad-boy motorcycle of his and those let-me-do-you eyes, this man so fit the bill.

"Hey," he said in a rough morning voice that went with the dark stubbled jaw and bed hair as he slid his body over hers, pinning her to the mattress with his warm, hard torso and mile-long legs, which spread hers.

In spite of herself, her body tightened. No doubt, he was stop-the-presses hot. He had a body for sinning, of which they'd done plenty last night.

All night.

Oh, boy.

He'd moved into the neighborhood two days ago. His first night in town she'd welcomed him with a plate of cookies. The next night they'd pulled onto their street at the same time, she in her car, he on his motorcycle.