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The Chocolate Affair: Affairs of the Heart, #3

The Chocolate Affair: Affairs of the Heart, #3

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The Chocolate Affair: Affairs of the Heart, #3

76 pagine
58 minuti
Dec 22, 2017


He is a successful chef with no talent for desserts.

She is a showgirl and single mother with a serious sweet tooth.

Can he show her that he's got what it takes--in the kitchen and elsewhere--to make her melt?

Dec 22, 2017

Informazioni sull'autore

A voracious reader since before she can remember, Kristi has always been drawn to romance, science fiction, and fantasy, or, preferably all three at once. Now, when she isn’t reading her favorite books to herself or to her kids, she is writing her own stories. Kristi lives with her family in sunny Southern California. Visit her online at

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The Chocolate Affair - Kristi Lea



Ahand snaked around Brigitte Greene’s bare waistline and fleshy fingers drifted against the bottom edge of her sequined bra top.

Come here, baby.

She swallowed a sigh and let herself be pulled into the man’s lap. Better to go gracefully than fight it and risk turning an ankle or earning a nasty bruise.

She summoned up a flirty laugh and smiled into whiskey-soured breath and red-rimmed eyes. Hey there, darlin’. She cupped his rough and scratchy cheek with one palm. Don’t you be gettin’ me in trouble with the big guys.

Brigitte swung one long leg, then another around and up off the arm of the man’s chair so that her feet were firmly planted on the floor in front of her.

What happens in Vegas? His words slurred together.

You heard the rules. Looking only. Sorry, sugar.

With a quick hop, she was up and out of arm’s reach, leaving him to watch the sway of her backside. If the over-the-top Southern accent didn’t distract them, usually a little extra butt wiggle did the trick. And when all else failed, Jimmy the bouncer was never far away.

The Stiletto Club was not that kind of a club. At least not without knowing who to pay first.

Brigitte’s sashayed over to the bar where a trio of slightly less drunken looking men were openly checking her out.

And Brigitte’s was not that kind of a dancer. Not yet. Hopefully never, no matter how tempting the pay sounded.

She smiled big as she approached them, flashing the pearly whites that her orthodontist father had so proudly shown off with big glossy photos all around his practice. She said all the right words in all the right tones—a practiced mix of flirtation, collusion, and plain old Southern hospitality—so that the gentleman’s club patrons would offer her a drink, ask for a photo, maybe invite her back to their hotel suite. She would demur on the drink and laugh off the hotel party, but pose for every picture with that picture-perfect smile.

She tried not to look for the clock. Tried not to count down the minutes until her post-dance-show meet-and-greet shift was done. Tried to ignore her swollen toes and aching arches. Her high school ballet teacher would be appalled at the crap that passed for dancing shoes around here. But you couldn’t exactly put showgirls in chunky flats and still call it Stiletto.

Her high school ballet teacher—and everyone else in the small town where she grew up—would be appalled about everything around here. Or they would at least claim to be.

Good night, she called to the last few patrons as the lights dimmed. She blew a kiss over one shoulder in the direction of a bachelor party that had stayed till the very last call. She kept in the yawn until the stage door was shut firmly behind her and the rest of the girls. Well, all but those few who had already left the party for their extra credit assignments.

I swear to God, the next man who squeezes my boob gets kicked in the balls, ground out Shelly, a brunette with a Jersey accent.

Brigitte’s stepped out of her shoes and sighed as she did a few calf raises. Not if you want your share of tonight’s tips, you won’t.

Try me.

Brigitte’s laughed. The way Shelly talked, Brigitte’s could easily picture her taking on a half dozen muggers on the New York subway. She was tough. Way tougher than a girl from Nowhere, Tennessee.

Brigitte opened her mouth and then closed it. She loved Shelly for her ability to say whatever came to mind. The woman didn’t care what anyone thought of her. And the kicker was that the mouthier Shelly got, the more everyone respected her for it.

Every time Brigitte opened her mouth, she had someone—usually her mother—telling her to stop being silly.

She hung up her costume and threw on her comfy sweats on in no time. Brigitte was always the first one dressed and ready for the end-of-the-night roundup. That was where the manager handed out everyone’s share of the tips. Everything collected—from every fiver handed the bartender with the tab to the money stuffed in the girls’ bras in the evening went into a communal fund, to be distributed among all the staff. Different rates for different jobs—the showgirls had the biggest percentage, though Brigitte had seen the bartenders slipping cash straight into their own pockets when they thought no one was watching. On a good night, she made a few hundred bucks. Times four nights a week, it sounded like a fortune, but the dancers didn’t pull an hourly wage for required rehearsal time. And even small fortunes didn’t go far toward paying rent, tuition, and babysitting.

Still, she was fortunate to be able to earn her

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