Love Me Tender by Sandra Hill

Author:Sandra Hill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-08-07T16:00:00+00:00

Lying is really hard work . . .

The sight before Cynthia’s eyes was enough to boggle the mind. A real “Candid Camera” moment. If only she had a video recorder to preserve it for posterity!

Prince Ferrama was teaching Elmer Presley how to do a combined hip swivel and knee gyration to the tune of “Jailhouse Rock.” And he was good. Really good.

To make the picture even more bizarre, Ferrama was wearing a gaudy Elvis suit. A wide belt cinched in the waist of a too-short pair of fire-engine-red bell bottoms studded with black sequins. The sides of the slacks had Velcro strips that adjusted, presumably as the King gained weight, which was convenient for P.T., with his not-so-convenient chain. Or maybe they belonged to an Elvis impersonator stripper. On top was a matching red, high-collared jacket with linebacker shoulder pads and a little shoulder cape. Unfortunately, he wore the jacket unbuttoned, exposing a tantalizing view of his chest hair, which continually drew her attention like a stud magnet . . . and not the carpentry kind.

Of course, she was in no position to sneer. She was decked out in a dress belonging to Ruth—a tank-top, one-piece, purple spandex dress worn over her short-sleeved lace camisole. If she had ever had any physical secrets, they were fully exposed now.

Elmer and his three-piece band, the Teddy Bears, whom Naomi refused to allow on the property for practice sessions, had apparently just signed on for a weekend gig at Leonard’s Lounge in Poughkeepsie. Their big break, or so Elmer hoped. But Elmer was worried that he’d get fired on the spot if he didn’t get the King’s sexy body movements perfected. Personally, Cynthia thought he had a lot more to worry about with his voice.

Ferrama, exhibiting more negotiating acumen than he’d ever displayed with her, had talked Elmer into getting them some clothes in return for a few Elvis impersonation lessons. The need for clothing had become desperate. After their encounter on the bed this afternoon, the blushing prince had plopped himself into the bathtub and washed his own ignominiously damp boxers, muttering something about having given up “dry-run sex” when he was a teenager. He’d refused her offer to dry his shorts with a blow-dryer. Instead, he’d proceeded to walk around after his bath, cursing under his breath, with the nearly transparent, wet shamrock shorts hugging his narrow hips and tight buttocks. Not that she’d noticed.

She’d also bathed. In cold water, without bubbles. The necessity for icing down her raging hormones was paramount. How could she have succumbed to the obvious moves of a devious make-out expert?

Because he is an expert, that’s why. And so damn gorgeous. And charming. Not to mention being a . . . sigh . . . prince. Geez! It appeared her dreams weren’t quite as dead as she’d thought.

“Where did you ever learn about Elvis?” Cynthia asked Ferrama when there was a break in the song. Ruth had just walked in with a tray holding a frosted pitcher of lemonade and four tall glasses.

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