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  One week of pleasure...with an Italian bad boy!

  Good girl Juno Darlington-Hume is getting a sexual education in this steamy second installment of Christy McKellen’s Sexy Little Secrets miniseries.

  I’ve always been in my famous sisters’ shadows. I’m the smart one. Not the sexy one. Not the beautiful one. But a PhD won’t satisfy me in bed. And I can’t satisfy anyone else if I don’t know what I’m doing. So I’m ready to learn the secrets of physical desire...

  Italian playboy Alessandro Ricci is just the expert I’m looking for. Tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous, Alessandro has a reputation for providing absolute pleasure. He’s agreed to spend one week showing me almost everything he knows. No emotions, though. Just sex. Extremely erotic, pantie-melting sex!

  From magical Florence to the golden Tuscan countryside, he’s taking me to ever-higher peaks of ecstasy, letting me get closer than any other woman. Soon our “no emotions” deal is turning into something I never expected: intense connection in every way imaginable. I’m falling hard! But when I learn he’s tipped off the paparazzi to our every location, I have to wonder—was he just using me to save his bad reputation?

  Sexy. Passionate. Bold. Discover Harlequin DARE, a new line of fun, edgy and sexually explicit romances for the fearless female.

  Formerly a video and radio producer, Christy McKellen now spends her time writing provocative, passionate, seductive romance. When she’s not writing she can be found enjoying life with her husband and three children, walking for pleasure and researching other people’s deepest secrets and desires. Christy loves to hear from readers. You can get hold of her at christymckellen.com.

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  If you liked Good Girl, why not try

  King’s Ransom by Jackie Ashenden

  Under His Skin by Nicola Marsh

  Wicked Heat by Kelli Ireland

  Also by Christy McKellen

  Wild Child

  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  GOOD GIRL

  Christy McKellen

  For Lycia, godmother extraordinaire.

  Thank you for being there.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Excerpt from Wicked Heat by Kelli Ireland

  CHAPTER ONE

  Juno

  ALESSANDRO RICCI IS phenomenal in bed.

  At least that’s what I’ve heard other people say about him. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t know, for two reasons: firstly, I’m a virgin, and secondly, he refused to sleep with me when I asked him to.

  It wasn’t my finest hour.

  The first time we met was at my father’s fiftieth birthday party. Even amongst the plethora of filthy rich, gregariously glamorous socialites that had been invited he stood out like the Sirius star system on a clear night.

  I was making my way, head ducked, through the throng of partygoers to a quiet corner to hide out for a while, needing a break from the excruciating, polite conversation that my bully of a father demanded I make with his friends and associates, when my shoulder bumped against something solid and unyielding. Turning to flash whomever it was a look of apology, my gaze locked with a dazzling pair of eyes and my whole world came to a screeching halt, air whooshing from my lungs and a wave of heat rushing up my neck to flood my face.

  You see Alessandro Ricci isn’t just handsome—he’s beautiful. Stop-you-in-your-tracks, steal-your-words beautiful. His features appear to be perfectly symmetrical, though I know that’s not physiologically possible. No one’s face is perfect. But he’s as close to perfection as you can get. His bone structure looks as though it’s been carved by a master sculptor; every feature of his face is exactly the right shape and size. As if someone’s taken the best bits of all the most attractive men in the world and put them together to create him.

  And his body. It was enthralling to behold. Broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips and long, athletic legs. He was a good few inches taller than me, and I’m no shorty, so I guessed he was well over six foot. He was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit, which clung to his body like it loved him, and a crisp white shirt open at the collar to reveal a V of tanned olive skin and just the merest promise of dark, downy hair on his muscular chest.

  If you asked me to produce an image of the picture-perfect male figure, he’s exactly what I’d draw.

  Caught in that moment, like a wraith between worlds, I found it intensely difficult to look at him—he was that dazzling—but at the same time I couldn’t bring myself to look away.

  He in turn looked back at me—or rather assessed me—as if he was stripping me naked with his eyes.

  Those incredible eyes.

  It makes my body rush with a prickly sort of heat just to think about them now. They were a bright, iridescent green that seemed to glow with a deep, secret knowledge. As though he knew exactly what to do to me to turn me into a gibbering wreck. Instinctively I knew they’d be things I’d never experienced before. Hot, dirty, sinful things.

  My whole body throbbed with an unfamiliar sensation that made me clench my trembling hands into fists in an attempt to centre myself.

  No one has ever made me feel like that before. Not even Adam.

  I’m sure it’s something Alessandro must do to all women, though. According to the people I’ve asked about him, he’s reputedly a world-class seducer and an incorrigible playboy but, even so, when he smiled at me like that it made me feel somehow special and most unusually—attractive. I’ve always been compared unfavourably to my beautiful older sisters—I know I appear washed out and pale in comparison to them, like a photo that’s faded in the sun—and this knowledge has rather knocked my confidence when it comes to attracting men.

