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Get the hot goss with the Dear Reader letter only to be found in the front of the North American versions of the book, check out the book's reviews,  or devour a juicy excerpt...








"I was trapped on a train for five hours with a book that was an object lesson in how not to write dialogue, but the guy has written a gazillion books and had fabulous reviews from the broadsheets.  What a relief to pick up an Ally Blake ModEx and wallow with in the bath when I got home."

Liz Fielding

Harlequin Romance Author



"The writing is so bubbly and flirty and wonderful...your description gives your books an extra dimension...  You've hit your straps , paid your dues, you are no longer a new writer but an established author with great craft. I'd be prepared to say that on a cover <g>"


Fiona Lowe

Medical Romance author



"I'm a big fan of Ally's books. This is her first Modern Extra and her voice fits the line perfectly. Abbey had a really interesting past and back story and the ending scene was exactly the emotional roller coaster ride that you want from a good romance novel."


Fiona Harper

Harlequin Romance author



Cataromance, 4 stars

"Funny, witty and sexy, Getting Down to Business will leave the reader feeling happy and complete."







Check out my hero and heroine inspiration for GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS a as well as all of my other books in my Writing Tips pages





































































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Abbey Parrish is smart, stubborn, and stuck in a rut.   All the above comes from the fact that she is the granddaughter of Clarissa Parrish – the pre-eminent feminist of her generation.

Flynn Granger is the prince of Melbourne, a blue blood; his father is a hard-hitting captain of industry, and his mother is the daughter of a one time Prime Minister.  He is gorgeous, flirtatious, laid-back and bored witless.

When circumstance, the hottest men’s magazine to hit the market, and a little bit of stardust send these two opposites into battle together they soon discover that maybe their life paths, their opinions, and even their very characters aren’t as clear cut as they always thought they were...



We’ve all been there - flicking through the glossy pages of women’s magazines at the supermarket check-out, in the doctor’s waiting room, or hiding under the bedclothes with a pen and a flashlight, reading the ubiquitous sex quiz pages with headers like The Top Ten Ways to Keep Your Man.


An addict to filling out forms of any kind, I have filled out sooooo many of these quizzes over my lifetime without ever really wondering who wrote them, or what kind of education and background the creator must have had before dolling out such essential relationship advice.


Well, in the world of GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS these quizzes are written by my heroine, Abbey Parrish, a woman who doesn’t have one single clue how to get a man much less what to do with him when she ultimately does!


Enter Flynn Granger.   Aaahhhh, Flynn...  Sorry, I just had a little moment there.   For my, I mean Abbey’s, Flynn is exactly the kind of guy we gals have in mind when filling out such quizzes.  He is devilishly handsome, enormously successful, and sexy as all get out.  He is the alpha male.  The leader of the pack.  The kind of guy who turns heads every time he enters a room, and knows it.


So when Flynn unexpectedly crosses our Abbey’s path, does she finally get the chance to heed the oodles of relationship advice she has dished out?  Or does she only discover how clueless she really is?


You’ll have to read on to find out!



Flynn Granger was a leg man.

‘You’ve got legs of your own so what’s the big deal?’ his best friend George would ask when the subject arose.  Needless to say George was a breast man.

During such conversations Flynn would lift a trouser leg, showing off his favoured argyle socks and an unequivocally masculine calf covered in dark hair, with its scarred knee from a horse-riding accident he’d had as a kid, and shaped by years of bike riding and what amounted to an addiction for his rowing machine.

Then he’d say, ‘George, buddy, I may have two very fine legs of my own, but there is simply no comparison.  The sight of a woman’s calf muscles working as she passes by in a pair of high heels does it for me every time.  I love the slight criss-cross of the feet, I adore the soft indent behind the knee, and I am putty in the presence of a sway that starts at the floor and goes all the way up.  Then there is the sensation of running my hand along a smooth, lean, warm, willing woman’s thigh.  That is quite simply the stairway to heaven.’

It wasn’t surprising then, as Flynn did the last of his morning reps on his rowing machine that Wednesday morning in April, when the nearby security monitor flickered to life showcasing the sight of a pair of divine, smooth, creamy, stocking-free legs wandering into his outer office in a pencil skirt and black high heels, his attention was ensnared.

He eased back on the handgrips until the magnetic wheels running the machine whirred to a stop.  He ran a quick hand through his sweat dampened hair and decided then and there he really ought to give the woman longer than the five-minute appointment Wanda, his pit-bull of a business assistant, had allotted her.

Whatever she wanted from him, surely a woman with legs like that deserved at least a fighting chance.

*  *  *

 Abbey Parrish tugged her borrowed, too-tight pencil skirt downward, but the lowest she could manage without having the waistline around her hips was for it to end up three inches above her knees which was actually about three feet shorter than she would have preferred for it to be.

‘Five minutes is all I have allowed for you, Ms Parrish,’ said Wanda, a stern looking woman in head-to-toe navy, a pageboy haircut, and tiny glasses, as she led her into Flynn Granger’s office.

Abbey’s hand only shook a very little when she ran it over her smooth French twist.  ‘I understand.  And I appreciate you squeezing me in.’

‘I am a fan of your grandmother from way back,’ Wanda said.  ‘Even attending a march up Collins Street which she had organised in my younger days.  Consider this a favour to her.’

