Table of Contents
Title Page
Blurb
Praise for Love Capri Style
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Epilogue
Thirty-Nine Again ~ Excerpt
Author Bio
LOVE CAPRI STYLE
by
LYNN REYNOLDS
LOVE CAPRI STYLE —
A sexy, sun-drenched romance set on the island of Capri. Can mild-mannered reporter Amanda Jackson get the exclusive on playboy Eric Greyford’s hectic love life? Or will she wind up as just another item on the gossip pages of his newspaper?
Amanda Jackson took the job with Fame magazine to get closer to her estranged father, billionaire publisher Peter Tate. Instead of welcoming her, Dad sends her out of the country, to cover a music festival on the magnificent isle of Capri. There Amanda finds herself up close and personal with her dad’s leading competitor—dashing British playboy Eric Greyford. Can she get an exclusive on Eric’s hectic love life, or will she wind up as just another item on the gossip pages of his newspaper?
Forced to take over management of his family’s publishing business after his brother’s death, Eric Greyford needed a diversion. Now he’s found one in the beautiful blonde reporter he discovers in his hotel room. But is the girl a bumbling junior member of the paparazzi or a corporate spy sent to get the scoop on his company’s daring new business plan?
PRAISE FOR LOVE CAPRI STYLE
Ms. Reynolds has the ability to spin a tale like no other… One heck of a romance.
~ Debbie Haupt, The Reading Frenzy
4 1/2 Stars. Easy to get lost in this book!
~ The Romance Studio
5 Tea Cups and a Recommended Read! This is one book I did not want to put down, and one I desperately wanted to see more of after the ending scene. The sexual tension in Love Capri Style is thick and authentic. The characters are engaging, incredibly likable, and seem very real… The writing is fluid and natural… Lynn Reynolds has definitely made my recommended authors list.
~ Denise, Happily Ever After Reviews
Love Capri Style
COPYRIGHT © 2010 by Linda Reynolds-Burkins
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopied, or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the author or Tin Foil Hat Publishing.
Published by Amazon KDP
Seattle, WA
Electronic KDP Edition: April, 2012
Cover Art Images:
Cute Couple in an Antique Car
COPYRIGHT 2008 Randy Plett Photographs/iStockPhoto
Island of Capri
COPYRIGHT 2009 Altan 75/Dreamstime.com
Publishing History
First Edition: The Wild Rose Press, 2010
Second Edition: Tin Foil Hat Publishing, 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Matt, who makes me believe in happy endings
Acknowledgements
So many people help in the writing of a book and never even know it.
As books go, Love Capri Style is a pretty minor affair. Written at the request of an editor who then rejected it, it was doomed to gather dust in a bottom drawer of my desk until friends from the Elements of RWA critique group convinced me to keep going with it. Elements is a wonderful group for any writer whose books have even a touch of romance in them. Most of my stories are mysteries or suspense, or even SF and fantasy. Writing a pure romance was a unique experience for me and the folks at Elements really helped me pull it together. I also have to acknowledge my new critique group, Pens Across the Miles—a wonderful supportive group of authors who encourage me to keep going even though I hardly ever submit anything for critiquing these days!
I have to single out Cara Marsi for all her great information about Capri. I’ve only been there through her eyes and on the Internet. Someday maybe I’ll really get there. Thanks also to Ann Whitaker for being a great editor and an even better friend. Ann, I would have really ripped the zipper out, but then Amanda would’ve had to leave the party naked and I think that would’ve been a tad too conspicuous.
Thanks to Sandra Edwards for a fabulous cover for this new edition and for her help in formatting the new print and ebook editions.
And last but not least, thanks to Matt, who keeps me believing in the possibility of happy endings even when I don’t want to.
ONE
Amanda was rifling through Eric Greyford’s sock drawer when she heard the creak of the outer door to his hotel suite. Frantic, she dashed to the balcony and peered over the edge to the courtyard three stories below. Sounds of laughter and drunken cajoling wafted up to her. Flashbulbs popped right and left as the paparazzi jockeyed to photograph any one of the many beautiful people attending the Capri Music Festival.
As one of the most beautiful people in existence, Eric Greyford should be down there, seeing and being seen. Just her luck he’d decided to return to his room early. What if he had a girl with him? Maybe she should have considered that possibility before choosing this moment to break into his room.
She straightened and hurried back over to the dresser, glancing around the elegantly appointed bedroom. Hiding under the huge, bigger-than-king-size bed was out of the question. It sat on a solid platform frame. The closet would be trite and obvious. And jumping from the balcony would be suicide. She didn’t want to please her editor that badly.
With footsteps drawing near, she slid the dresser drawer shut and smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in her slim black skirt. As she did, she seriously wondered whether her career at Fame magazine was worth the risk she was taking.
“Well, hello.” Greyford stopped short in the doorway, his tall, tuxedo-clad figure nearly blocking out the light from the sitting room beyond.
Amanda could hear the bemused smile in his husky voice.
