Hugh Jackman who was voted Sexiest Man Alive in 2008 and hosted the 2009 Oscars, traded his Aussie origin to become my French Dr. Yves Malroux, an aristocratic Count who lives in the historical Loire Valley, in RIGHT NAME, WRONG MAN. Hugh’s angular features and hazel eyes matched perfectly those of my French hero. Hugh’s picture landed on my desk on top of the others. Look at him. Is it any wonder that my heroine Mary-Beth blurted his name while in her fiancé’s arms?
A romantic comedy novel set in France:
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What’s a girl to do when she whispers another man’s name in her fiancé’s arms?
When forbidden dreams about the sexy French Dr. Yves Malroux assail her at every turn, Mary-Beth puts her wedding plans on hold. She signs up for a summer training program in surgery with Yves, and flies to France to confront her past and the man who broke her heart years ago.
Will Mary-Beth let her heart decide who’s her right man? Will Yves break his no-strings-attached rule to offer love and commitment?
“By elevators. We will stop at each of the three levels.”
The view was incredible from the first level, and even more beguiling from the second, but she winced as the third elevator began its spectacular eighteen-meter ascent. Yves, always attentive to her comfort, grabbed her hand as they stepped on to the outdoor level. Mary-Beth stared awestruck at the breathtaking scenery. The sun slowly dipped down, and soon dusk hovered over
. “It’s so beautiful.” Paris
Yves stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. She closed her eyes for a second, and made a wish—her one and only wish—as she leaned into him, and he tightened his hold.
“I am glad you are enjoying your day.” His husky voice against her hair sent tremors down her spine. She turned to face him. Yves’s eyes held her captive more surely than his arms, her lips dangerously near his.
He didn’t come closer, and she didn’t ease away. They just looked at each other. She sighed and averted her eyes, only to glance at one couple hugging and another kissing. A curse of frustration escaped her, and she focused her gaze on Yves, on his lips, his aristocratic nose, and hard jaw. He wasn’t smiling as he peered into her eyes, waiting.
Luscious memories of their last kiss shivered through her. She didn’t want to wait anymore and waste their precious moments together. She tilted her face higher, her chin a mere inch from his, and inhaled his masculine scent and lemon aftershave mixed with the crisp freshness of a
night. Her pulse quickened, raced, slowed, and almost stopped before resuming its erratic pace. Paris
“Yves,” she whispered, her lips gliding against his throat. “Kiss me.”
“Chérie.” He lowered his head and molded his mouth to hers.
She laced her fingers behind his nape. Feeling, tasting, enjoying. His tongue slipped between her parted lips and met hers in a wild dance. She pressed herself against him, not wanting to let him go. She was on top of the world in Yves’s arms. Warm and secure, and kissing him.
He released her mouth and rained kisses on her forehead, cheeks and throat. “Yves, the
is more beautiful than I ever imagined.” Eiffel Tower
The breeze fluttered her hair over her face. He smoothed it back with a gentle caress. “Tonight, I, too, find it unique.”
Far below, the city sparkled like a black velvet cape sprinkled with millions of diamonds. Yves waved his hand. “
by night.” Paris