It was hardly the first time she had been accepted or otherwise because of her surname.  So Abbey merely nodded, and Wanda left, glaring at her one last time like she thought she might make off with an ashtray the minute she turned her back.

Once she heard the soft click of the hardwood door, she spun about on her borrowed shoes, the untried pointy heel catching for a moment in a tuft of plush cream carpet.  When she righted herself, her heart racing as it pumped somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, she was faced with what was hardly what any right-minded person would call an office.

She bit at her bottom lip, a nervous habit from long back.  And she was nervous, for she felt like she had stumbled into the male version of a boudoir.

All dark wood furniture.  A huge four-seater sofa with leather so soft it she would have been surprised if the cow from which it had come had ever seen the touch of the Australian sun.  Pictures of sail boats and thoroughbred horses lined the oak-panelled walls.  And a massive red twist rug that spelt the life’s work of a million silk worms swept across the huge carpeted floor at her feet until it butted up against the base of a roaring wood fire. 

The room was so overtly masculine it made her feel queasy.

A scraping noise ricocheted into the room from a half open doorway at the far end of the long office.  She caught sight of the corner of an unmade bed in the room beyond.  The intimation of red scatter cushions piled haphazardly on the floor and draping chocolate satin sheets skittered unnervingly through her chest.

Abbey breathed deep through her nose to bring oxygen to her parts that were feeling the lack thereof, and reminded herself that the very fact that this room was an ode to power and testosterone and pure male fantasy only meant that she had come to the exact right place.

Everything she had heard and read and researched said that Flynn Granger was the man for her.  She had heard it said that he was it and a bit.  A kid born of Melbourne social royalty.  A venture capitalist who preferred high risk enterprises yet came out on top time and again.  He was disgustingly rich, exceedingly popular, and a playboy of the first degree.  The fact that his office actually had a desk and a chair as well as an unkempt bed ought to have been the bigger surprise.

‘Good morning,’ the kid himself said in a dreamy deep voice when he finally sauntered through the far door at three minutes past eleven.  Though he was no kid.  At thirty-four years of age he had almost a decade on her.

‘Good morning,’ Abbey said, standing taller for at six feet on the dot he would have a good six inches on her as well.

She turned and her knock-your-socks-off pitch dried up in her throat as she realised the guy wasn’t wearing any.  Socks.

Whereas she had dressed to impress, her heart sank as she saw that Flynn Granger just as obviously had not.

His feet were bare.  Large.  Tanned, even between his toes.  His hair was damp and tussled, as though he’d just had a shower.  He hadn’t shaved in at least a day, dark stubble lining his blunt jaw.  Loose black track pants barely clung to his lean hips, and a plush coffee-coloured towel lovingly draped around his neck covered most of his top half but left a pair of well-built arms exposed.

Abbey swallowed to slake a sudden case of dry mouth.  ‘I’m Abbey Parrish,’ she said leaning over and reaching out a hand as he ambled passed.

‘Flynn Granger,’ he returned, barely slowing as he shook her hand.  Her small hand felt engulfed by his.  Feminine compared with his masculine.  Soft against his hard.  Overly warm within his perfectly cool.  When she saw that his fingernails were better looking than hers, she let go quick smart.

He ambled over to the massive desk beneath the huge ceiling-to-floor, wall-length, curtain-free windows that showcased an intimidating view of the Melbourne city skyline.  He lowered himself into the swing chair behind his massive desk and rubbed at his hair with his towel, blithely ignoring her very presence.

Okay, so she hadn’t expected this to be a breeze, but she hadn’t expected him to be so...indifferent.  The guy was a famous skirt-chaser.  So why wasn’t her skirt doing it’s job?  Was his radar that fine he could tell at first glance that she was in genetically even more unapproachable than he?

Either way, the swaggering SOB had picked a fine way of telling her that he simply didn’t give a hoot about some obscure businesswoman from Fitzroy.  And that just wasn’t at all sensible of him, as it only served to piss her off.

‘I appreciate you finding the time outside of your busy schedule to see me,’ she said.  ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anything... important.’  She glanced pointedly at his towel then back up at his face to find his eyes had finally connected with hers.  Dark, intense, astute eyes.



From "Getting Down to Business" by Ally Blake
Modern Extra Sensual Romance April 2007
ISBN:  978-0-263-85386-5 Copyright: © 2006 Ally Blake
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. For more romance information surf to: http://www.eHarlequin.com


To Jenny Hutton, editor extraordinaire.  I have treasured your fabulous insight, frequent illumination and faithful good opinion.  Thanks ever so!










































The Wedding Date  |  Millionaire Dad's SOS  |  Getting Red-Hot with the Rogue

Dating the Rebel Tycoon  |  A Night with the Society Playboy  |  Hired: The Boss's Bride  |  The Magnate's Indecent Proposal

Falling for the Rebel Heir  |   Steamy Surrender  |  Millionaire to the Rescue  |  Billionaire on Her Doorstep

Getting Down to Business  |  Meant-To-Be Mother  |  Wanted: Outback Wife  |  A Father in the Making  |  The Shock Engagement  

A Mother For His Daughter  |  How to Marry a Billionaire  |  Marriage Make-Over  |  Marriage Material  |  The Wedding Wish



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