“Nobody does it quirkier than Cindy Procter-King. Her romantic comedies will make you laugh out loud.”—Jamie Sobrato, Harlequin Blaze

“Cindy Procter-King’s flair with the written word has you wiping away tears--tears of laughter. Her characters are witty, sexy and oh-so-believable within the chaos of their lives.”—Mary J. Forbes, Silhouette Special Edition

"5 Angels!...I really like romantic comedy as a genre, but it takes some really good writing to make me laugh. This book made me laugh. The plot is simple and straightforward, but the characters are wonderfully complex and interesting. Nikki and Alex are just great people, people you’d love to be friends with, and the author puts them in believable situations, but it was the characters’ reactions to these situations that made me guffaw in public. While this is a 'romantic' novel, i.e., there’s only one actual sex scene in the book, it is very emotionally satisfying to the reader. This is a great book to read in your free time this summer, and I enjoyed it thoroughly."--Jean, Fallen Angel Reviews

...She leveled him an unflustered stare. “Really, Alex, you’re blustering like a bull in heat. All that anger isn’t good for your digestion. Besides, you’re scaring Bernie.” She picked up the whining dog, who’d scampered in from the kitchen. “You don’t want me to tie you to the chair again, do you? Or handcuff you until Royce arrives? I had to find some way to keep you here without being so cruel as to tie you back up.”

Her gaze drifted over him, and she smiled. Calm, collected…and infuriating. “I guess you could try to leave, anyway, looking like…you do. But I have every confidence that you won’t get far. We’re miles from the highway, and no driver in his right mind would pick you up. Sorry, Alex, but you don’t look very history professor-ish right now. You kinda look like the Incredible Hulk on crack.”

The Incredible Hulk on crack? “What did you expect? That I’d take the demolition of my pants lying down?”

“Well, actually, you were—”

He jerked a hand, cutting her off, then stalked to the toilet-less bathroom and gripped the sink in an attempt to calm down. Failing, he grabbed the toothbrush the lunatic blonde had given him and scoured his teeth until his gums ached.

After punishing his face in a similar ritual with the washcloth, he strode back into the main room and searched for his remaining clothes.

All he found were his dog-chewed socks. He yanked them on.

“Where’s my shirt?”

She avoided his gaze. “Um…”

“My shirt, Nikki. I left it at the bottom of the bed last night. Now it’s gone. Where is it?”

“Woof?” Santos seconded.

“How should I put this?” She scratched Bernie’s head. The little dog sneered at Alex from the safety of her arms. “Last night, after you fell asleep, I noticed your shirt had…taken on a certain aroma. A quasi-canine quality, shall we say. And none too pleasant, let me tell you.”

Alex snorted. “After the way Santos slobbered all over me in the van, I don’t doubt it. But that’s the only shirt I have. I want it.”

“Um, that’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because I…” mumble, mumble “…in the outhouse.”

Alex stiffened. “You put my shirt in the outhouse?”

“Woof!”

“Make that down the outhouse.”

“Down the outhouse?”

“Woof!”

“Well, it stunk.”

“You threw my shirt down the outhouse?” Alex flung out his hands, earning another deep bark from Santos—and a series of yips from Bernie. “What kind of twisted kidnapper are you?”

“Oh, calm down.” Bernie squirmed in her grasp, and she set him loose. The mutt dashed to the bed Rusty had hidden beneath. A chocolate paw swiped out, and Bernie danced back. “I’ll buy you another shirt to go with the new pants I promised. In fact, once Royce and I return to Seattle, I’ll buy you all the shirts you want.” Her gaze scanned his chest. “What’s your size?”

Alex clenched his fists. Royce again. The woman had enough faith to part the Red Sea, and she’d placed it all in a guy who cared more for her society connections than the hallowed state of matrimony she coveted. Alex had always considered himself even-tempered, but Nikki’s naïveté about Royce Carmichael grated on him big time.

“Forget the shirt. Give me the keys to your van.”

“They won’t do you any good.”

“They’ll do me plenty of good, I assure you.” Like getting him the hell away from this wacky woman and back to his staid, predictable life.

“Okay, if you insist. They’re on the kitchen counter.”

He stormed to the kitchen and snatched up the keys. The tattered pants slapping his legs, he stomped outdoors. The ground had softened from last night’s rain, and dirt clung to the soles of his socks. Too irritated to search in the van for his loafers, he climbed behind the wheel and jammed the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

He turned the key again. S.O.L. The damn engine was dead.

Grinding his teeth, he tromped back into the cabin. He found Nikki in the kitchen, calmly chopping green peppers.

“The van won’t start.”

“I know.”

His teeth wore down another inch. “Would you also happen to know why?”

She smiled, still chopping. “I misplaced the distributor cap.”