Switch Me On

Switch Me On
Jule McBride

Some girls are made for the citySuccessful voice-over artist Ari Madden has been planning her escape from Blackwater Inlet for years. In three more weeks, she's making tracks–away from her cloying family, the gossip mill and her rep for rejecting local men who threaten her dreams. So it's defnitely the wrong time for a total stranger to start delivering sexy shocks to her lady-circuits.Bruno Brandt meant to unwind in his new getaway cabin in Podunkville, not get recharged by a red-hot woman with small-town blues. Outrageous, sultry Ari sparks him like a live wire, though, convincing him their fling will never be enough. He's a world-class whiz when it comes to anything electric, but can he do what no man ever has before–jump-start Ari's desire to commit?

Some girls are made for the city

Successful voice-over artist Ari Madden has been planning her escape from Blackwater Inlet for years. In three more weeks, she’s making tracks—away from her cloying family, the gossip mill and her rep for rejecting local men who threaten her dreams. So it’s defnitely the wrong time for a total stranger to start delivering sexy shocks to her lady-circuits.

Bruno Brandt meant to unwind in his new getaway cabin in Podunkville, not get recharged by a red-hot woman with small-town blues. Outrageous, sultry Ari sparks him like a live wire, though, convincing him their fling will never be enough. He’s a world-class whiz when it comes to anything electric, but can he do what no man ever has before—jump-start Ari’s desire to commit?

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)

For John Edward, my superhero!

Dear Reader,

While growing up in our small town, my girlfriends and I could never hear enough about the big city, and Cosmopolitan magazine was our source for learning just about everything—from how to do our makeup to secrets about dating that our mothers were never going to tell us. As an adult, I moved to Manhattan, but I still have a soft spot for small-town living, as well. Maybe for that reason, since I began publishing romances with Mills & Boon in 1993, my books have often explored the country versus city themes that are close to my heart.

With Switch Me On, I took a risk, hoping editors would go for a small-town setting in a Cosmo Red-Hot Read from Mills & Boon, and I was thrilled when they did. It just goes to show that girls like heroine Aribella Madden are Cosmo Girls mostly because of their insides, not outsides, and due to their sensibilities, not town of birth.

Like me, Ari has a soft spot for the world she was born into, but is destined to land elsewhere—and soon! The only real question is whether red-hot, sexy Bruno Brandt will be in tow when she leaves to pursue her dreams. I do hope you’ll have fun reading Ari and Bruno’s story!

Enjoy!

Jule McBride

Switch Me On

Jule McBride

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)

Contents

Chapter One (#uf268cc7d-8e33-562d-846b-519b0204c80c)

Chapter Two (#ue6cc9b36-251b-53cc-80ca-b99c576653d9)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Because Bruno Brandt designed big city power grids, he thought he knew everything about electricity, but the current that jolted through him when he saw the woman in Boondocks made him feel like Frankenstein being hit by lightning. It was 2:00 a.m. and he hadn’t slept his usual four hours the previous night. He’d red-eyed from the west coast, then flown himself from Raleigh-Durham in his helicopter, landing down the road at his cottage in Blackwater Inlet. Back-water Inlet, locals called it. He hoped it didn’t start snowing this far south, the way they kept predicting, because it would ruin his travel schedule, and he wanted to make his upcoming meetings in Chicago. So much for global warming. Plowing to the bar, he yelled for another drink since the first hadn’t done jack to warm him.

Not so the dental hygienist. She was hotter than live wires. Well...tonight she was a DJ, not a hygienist, go figure. She had the sexiest voice he’d ever heard. Star quality. Leaning on the bar, he knocked back a second drink, letting the couple next to him do the small talk. That was the cool thing about small towns, everybody was so damn friendly. In one night, he could meet more people in Blackwater Inlet than he’d met in D.C. in a lifetime. Robby Shoemaker and his wife, Alice, were not shoemakers by trade, as it had turned out, but owned the only shrink practice in town.

Not that Bruno liked being psychoanalyzed. Alice had started the convo guessing he wasn’t married and pointing at his naked ring finger, making him feel like he was on a date with one of the gym-bodied climber-types he knew in D.C. When she’d guessed he’d experienced some sort of loss, she’d hit too close to home. He’d started to leave but the drink hadn’t made him any sleepier yet. He was cursed by many things, including the ability to hold his liquor.

Besides, every time he heard the voice of the DJ, a warm hand grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. Lots of females had whispered dirty somethings to him, but oh, the things he wanted to hear this one say. Even dumb things like, “Oh, Bruno,” where the words alone might sound boring, but the intonation would make it steamy. The voice was strangely familiar, too. He could swear he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t have, because they’d never met. It was deep, but not so throaty that she sounded like Marlene Dietrich chain smoking too much weed.

He studied her half-unbuttoned gauzy white blouse. Nice tits. A little drink dribble on the front sent a certain devil-may-care message, and he heard her say into the microphone, “Come do me, baby.” What she really said was, “At Boondocks, the music never stops.” In D.C., cops would be breaking up the party, but in Blackwater Inlet nobody gave a rat’s ass if the crowd was still slurping daiquiris at sunup.

