Take Me, I'm Yours by Elizabeth Bevarly

From Barnes & Noble

This one's by Elizabeth Bevarly -- so it's fun, fun, fun. Ruby Runyon doesn't realize until the second date that her boyfriend is not only married with children, but a mobster too. Those two social crises spoil her hot date, set the sexy waitress running for her life, and land her in the arms of a man who has plenty of experience smoothing the troubled waters of complex personal relationships. Handsome advisor to royalty Keaton Hamilton Danning III has spent the last year cruising the world with a crown prince without a country. (The prince insists he abdicated, but his people say they threw him out.) Helping a beautiful, desperate woman stow away on the royal yacht is a refreshing change from Keaton's recent diplomatic challenges -- keeping the peace between the prince and his royal entourage, including his high-born fiancée, his supermodel mistress, his German chef, an annoying dachshund, and a seemingly endless variety of social-climbing hangers-on. Keaton is determined to enjoy Ruby's down-to-earth charm and sassy sensuality -- even if they haven't been properly introduced. What happens next is a madcap sea voyage that leads to lots and lots of happily-ever-after.

From the Publisher

Ruby Runyon's hot date turns out to be mob-connected and married, and her only chance of escape is to crash a swanky party. At least the rich and snooty aren't out to kill her! Then, she's practically seduced by a man who is actually named Keaton Hamilton Donning III. He's out of her league, but he's also oh-so-strong and protective... and Ruby sure could use protecting right now...

Most men have a secret -- and Keaton is no exception, because the unruffled chief adviser to one of the world's most snobbish royals longs to break free. After all, how many awful society parties -- with their watered-down cocktails and guests who speak with their jaws firmly clenched -- can one man take? Ruby turns his well-ordered existence on its head. She's sexy and sassy and just right for passion, But is he truly willing to take all she has to offer -- including her love?

Product Details

• Read an Excerpt

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

There were only two things in the entire world that Keaton Danning abhorred. One was tiny, rodentlike dogs with nasty dispositions, and the other was Teutonic chefs with overblown egos. Or was it Teutonic dogs with overblown egos, and tiny, rodentlike chefs with nasty dispositions that he abhorred? Ah, well. No matter. Because today Keaton was having to deal with all of them.

“Kurt, listen to me,” he said to the chef in question, using the most placating tone of voice he could muster. Which, granted, ended up being not especially placating, seeing as how there was a miniature dachshund whirling around Keaton's right ankle, whining like a garbage disposal, trying to turn his pants leg into Sauerkraut. “Kurt,” he tried again, shaking his leg gently in an effort to dislodge the odious little dog, “put down the meat cleaver.”

Of course, it went without saying that the odious little dog belonged to the odious little chef. In fact, Kurt's revolting little wiener dog was also named Kurt — which just went to show how overblown the chef's ego was — something that caused no end of confusion on board the yacht where Keaton and the human Kurt worked. And, as was usual for both dog and chef, they completely ignored Keaton when he made his request...uttered his plea...whatever. As Kurt the chef lifted the large — sharp — meat cleaver higher above his head, Kurt the dog hurled his quivering little body forward again, attaching himself to Keaton's trouser leg by, appropriately enough, his front canines.

“Kurt, please,” Keaton said again,running a restless hand through his dark brown hair. Though, truly, at this point, he wasn't sure whether he was directing the entreaty to the man or the animal. The meat cleaver understandably troubled Keaton the most, but right now the dog seemed by far the more reasonable of the two. “Just calm down,” he added further.

“Nein,” Kurt said — the chef, not the dog — reverting to his native tongue, which was always a good indication that he was very, very angry. Not that the raised meat cleaver wasn't also a good indicator, mind you, but Kurt's use of German did grab Keaton's attention. The chef pointed to the man who stood cowering behind Keaton and said, thankfully in English — sort of — “Not until you tell that Kotzbrocken to get out of my kitchen.”

Technically, of course, the room where Keaton and Kurt — and the Kotzbrocken, for that matter — were having their, oh...“international incident” seemed like an appropriate enough term for what was going on, should be referred to as a “galley” and not a “kitchen,” seeing as how they were on a boat. A really big galley, too, seeing as how it was a really big boat. But Keaton, smart guy that he was, figured now was probably not the best time to school the chef in matters of nautical jargon. So he only lifted both hands in the internationally recognized gesture of Please, for God's sake, don't hurt me, and repeated, “Kurt, I'm begging you. For the last time, put down the meat cleaver.”

But the chef ignored the appeal again, and pointed over Keaton's shoulder at the man who stood behind him. “He said my Pflaumenkuchen tasted beschissen. Er ist ein Kotzbrocken!”

This pronouncement was followed by a long stream of invective hurtled in rapid-fire German. Keaton knew it was invective, because he was fluent in six languages, one of which happened to be German. And even if he hadn't been fluent in German, the fact that Kurt punctuated his monologue by slamming the meat cleaver into a wooden cutting board on the counter beside him would have indicated fairly well that whatever the chef had just said was, you know, not good.

Keaton waited until Kurt was finished, relieved that, if nothing else, the chef had been disarmed, then settled one hand loosely on his Brioni trousers-clad hip and wiped the other over his damp forehead. The temperature in the galley must have been approaching triple digits, what with all the cooking — and shouting — going on. And the opened windows — or rather portholes, Keaton nautically corrected his jargon — helped not at all. Because beyond those portholes lay the city of Miami Beach, which in August wasn't exactly chilly. So, after a ruthless tug on his Hermès necktie, Keaton unfastened the top two buttons of his Pierre Cardin shirt. Then he shook his leg again, in an effort to dislodge the added accessory of miniature dachshund that was still attached to his trousers, and which complemented his ensemble not at all.

He was just about to mutter a sigh of relief that the situation seemed to be under control when “Well, your Pflaumenkuchen does taste beschissen,” the Kotzbrocken standing behind Keaton said, and up went the meat cleaver again.

“Schweinehund!” cried Kurt.

“Reynaldo!” growled Keaton to the Kotzbrocken.

“What?” Reynaldo asked. “It's true! Have you ever tasted his Pflaumenkuchen? Beschissen doesn't begin to cover it.”

“Just knock it off,” Keaton told Reynaldo. “Now, Kurt,” he added, turning back toward the chef. He thrust his thumb over his shoulder, toward the man hiding behind him. “Reynaldo is not a Schweinehund or a Kotzbrocken. He's the crown prince of Pelagia. Granted, he doesn't exactly have a country to be crown prince of anymore,” Keaton hastily interjected when Kurt appeared ready to take perfectly well-founded exception, “but he is still a member of the royal family, and he deserves the respect due his position.”

“Yes, I am,” Reynaldo said from behind Keaton. “And yes, I do. And it would serve you well, my good man, to remember that. My people adore me.”

“Your people revolted and prevented your ascension to the throne,” Kurt retorted. “They adored your father, not you. You they knew would turn their country into Disneyland.”

Yeah, an R-rated Disneyland at that, Keaton...