  I do have one outstanding feature, though—my hair, which reaches all the way down to the middle of my back and is a warm chestnut colour. But, honestly, I’ve never really liked it. It makes me stand out too much. I like to be able to position myself quietly on the sidelines and watch what’s going on around me rather than thrusting myself right into the middle of things like Maya and April do.

  I know—logically, and away from Sandro’s mesmerising charisma—that the whole encounter had been a purely physical reaction I’d had to his pheromones, rather than a cerebral connection. I’m usually attracted to someone for their intelligence and enterprise rather than something as superficial as their looks—but it hasn’t stopped me from still wanting things from him.

  Wanting him to do things to me.

  What exactly those things are, I’m not entirely sure, but I’d bet my first-class degree he’d know exactly what to do to push my buttons. He certainly had that air about him, as if he’d been born with the ability to give women pleasure and was more than happy to utilise it.

  The scientist in me makes me suspect he’d make a fascinating anthropological study subject.

  Anyway, after I finally managed to pull myself away from his tractor-beam gaze, I hid away in the nearest bathroom and attempted to bring my racing heartbeat under control. Staring at my flushed face in the mirror, I thought about the way he’d looked at me with such intense interest that I’d felt the sensual effect of it all the way down deep inside me. It had made my blood th
rum and my skin goose-bump and I’d had a sudden impulsive craving to master that skill myself. As I reflected on how powerful having this ability would make me feel, a germ of an idea began to form in my mind.

  After recently living through the pain of being rejected by the man I’ve had a planet-sized crush on for the past year—a man who has one of the greatest minds of our time and with whom I’m lucky enough to work alongside in the cardiovascular research department at St George’s University of London—I’d decided it was finally time to do something about my sexual immaturity. I had to stop letting life happen to me and actively do something about getting what I wanted. I needed to ‘woman up’, as my sister Maya would say, no matter how terrifying the idea of that was. And here, in Alessandro Ricci, I just might have found the perfect person to help me.

  So that, my patient friend, is how Sandro came to take a starring role in the sorry tale of my mortifyingly misjudged attempt to lose my virginity.

  * * *

  It happened at a private party in Chelsea.

  It’s not the sort of place you’ll usually find me on a Saturday night. Most weekends I’ll either be at home working on my PhD thesis, or hanging out with a friend, eating fine food and having involved conversations about the state of the world. So walking through a dark, sultry room writhing with half-naked bodies all gyrating to a thumping dance track was definitely not on my usual ‘things to do on a weekend’ agenda.

  Maya had given me the tip-off that Alessandro was going to be at the party that night after I’d confided in her about my interest in him and she’d suggested it might be a good place to catch up with him. She’d warned me that it definitely wouldn’t be my usual scene, but I’d assured her that it was probably the ideal setting for what I had in mind. There would no doubt be a dark and seductive atmosphere and I’d hoped it’d provide an opportunity for me to get close to him with the bare minimum of conversation required.

  Don’t get me wrong; I might sound flippant, but I was terrified about the whole idea. So terrified I’d already drunk three straight shots of vodka before I’d even arrived at the party and had stashed a hip flask in my handbag in case I needed a top-up later. I’m not usually a drinker, so my head was pretty fuzzy as I pushed my way through the throng of hot bodies, all now swaying in time to a pulsing ambient techno track, searching for any sign of Sandro.

  I’d deliberately worn the same outfit I’d had on at my father’s party, in the hope that Sandro would be more likely to remember me, but I was already too hot in it and totally overdressed compared to the rest of the guests. The crepe top stuck to my overheated, sweaty skin and the band of the black ankle-length skirt that had fit me fine only a week ago dug uncomfortably into my middle. I’d been stress-eating up till the day of the party and I cursed my weakness as I tugged the button at the back of the skirt open to give me a bit of relief, pulling my top down to cover the gape of the material at the back.

  Unable to locate Sandro in the next room, which was similarly besieged with partying guests, I was making for the door, intent on escaping to the bathroom to regroup, when I saw a familiar striking figure stride past the doorway to the hall.

  It was him.

  Shouting unheard apologies into the throbbing air as I pushed past the other partygoers, I dashed after him, reaching the doorway just as he began to climb the sweeping staircase at the end of the hallway, his long legs making short work of the stairs. He moved with such enigmatic grace that I stood transfixed for a moment and watched him, until it occurred to me I was going to lose him if I didn’t grab his attention.

  I tried to call out his name, but my throat was parched and scratchy from the overwhelming heat of the party, so I pulled the hip flask out of my bag and took a quick swallow of the fiery alcohol in an attempt to soothe it as I darted up the stairs after him. The liquid burned my throat and I inhaled sharply, the acrid fumes of it flooding my windpipe, making me splutter and gasp for breath. Eyes stinging, I gripped the banister and attempted to get a hold of myself as the alcohol rushed through my blood, mixing with the adrenaline the choking reflex had produced. I felt spaced out as my intoxicated blood pounded heavily through my veins and for one fleeting moment I considered turning around and running out of there, back to the safety of my quiet, comforting flat...

