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Right Name, Wrong Man
What’s a future bride to do when she utters another man’s name in her fiancé’s arms–– a name she thought she had erased from her heart after one blissful night, years ago? Before setting a wedding date, Mary-Beth Drake must reassure herself she has outgrown her youthful infatuation for handsome surgeon Yves Malroux.
A trip to France and training with Yves would convince her she’s in control of her emotions. Except that sparks fly between them.
“Love you, Yves.” Marie-Beth Drake purred and cuddled deeper against her lover’s broad chest.
Already half-asleep, Steve squeezed her to his side, with a faint “Hmm”. Soon, his light snores filled the air. Sated and relaxed, she stroked his silvery hair. “Love you—”
What had she called him?
Oh God, oh God. Had she said Steve or… Yves?
Her fiancé grumbled in his sleep. She immediately yanked her hand away from his head. Her fingers flew to her lips and her stomach somersaulted. She couldn’t have whispered the loathsome name? She’d buried it long ago and forgotten the sexy French doctor and his charismatic smile.
Had Steve noticed the slip of her tongue?
Heart pounding, she studied his closed eyes and slightly gaping mouth. Not to worry. Her fiancé slept as peacefully as a man content with life—as he did every night.
Shivering with mortification, she slid out of his arms. Her throat ached with sudden dryness as she covered herself with a robe and rushed downstairs.
In the living room, she grabbed a bottle of Merlot from the bar, filled a glass and swallowed it, and poured a second one. Her mind in shambles, she settled on the sofa to organize her thoughts.
Hanging over the fireplace, her fiancé’s portrait focused a serious look at her. She blinked. “I don’t know how it happened. Honestly,” she groaned with an apologetic grimace.
Sultry images of the French surgeon obscured her vision. Yves smiling, his knuckles caressing her cheeks, his face reaching closer to hers. She snatched her head back and touched her lips, swollen from Steve’s kisses. And remembered Yves’s passionate embrace. “No, please.” Her world tilted on its axis.
Weary and confused, she emptied her glass. “You’re history. Gone, Dr. Malroux.” To think he’d left Boston the next day after the blissful night she’d spent in his arms, and never came back, never called the chubby medical student she’d been then. “No more crazy dreams or heartaches,” she scolded in a strangled groan.
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