5 out of 5 angels! -- Fallen Angel Review. The rest of the review is here.
Bryan has a problem most men would envy. He's irresistible to women. A laboratory experiment gone awry cranks Bryan's pheromones into overdrive and females flock to him like moths to a flame. Escaping droves of desperate women is only one of his worries. Thugs from the lab are after him, eager to recapture the million-dollar essence he exudes. His only hope is to find the "perfect" woman. Sleeping with her will turn off his pheromone factory.
Waitress Allie slings hash and laughs with customers at a roadside diner. Resigned to life without a man after suffering heartbreak too often, Allie is shocked when a mysterious man jolts her libido awake with just a glance and a touch. A quick tumble seems an innocent indulgence—until black-suited men show up in pursuit of Bryan. Tangled in the intrigue, Allie finds herself tied to Bryan by more than erotic fun. The pursuit of perfection leads them down new paths of pleasure, but curing Bryan could spell the end of their adventure.
Allie grabbed her pad and resisted the urge to rub at her face again. Two hours since she’d accidentally sprayed herself with the Grease-Off and her nose still stung—and she suspected she looked like a demented rabbit.
She made her way to the back booth. “Hi, what can I—” she began, and sneezed again.
“God bless you.”
She didn’t usually notice voices. These three words rose above the buzz of the regulars and spilled through her like warm cream.
He was rolling up his sleeves. She glanced at his hands, long fingers. The thick wrists, the muscular forearm. Whoa. Here was a problem more serious than a sneezing fit.
Something that had lain happily dormant inside Allie stretched and yawned at the sight of that male arm. Oh no. No, no. She’d crossed men off her menu long ago, and this was one spicy dish she’d be a fool to sample. He’d give her heartburn—or heartbreak, and she’d had her fill of that.
She ought to turn around and get back to work. She stood, staring at deft fingers turning the cloth of his plaid shirtsleeve. Just a hand, right? Not a poem.
A long red mark marred the perfection of his arm. A cut.
He glanced up at her.
Even the diner’s florescent lighting couldn’t diminish the nice line of his jaw and golden skin. But the eyes meeting hers provided the final nudge that woke parts of her body that had been just fine asleep, thank you.
Blue-green eyes flecked with gold held her in a gaze that reached right in and stirred her. It brought on that heavy, ticklish ache deep inside. The nearly painful warming of frostbitten hands doused by warm water.
Damn. Even the tips of her breasts woke up and saluted the man who’d played reveille to her body. She crossed her arms over her breasts. As if she didn’t look foolish enough already for gawking, her pencil had to clatter to the floor.
She hardly cared about how she looked now because she was too busy inwardly cursing.
Her snoozing libido had awakened. Just friggin’ wonderful.
Bryan caught the waitress staring at him. He shouldn’t have come into the place, but it had looked crowded enough with men—he’d hoped the curse would have been hidden in the fog of testosterone. But no, she’d found him, poor him. Poor girl. He shifted sideways away from her. “Coffee, please,” he said, putting a note of impatience in his voice.
“Uh, yeah. Right.” She turned to leave and he released the breath he’d been holding.
As she strode to the counter, he took an automatic inventory of her from the back. Sensible dull shoes, pretty good legs, curling brown hair pulled into a careless ponytail. Work-reddened hands, nice lines to her rear. . . He breathed in the diner’s air of fried food and coffee, and detected another, more intriguing aroma. The waitress. She wasn’t half bad. Or maybe he was finally noticing that he hadn’t had sex in months.
Not interested. He was only looking for the one woman. Most men wanted Ms. Perfect, but Bryan needed her.
Ms. Perfect was the only thing could turn off his weirdass creation of the pheromones that Metcher Corporation loved and that he called “the curse”.
Dr. Nathan had let loose with that little secret just a week ago—bedding the perfect woman would cut off Bryan’s “come and take me” chemical. The next day, Bryan had slipped out of town and hit the road.
“Where’d you get that cut?” The waitress was back, sliding a thick mug of coffee onto the table.
Funny, she almost sounded like she was making conversation.
“Accident,” he grunted. An accident named Jill. Or maybe Lill. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out. He’d thought someone over seventy might be safe and had struck up friendly chat as he stretched in the parking lot at a rest stop. Who knew an old lady would have such a grip? Or that fake fingernails could be so strong?
Allie reached out to his arm, and the back of his neck prickled. When her fingertips brushed his skin, she gasped and her pupils dilated.
Here we go again.