  A warm hand gently pressed my shoulder, jerking me out of my whirling thoughts, and I lifted my head, my cheeks already flaming with the heat of my embarrassment to be caught like this, only to meet the gaze of the last person I wanted to see me in this state.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sandro asked in a deep, husky tone, only made more appealing by the warm timbre of his Italian accent.

  All I could do was nod stupidly, my eyes brimming with tears and my throat still on fire from the alcohol. ‘I’m fine,’ I forced myself to croak when he gave me a concerned frown. ‘Just swallowed the wrong way.’ I waved a finger vaguely at my throat.

  ‘Would a slap on the back help?’ he asked, his dazzling eyes searching mine, one dark eyebrow quirked.

  ‘No, that’s okay.’ I swallowed hard and gave a small cough to clear my airway. ‘Technically, you only need to do that when someone’s got a foreign object lodged in their windpipe, otherwise you’re just assaulting them for no reason.’

  An indignant expression flashed across his face, as if I’d just rudely shot down his perfectly reasonable offer of help and basically called him an idiot in the process. I shook my head, frustrated with myself for sounding so prim and schoolmarmish.

  ‘I’m Juno. We met—well, not met, exactly—bumped into each other—at least I bumped into you—on Wednesday night,’ I said quickly to cover my gaffe. ‘I don’t know if you remember?’ I added rather inelegantly.

  I wondered what had happened to me. I wasn’t usually like this. The mixture of alcohol, nerves and Sandro’s befuddling presence appeared to be messing with my neural pathways.

  ‘I remember. At Maxim’s party,’ he said, seeming to forgive me as a slow, sexy smile broke across his handsome face.

  My insides did an excited flip. ‘Oh, good, I was afraid you wouldn’t. I’m not usually that memorable,’ I said stupidly. This really wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. My plan to appear mature and sexually alluring had already metaphorically face-planted at his feet.

  ‘You had your hair down then, though,’ he said, kindly ignoring my flustered unsophistication.

  I raised my hand to touch the base of my neck where my hair was nestled in a tight bun. I usually wore it like that, or in a plait, to keep it tucked away. I wear my long fringe swept across my forehead, though, so I can hide behind it if I need to.

  ‘Yes, it was. But it’s too hot to have it down here tonight.’ I flapped a hand across my face. ‘It’s positively steamy in here.’

  He gave me a quizzical smile, then reached out his hand to push my fringe out of my eyes. It was such an intimate, proprietary move, I sucked in a breath of surprise.

  There was a movement out of the corner of my eye and I glanced round to see a man walking quickly past us, looking down at the mobile phone in his hand. I had the strangest impression that he’d just taken a photo of us talking, but I quickly dismissed the idea. Why would he want a picture of me? The gossip magazines seem to have absolutely zero interest in featuring me on their pages any more, unlike my glamorous sisters. Thank goodness. I can’t think of anything worse than being hounded by paparazzi and having my personal life constantly picked over by the general public.

  ‘Why so jumpy, Juno?’ Sandro murmured.

  When I turned back to look at him, his bright gaze tangled with mine and my stomach did another somersault.

  ‘I’m not jumpy,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Really? Because you seem a little edgy to me. Is something wrong? Has something happened here tonight?’ He stood a little taller. ‘Has your date abandoned you?’ His mouth tensed as if the idea of that angered him.

>   ‘No, no, nothing like that.’ I took a deep breath, keenly aware that this would be a great opportunity to ask for his help. My heart gave an extra-hard thump as nerves rattled through me. ‘Actually, I...er...came here on my own hoping to bump into you.’ It didn’t come out sounding quite as seductive as I’d hoped—in fact I sounded more like a mouse with a sore throat—but at that moment I was just pleased I’d been able to get the words out.

  ‘Me?’ He looked surprised, though I was pretty sure it was a feigned reaction. I imagined women must turn up at parties all the time hoping to bump into him.

  ‘Yes. I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘A proposition?’ His eyes flashed with a teasing sort of mirth, but I could tell I’d piqued his interest from the slight tilt of his head and the way he moved fractionally closer to me. This gave me the confidence to carry on.

  ‘I was hoping we could talk somewhere privately,’ I said as a group of people spilled out of the nearest doorway and rowdily made their way past where we stood in the middle of the staircase.

  ‘Okay, I’ll admit, I’m intrigued. Let’s find a quiet room upstairs.’ He gestured for me to climb the stairs in front of him. ‘Ladies first.’

  I climbed the stairs in front of him on shaky legs, intensely aware of his dominating presence at my back. I imagined I could feel the heat radiating from his powerful body, even though logically I knew that wasn’t possible. Every nerve ending in my body was on high alert and it was clearly messing with my sensory perception.

  Heart thumping hard in my chest, I walked into the nearest bedroom, relieved to find it empty of people. He followed me in, closing the door behind him.

  There was a small lamp on by the side of an enormous bed, bathing it in a low, warm light. I swallowed hard, suddenly terrified. A dissenting voice in my head was telling me I was crazy to even think of doing this but I knew I had to be brave and take action if I was ever going to get past my hang-ups about sex and men.