Under the covers:
I love the Grimms' tale of "The Summer and Winter Garden," the story of Beauty and the Beast. A primary theme in this one is the conflict between marrying for love and marriage as a sort of bargain. In the fairytale, the father trades his daughter for his own life. In my version, the woman trades herself for the man of her dreams--but doesn't know how to get herself back when things don't turn out as planned! Deirdre does everything wrong because she's been raised to use her beauty like a weapon, instead of following her heart.

Calder is the Beast (and the father of the Beastie--his outrageously misbehaved daughter, Meggie) not because he is cruel, but because he is cold and unwilling to compromise. His past is full of pain and regret because of willful women and he isn't about to let Deirdre add to that. At the same time, Deirdre isn't about to let the man she's longed for since she was fifteen shelve her like an unwanted doll.

I love the battle between fire and ice. There is nothing more fun than breaking down the walls of a solitary, self-contained man when armed with lust, laughter and love!

Excerpt:
"May I offer my congratulations again, my lord? What an exciting day for us all." The valet beamed at Calder Marbrook, Marquis of Brookhaven. Calder stared back at him. Hadn't the man been present at the disastrous introductions this afternoon?

Calder gazed at the gleaming shaving instruments and wondered if perhaps those were best kept far from his new bride's hands. She was none to pleased with the situation--nor was he himself any too pleased with her--and it simply didn't seem right to embark on...er, nuptials at this delicate moment in time.

He cleared his throat. "Her ladyship--is not expecting me this evening." Or was she? Would she coldly go through the motions now? After all, by making her vows she had agreed to precisely that. He would be within his right to barge into that scented bastion of femininity and demand, well, pretty much anything he wanted.

Deirdre naked, golden hair streaming down over her full breasts, kneeling obediently at his feet--

Which would be abhorrent, of course. No right-thinking man would ever force a woman, not even--or rather--especially not his own lady wife.

She might like it.

Calder gazed helplessly at the door to the adjoining chamber. He truly didn't know. He'd married a stranger--again--and so far nothing was going quite as he'd planned.

Again.

What rose vividly in his mind now was the way that Deirdre, gloriously gowned from their wedding ceremony, had stood on the steps of Brook House and defied him openly, with anger snapping brightly in her sapphire eyes.

Perhaps...perhaps he'd been right about Miss Deirdre Cantor after all. He
was a formidable man, he knew. Most people scarcely dared speak to him, yet the lovely Deirdre had raised her chin and called him out, on his turf, in front of his own staff yet.

He didn't let the tug on his lips quite form a smile, but he gazed at the closed door with a bit more hope. She had looked magnificent in that moment, hadn't she? Spirited and furious and arousing, if a man were to be honest with himself...

Without quite realizing it, he reached out to press the latch of the door. He was simply remembering her eyes, furious and a bit hurt, now that he thought about it. He could go to her now and--well, he certainly had nothing to apologize for. Still, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to...to end the day on a more benevolent note--

The door didn't move. Calder looked down in surprise at the first latch ever to be locked against him in his own house. He pushed harder in disbelief. The door didn't budge.

If he was a cursing man, he'd be cursing now.

He turned sharply and strode from his room, turned a forceful left and took the distance between the doors in a few large, impatient steps. This time the door gave in to his ownership. He flung it open to glare at the woman within--

Who jerked her head up in surprise and covered her wet, naked breasts with soapy hands.

Oh damn. His imagination hadn't even come close. There she was, his bride...immersed in a great copper tub before the fire--bare, wet, gleaming, dripping in scented suds and succulent flesh--

And more furious at him than ever.

"How dare--!" She halted. It was his house, after all. Every damned stone of it, including those lucky ones in front of the fire that supported the most fortunate copper tub in all of England.

She lifted her chin, though she blushed furiously--her cheeks were nearly the color of the pink nipples he'd spotted for a brief but memorable moment--and narrowed her eyes at him.

"What do you want...my lord?"

You. Now. Hot and dripping all over those sheets there and maybe a bit slippery still, just so that my hands can slide more quickly over your beautiful skin.

If he'd thought she was lovely when dressed, he'd had no idea what was in store beneath the perfect, stylish wardrobe. He'd angered this outrageously desirable creature on their wedding day? Was he completely out of his mind?

If he'd been a smoother man--like his persuasive brother, for instance--he would have said something charming, endearing, just a tad bawdy and certain to grant him entrance to more than just the door.

Alas, he was only himself, a man without the inclination to make pretty words. How he wished he'd practiced more. "You locked me out."

No, that wasn't it.

He tried again. "This is my house and you are my wife."

All true, but hardly smooth, old man.

"I can come and go as I please." Wait, no. That hadn't come out quite right--

Let's hope she's too innocent to detect that double entendre.

Her eyes widened and she blinked at him, genuinely shocked now.

No such luck. Too bad. It might have been the best night of your life.

Idiot.

So be it. He ducked the flying sponge neatly and flicked suds from his sleeve. "I shall say no more on the subject. Pray take care not to lock my doors in the future."

He made his escape, shutting the door just in time to let it take the impact of a bottle of bath scent.