“I do enjoy finding a beautiful woman in my bedroom. Although normally she’s someone I’ve actually met.”
He flicked on the lights and strode towards her, tossing a set of keys onto the dresser and loosening his bow tie. Mediterranean moonlight filtered into the room, accenting the sharp planes of his face and emphasizing his angular jaw line.
“I’m the concierge,” Amanda said, glad she had thought the story up beforehand and even dressed the part. In actuality, she’d spent nearly an entire paycheck on bribing the real concierge to let her into the room. That had better be a reimbursable business expense.
“Ah.” Greyford’s raised eyebrow indicated his skepticism. Beneath the brow, a sapphire-blue eye sparkled with suppressed mirth.
“I was—um—putting some extra pillows in the room.”
“How very attentive of you.”
His rich baritone voice confused Amanda. For a moment, she forgot who she was supposed to be.
“Yes. Well, we aim to please.”
She stepped sideways, intending to go around him and make her exit. He stepped sideways too, blocking her move. He was much bigger than she was. Not terribly surprising that, since Amanda stood at only five-five. But u
nder the circumstances, it was unnerving.
In fact, everything about him unnerved her. The fact he towered above her was only the start. There was so much to find unnerving, from the bespoke suit that showed off his broad shoulders and tapered waist, to the sensuous smell of him—a complicated blend of cedar and some exotic assortment of eastern spices.
Those piercing ocean-blue eyes obviously did not believe one word she’d said. His full lips curled up at the corners in a not entirely friendly smile.
“I’m glad to know the Quisisana pays such devoted attention to its guests.”
“Indeed we do!” Amanda nodded and tried to push past him. “And I must go see to some of those other guests now, if you don’t mind, Sir Eric.”
She didn’t know if he should be called Sir. She knew his father was, but the intricacies of British titles eluded her.
Eric stroked a thumb over his chin, calling Amanda’s attention to the slight dimple there and to his full, beautifully defined lips.
“Please. You must call me Eric. The title only applies to my father, a reward for his lifetime of public service. When they give out knighthoods for dallying with beautiful women, perhaps then it will be my turn. Care to help me achieve that lofty goal?”
He smiled again.
Amanda thought of a tiger baring its teeth. Except, of course, that like everything else about Eric Greyford, his teeth were perfect—gleaming white and absolutely even.
“Perhaps later.” Amanda attempted a charming smile and even batted her eyelashes. That’s what her editor Danielle would do, and the Greyford story had been Danielle’s idea.
“Do you have something in your eye?” Greyford—make that Eric—seemed to be having a hard time stifling a laugh. So much for the Danielle approach.
“I’m fine. My contacts are a little dry. I’m afraid I must go, sir. Er, Eric.”
She started forward yet again, and this time, he let her pass. Just as she heaved a sigh of relief, he reached back and caught her arm.
“The concierge is a rather round Italian woman with the slightest hint of a mustache.” He spoke without looking at her, gazing beyond the balcony and into the velvety midnight sky in the distance.
Amanda cleared her throat, but he didn’t give her a chance to speak.
“I may be in the publishing business, but I don’t care for reporters and paparazzi going through my room, Miss—”
“Jackson,” she mumbled, looking down at the plush carpet. How the hell had he figured that out so quickly? Couldn’t she be some sort of celebrity groupie? Should she pretend she was? Would he go easier on her if she asked for his autograph?
“Very well, Miss Jackson. I doubt that’s your real name, but it’s easy to pronounce, so we’ll go with that, shall we?” He turned to face her, never relinquishing his firm grip on her upper arm. Good thing she worked out so much, or it would probably be bruised by now. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to call hotel security and have you removed.”
Amanda blanched, and her stomach turned over. Danielle would have her head if she botched this assignment.
“Please don’t call security.” She hated the breathy, pleading quality in her voice.
Eric smirked, and the eyebrow darted up again. “Interesting. Most reporters I know would love a threat like that. An opportunity to write rude, uncomplimentary things about a celebrity is like a junkie’s fix for most of them. You must be quite new at this.”
“No, I’m not!”
Amanda’s face reddened. She jerked her arm free of his grip. For two years, she’d been slogging away at Fame, but soon, even being the publisher’s daughter wouldn’t be enough to save her job. Especially since the publisher seemed to resent her presence on the staff, barely acknowledging her existence. Getting an exclusive, scandalous story on Eric Greyford—that was going to turn everything around for her, both in her career and in her personal life. Or so Danielle had suggested when they’d concocted the plan on their now infamous Night of Too Many Cosmopolitans.
What would Danielle do right now? Think, think!
“I admit it, I was after a story.” Amanda did her best to turn on the charm, throwing back her shoulders to display her best assets. Fortunately, she’d worn the surplice-wrap blouse that showed off some cleavage. She hadn’t intended to be seductive—wasn’t even sure she knew how. But the airline had lost part of her luggage again, and she was stuck with the seldom-used items in the one bag they’d managed to recover so far. Danielle had pestered her to pack this blouse, raving about how much it flattered her figure. Maybe that would turn out to be a good thing.