“Next song up is ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,’” she continued. Already, Bruno had drunk through “Christmas Tree on Fire” and “I Want an Alien for Christmas,” and since he had plenty of reasons to be glad this particular Christmas was over, the hygienist-cum-DJ was hitting all the right irreverent notes. Everybody was laughing and dancing and shrieking inane shit over the music, detoxing from the holiday just like him. He yelled, “Scotch rocks,” then traced a circle above Robby and Alice’s glasses, buying a round for which they thanked him. The polished wood of the bar reflected his gesture. Like the glitter ball and jukebox, the bar had either been here forever, or was reclaimed from elsewhere, not that Bruno was going to worry himself over which.

He just wanted to unwind after the long meeting day in which his employer, the federal government, had brought in a motivational speaker who’d kept assuring everybody there was no i in team. Everybody already knew Bruno didn’t do team. He’d mind the monkey suit a lot less, too, if the hygienist-cum-DJ assisted him in the suit removal segment of his evening. Well, morning.

She was doing slutty with a touch of class, Bruno’s favorite thing, and he was miles from D.C. It felt like forever since he’d slept with somebody outside his social network, someone totally new. Strawberry-red hair whipped around the woman’s face like escaped electrical wires, and in back, the wild upswept hairdo was held together with something sharp and pointy, knitting needles or chopsticks or something. The dim light was hiding everybody’s flaws, and he couldn’t see unless she was under the glitter ball that hung above the dance floor like a prehistoric artifact. It reminded him of last night, when he’d been channel surfing in the Marriott. He’d seen a spaceship that looked just like the glitter ball on the History Channel, in one of their programs about aliens. That was the downside of globalism. Living out of hotels. He liked the minibars, though.

And meeting women on the road, which was the biggest perk. This one was a revelation. She’d been the first thing he’d noticed when he’d arrived in Blackwater Inlet a week ago, if only because he was a woman watcher. Immediately, she’d come to exemplify every boring thing Bruno was escaping, the whole reason he’d started buying himself toys this year. The helicopter, Road Rover and getaway cabin. He’d learned the hard way that you only go around once, and it had made him commit to a more hedonistic lifestyle.

He’d ascertained the woman was a dental hygienist who worked on the second floor of the mall, the only architectural structure in town that even had an elevator. It was right down the road from one of two trailers he’d been told to call offices while he was in Podunk-ville. For a week, he’d watched her arrive at the mall like clockwork, driving a gray Honda car that was at least a decade old and still showroom. She always parked in the same spot exactly five minutes after his own arrival on the lot. Every morning, she stopped in the coffee shop, as he had done five minutes before her, and he imagined she was buying a corn muffin, no butter, and lukewarm decaf tea without chai spices.

Day in, day out, she’d worn her strawberry hair blown out like all the ambitious, work-a-day females he knew in D.C., board-straight in that tired Jennifer Aniston haircut. Just the kind of woman who could make a man feel like one more working stiff in a sea of gray flannel suits. Every day, she wore a tweed skirt and neutral-toned sweater-set under a bleach-white lab coat. The same diamond stud earrings. At lunch, she was always with her boss, the dentist, officiously carrying his books or clipboards. He was equally bland.

Bruno had silently named the woman “Mrs. Secretary,” since it was hard to think of her as something so contemporary as a “Ms.” or “assistant” or “admin.” And anyway, she was a hygienist. She’d probably rinse with peroxide if a guy kissed her. Worse, she always flirted with the dentist, at least that’s what Bruno thought she was trying to do. She’d chuckle as if the dentist was some incredible wit in a late-night romance movie. Bruno had watched way too many of those movies in the Marriotts while munching minibar chips. What kind of couple bonded while holding surgical tools and leaning over John Q. Public’s open mouth? But now...

What a 180. She’d been a living reminder he was at work on time. He was having breakfast in the same coffee shop. His car was in the same parking spot, even if it was a Road Rover. Now she was like boring circuitry that had been rewired to do something extraordinary. Maybe the black nail polish was over the top, but he could get past that, especially this late at night. When it came to the sexpot voice, big jangly earrings and boobs all over the place, Bruno was all in. She’d gone from representing everything he was escaping to everything he wanted to try. From where he was standing, her earrings looked really interesting. Of knotted gold and silver, they seemed of Celtic design. Totally different from the diamond studs she wore by day.

He hadn’t been this intrigued since a mysterious near power outage almost took out Chicago, back in 2012. Should he sleep with her now? Plan to hook up later? Women never said no. Even if they didn’t know about his big career and child prodigy awards and all that crap, it usually only took ten minutes to solicit the “yes.” But with someone as duplicitous as her, he could not imagine TMA: The Morning After. That was as interesting as sex. She wouldn’t stick. He knew that. Girls like her weren’t meant to stick. That was the whole point of them. He used to lie and say he wanted more, but since the tragedy of his past year—the loss that Alice Shoemaker, the shrink, had prodded about—he was done with lies. You only lived once.

What was her game? Finishing his drink, he placed the glass on the bar, said his goodbyes to the Shoemakers, and went to find out.

* * *

“Ari, that snowbird’s watching you like a hawk,” Paulie, the owner of Boondocks, yelled over the music.