Just awful. I can't believe that this book was rated A on All About Romance. Rather than even attempt my own review, I'll just quote from my friend Moss:
Painfully slow, dripping with entendres that fall embarassingly flat, the limpest and most feeble of plots to prop it up, a hero and heroine who try to be much cleverer than they are and pitiful scraps of sexy times that whimper and drag themselves away with shame before your brain can process them.
I'd like to say I loathed this book, but the truth is I'm wearily resigned by now to things like this cropping up every now and again in this genre: self-conscious parodies of romance, stripping themselves of the chance of experiencing the escapist joy and the silly ebullience that is the gift of the genre. Of course there's the other mark to aim for -- the slow burn of some smouldering set-up -- but Mallory misses that, too, though god knows she tries with every straining, overworked, gasping sentence.
What you're left with is an inexorable, absolutely bloody wearying dullness.