The Wedding Fling

The Wedding Fling
Meg Maguire

Inside the Runaway Bride’s Secret Rendezvous!It’s been a busy week for Leigh Bailey. The stunning starlet reportedly ditched her cheating groom on her wedding day, and ran off to enjoy a honeymoon-for-one at a secluded tropical island. But rumour has it that she’s not alone…And we have the exclusive scoop on Leigh’s hideout – right from the delicious man she’s been fooling around with! Resort pilot Will Burgess was going to give us the basics. But we never anticipated our insider getting up-close, and very, very personal. It’s the most salacious celebrity story of the year… don’t miss out!

Look what people are saying about this talented new author’s first Blaze

book, CAUGHT ON CAMERA!

“I literally could not stop reading this book. I ignored

my children as they pleaded with me to serve them

food and beverages. I ignored my weenie dog who was

whining to go outside to do her business. I refused to

do the laundry, pay the bills, or answer the phone. I

inhaled this book from cover to cover.”

—Penelope’s Romance Reviews

“4½ stars. [A] spectacular Blaze

debut.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Ms Maguire can sure write a kick-ass love scene.”

—Cheeky Reads

“I loved this story and instantly fell in love

with both characters.”

—Night Owl Reviews

About the Author

Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an overenthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes… and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not trapped in her own head she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond.

The

Wedding Fling

Meg Maguire

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

With thanks to Amy, Ruthie and Serena,

for reading it first. Thanks also to Laura

for getting me on the plane, and to Brenda for landing

us with minimal turbulence. Biggest thanks of all to my

husband, bringer of peanut butter.

1

LEIGH MADE A NEST in the rumpled sheets of her hotel room bed, arranging a napkin, spoon and peanut butter jar before her. She unscrewed the lid and set it aside, plunging the spoon deep to coat its back. As she savored the first taste, her anxiety dulled, worries temporarily forgotten.

She looked at the television, where two nattering entertainment anchors discussed the latest Hollywood wedding.

“The big question, of course, is the dress. After that taffeta fiasco at the Golden Globes, I know we’re all holding our breath.”

The anchors disappeared, replaced by a still of the sequined dress in question. Leigh frowned. She liked that dress. She jabbed her spoon back into the jar, barely tasting the next hundred calories’ worth of comfort as she licked it clean.

“Then again, that Grammy dress was a solid A,” one host said.

“Absolutely,” his perky colleague agreed. “When she gets it right, she nails it.”

Leigh watched the footage of the demure young woman on the red carpet pausing for photos, looking so calm and happy. Makeup flawless, styled hair bouncing, golden highlights glinting with each camera flash. Must be nice to be the girl on TV.

Stretching her legs in front of her, Leigh wondered what the media would make of her pajamas’ holly-and-ivy pattern in April. Then she looked to the jar in her hand and realized she probably had worse faux pas to worry about.

“Now, Leigh Bailey might be Hollywood’s last good girl, but what do we think? White dress?”

Simpering laughter. “She may be scandal-proof, but she is marrying a musician, let’s not forget that.”

Across the room, Leigh’s phone chimed, her mom’s ring tone triggering a fresh stab of panic that broke the peanut butter’s spell. She scrambled from the tangle of covers, gooey spoon landing on the white duvet. “Crap.” But this was L.A. The housekeeping staff had surely seen far worse.

She padded to the bureau and hit Talk. “Hi, Ma.”

“Leigh, where are you?”

“I’m eating peanut butter in bed, watching tabloid shows.”

“Honey.” A sigh, equal parts fond and frustrated; her mother to a tee. “The fitter’s already here in the suite. It’s nine-thirty.”

“I know what time it is.”

“And she’s the best in town, but you shouldn’t eat that garbage hours before you’re going to be seen in a fitted satin sheath by half the city. People will say you’re pregnant.”

It was Leigh’s turn to sigh. She turned to the TV in time to catch footage of herself in a bikini.

“Those shots from Maui,” the anchor was saying.