Page 1 of Mr. Scandalous

ChapterOne

“Red-velvet-line handcuffs?”

“Check.”

“Silk blindfold?”

“Check.”

“Crotchless crimson lace panties?”

“Check.”

“Cinnamon-scented massage oil?”

“Check.”

“Plenty of condoms?”

Eden Montgomery clicked her tongue and shot her petite, fuchsia-haired assistant a chiding glance. “Ashley, I’m a professional. Of course I’ve included condoms.”

“Hey.” Ashley waved a wrist adored with an exquisite parrot tattoo and tapped her electronic pencil against the tablet computer she held in her hand. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Eden frowned. “Trouble?”

Ashley cleared her throat and set her tablet down on the work table. “Well…”

“Cough it up. What’s on your mind?”

“Um… I didn’t want to say anything before because it’s a rush order, but you created this exact same basket two months ago. You called it Seduction in Scarlet.”

Eden stared at her assistant and then shifted her gaze to the basket.

Her throat tightened. Good grief, Ashley was right. The basket was identical to one she’d made for a famous Broadway actor’s thirty-fifth birthday, right down to the vermilion pashmina lining the basket.

“Don’t look so stricken. Repeating yourself is no great tragedy, even if youdoadvertise your baskets as one-of-a-kind. Seriously, Eden, who’s gonna know?”

“I’ll know.” Eden began dismantling the basket, tossing items across the counter. They made a skittering sound as they slid, underscoring her dismay. Her reputation was her word. She refused to be guilty of false advertising.

“No time for a major overhaul. The customer is pickingit up this afternoon,” Ashley said.

“I don’t care.”

“What will you to do instead?”

“No clue.” Eden glowered at the demolished basket and tamped down her fears.

“Admit it, you’ve been frazzled for the last few weeks,” Ashley said. “What you need is a long vacation.”

Frazzledwasn’t the word for it. Lately, she had been well... stagnant.

As the proprietor of Wickedly Wonderful, a tiny boutique in a trendy slice of Manhattan. specializing in erotic gift baskets for honeymoons and anniversaries, Eden’s business lived or died on the strength of her creativity.

Unfortunately, her artistic fount had dried up and she’d slammed headlong into an invisible mental wall—blocked, clogged, bereft of an original concept.

The thrill was gone.

She couldn’t really pinpoint when she’d lost connection to her work, but about five weeks ago, almost two years to the day after the tragic fiery accident that had led her to specializing in the erotica space, she’d noticed her concentration slipping.

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