Blame It On Christmas. Janice Maynard

of events, J.B. didn’t come out the villain. Mazie had been the one to accidentally close the door and lock them in. Mazie had been the one to kiss J.B. Mazie had been the one who decided that a nod to her past infatuation would serve to distract J.B. from his claustrophobia.

      Was it any wonder he had taken her invitation and run with it?

      She stayed in the shower a long time, scrubbing and scrubbing again, trying to erase every vestige of his touch from her skin. She still wanted to hate him. He was still off-limits. And damn it, she still wanted to see him squirm.

      Today had weakened her position in their face-off.

      J.B. was a highly sexual man. When a woman gave him every indication she wanted sex, it was no wonder he had obliged.

      Mazie had to live with the knowledge that she had done something extremely foolhardy. Self-destructive even.

      Circumstances had saved her from the ultimate humiliation.

      She didn’t have to face J.B. as an ex-lover. Thank God for that.

      But the unseen damage was worse, perhaps.

      Now she knew what it felt like to be in his arms, to hear him whisper her name in a ragged groan that sent shivers of raw pleasure down her spine. Tonight when she climbed into bed, she would remember his hands on her breasts, her bare body, her sex.

      How could she think about anything else?