“I appreciate your honesty. Among other assets.”
Eric stalked towards her, his movements languid and smooth. He kept his gaze fixed on her eyes as he talked; yet, she was sure he’d noticed her pathetic attempt at distraction.
“Quite a bold move, breaking into my room.”
“I didn’t break in.” Amanda’s tongue flicked over her bone-dry lips. The tiger flashed a brief smile and leaned in a bit closer. That rich, woodsy smell filled her nostrils and made her woozy. Maybe that was his secret. Maybe the aftershave drove women wild with desire.
“You should patent that cologne,” she said, recovering a bit of composure.
He let out a little breath of amusement, obviously surprised by her response.
“I believe it is patented.” His blue eyes probed hers as he spoke. “There’s a little parfumerie in the St. Germaine district of Paris. They’ve made perfumes and colognes for my family for about two hundred years. Give or take a decade. What’s that scent you’re wearing?”
She knew he was making fun of her. “Ivory soap.”
He ducked his head down suddenly, before she could move away, and nuzzled his face against her neck. Amanda fought an insane urge to lay her hand on his dark head and stroke the thick waves of his hair.
“Quite interesting,” he murmured, his cool lips brushing her neck. “Very basic. Exudes a natural innocence and earthiness.”
He straightened as abruptly as he’d bent, his face alive with amusement. And something else, something a little bit frightening. But also exciting.
“My editor knows I’m here.” That was stupid. As if he were planning to murder her and hide the body in his closet.
“Does he?” Eric purred. “That’s not good, my dear. Your editor needs to have plausible deniability, or I’ll have to drag him into the lawsuit along with you.”
“Lawsuit?”
“Besides the criminal charges for trespassing, of course.”
A chuckle rose from low in his throat as Amanda struggled to keep her face under control. She would not cry in front of this arrogant, privileged, womanizing snob. But the battle to hold back tears commanded all of her energy. There was none left over for a snappy riposte.
Greyford gave a little quizzical tilt to his head, as if disappointed by the lack of response.
“I don’t give interviews,” he went on. “I hardly need to, what with the fantastic tales you reporters create without ever even meeting me. And if I were to give an interview, it would be to one of my own magazines or newspapers. And I’m reasonably certain if one of them had sent you, I’d have been forewarned.”
He paused and smiled. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps someone on my staff felt the need to put a girl in my room, along with the flowers.”
He indicated a massive arrangement of snapdragons, tiger lilies, and birds-of-paradise sitting atop a dresser next to him. Amanda knew they came from his latest and greatest conquest because she’d read the card. Thanks for a wild time! Kisses, Stacey D.
Greyford slipped the card out of the arrangement and rolled his eyes once he’d read it. He tossed the card onto the dresser without further ceremony. The cad. Amanda pitied the notoriously promiscuous pop singer who’d sent them. Clearly, her days on Eric Greyford’s arm were numbered.
Amanda planted her hands on her hips and took a deep, cleansing breath. She couldn’t let this supercilious playboy get
the better of her.
“Why date women like that if you think so little of them?” she demanded.
Oops. That had slipped out. Blurting was a particular talent of hers, especially when under stress. And standing this close to one of the sexiest men alive was nothing if not stressful.
Eric blinked several times in surprise and pursed his lips. “I beg your pardon?”
“You barely read her card.”
“Impertinent little thing, aren’t you? Particularly considering that you’re in my room without my permission.” Greyford poked his tongue in his cheek and waited for her to defend herself. “Perhaps I should call security after all.”
“What, because I read the card on your flowers?” Amanda snapped.
A little voice in her head told her to shut up, but as happened all too often, she didn’t listen to it. Her big story was ruined, her editor would be furious, her father disappointed again, and damn it to hell—she was wearing the pointy-toed high heels and her feet hurt. Now Eric Greyford was threatening to sue her or have her arrested? Fine, but she would not go quietly.
“You claim to want to be left alone, yet you spend every waking minute in the company of media hounds like Stacey Dakota. If you wanted to keep to yourself, you’d run with a different crowd. And if you don’t like what’s written about you, why don’t you talk to a reporter—I mean, besides one that’s in your own employ—and set the record straight?”
“I suppose you would be that reporter?”
Amanda shrugged.
A faint five o’clock shadow darkened Eric’s cheeks, and he stroked the back of his hand over it absent-mindedly. His hand was large with wide fingers and neatly manicured nails. The image of him brushing that hand against her own cheek flashed through Amanda’s mind.
“Yes, I can see that.”
She shook herself, wondering if he’d read her thoughts. “What? What can you see?”
“Doing an interview with you.” His quiet smile burst into a wide, dimpled grin. It was like the sun coming out after three days of rain. “I think a very long interview would be best. Over dinner. With a great deal of limoncello.”
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