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Ruby Ink (Clairmont Series Novel Book 1)

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Published on April 02, 2015 10:46

Hump Day books from L. J. Wilson, Julia Kent, Kate Allure, Genevieve Turner, Jacintha Topaz, and Julie Kenner!

Please enjoy some fantastic Hump Day books! This week we have Julia Kent’s Shopping for a Billionaire collection, the latest kinky New Adult Lesbian romance from Jacintha Topaz, and Julie Kenner’s Find Me trilogy from her Dark Pleasures series!

Hump Day books from L. J. Wilson, Julia Kent, Kate Allure, Genevieve Turner, Jacintha Topaz, and Julie Kenner!

Ruby Ink, Book One in the Clairmont Series Novels, on sale March 31st

More at L. J. Wilson’s website!

Shopping for a Billionaire Boxed Set (Parts 1-5)

The Shopping for a Billionaire collection from New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent is a 600+ page, hilarious romantic comedy with heart, heat, and laughs.

Playing Doctor (Meeting Men Book 1)

Find out more at Julia Kent’s website!

Three sizzling-hot, deliciously taboo erotic stories to stoke your mood

Summer Chaparral: Las Morenas 1

Visit Kate Allure’s website!

$0.99 from March 30th until April 10th!

Also available on iTunes!

For more see Genevieve Turner’s website!

Julie Kenner's Hump Day Eye Candy, River Viiperi

The Inquisition: A Kinky Lesbian New Adult Romance (DykeLove Quickies Book 6)

New F/F BDSM Release! July Greenfield entertains a rare opportunity to earn the slack on rent — by performing for Thalia Akasidou’s documentary.

Also available on iTunes!

Connect with Jacintha Topaz at her website!

Find Me In Darkness: Mal and Christina’s Story, Part 1 (Dark Pleasures)

A doomed woman. A dangerous and mysterious man. And an epic passion that cannot be denied…

Find Me In Pleasure: Mal and Christina’s story, Part 2 (Dark Pleasures)

For more on the Dark Pleasures series visit Julie Kenner’s website!

After what seems like an eternity, I am finally back in Malcolm’s arms. My lover. My mate. Our passion is wild. Violent and all-consuming. A heat that binds us through touch and time. But passion has a price, and our enemies search for us.

Find Me In Passion: Mal and Christina’s story, Part 3 (Dark Pleasures)

For more on the Dark Pleasures series visit Julie Kenner’s website!

Don’t miss the sexy and exciting conclusion to the Find Me trilogy!

Also available on iTunes!

For more on the Dark Pleasures series visit Julie Kenner’s website!

Would you like to submit your book to be included in our Hump Day feature? Click here for more information!

Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

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Published on April 01, 2015 01:00

Chapter Three: SAY MY NAME by J. Kenner #StarkInternational #TeaserTuesday

SAY MY NAME Stark International Book 1 by J. Kenner

Available April 7, 2015

SAY MY NAME by JKenner SS Teaser

New York Times bestselling author J. Kenner kicks off a smoking hot, emotionally compelling new trilogy that returns to the world of her beloved Stark novels: Release Me, Claim Me, and Complete Me. Say My Name features Jackson Steele, a strong-willed man who goes after what he wants, and Sylvia Brooks, a disciplined woman who’s hard to get—and exactly who Jackson needs.

I never let anyone get too close—but he’s the only man who’s ever made me feel alive.

Meeting Jackson Steele was a shock to my senses. Confident and commanding, he could take charge of any room . . . or any woman. And Jackson wanted me. The mere sight of him took my breath away, and his touch made me break all my rules.

Our bond was immediate, our passion untamed. I wanted to surrender completely to his kiss, but I couldn’t risk his knowing the truth about my past. Yet Jackson carried secrets too, and in our desire we found our escape, pushing our boundaries as far as they could go.

Learning to trust is never easy. In my mind, I knew I should run. But in my heart, I never felt a fire this strong—and it could either save me or scorch me forever.

Say My Name is intended for mature audiences.

Amazon/Kindle http://amzn.to/1rf9aTO

Amazon Fr http://amzn.to/1E6JBxh

Books-A-Million http://bit.ly/1Eg63Ug

IndieBound http://bit.ly/1yXRiGk

Google Play http://bit.ly/1B9LTNE

iBooks UK: http://apple.co/18hwtdh

Amazon ANZ: http://bit.ly/1b7ietr

READ CH. 1 -

READ CH. 2 -

Get to know Jackson Steele – HERE

Chapter 3

What the hell had I been thinking?

The man had flatly declined a meeting with me. Had I really believed that once he saw me in person everything would change? That he would rush over, take my hands, and ask me how he could help?

I didn’t believe that, no. But damn me, I’d hoped it.

It had seemed so simple in theory. Not easy—nothing about seeing Jackson again is going to be easy—but by the numbers. I could do it, especially because I had to do it.

But I’d choked.

Instead of taking the straightforward approach—find him, approach him, talk to him—I’d frozen. Instead of moving in, I’d let him pass me by.

Shit.

I’d miscalculated everything, and whatever slim confidence I’ve been clinging to has been thoroughly and dramatically shattered.

I see Cass across the room laughing with a woman in a short, tight dress and sun-streaked blond hair. She glances my way, and I see her brows lift slightly in question. Need me?

I shake my head and smile. Cass broke up with her longtime girlfriend five months ago, and has been pretty much off the market since. If she’s connecting with this woman, no way am I going to mess up her rhythm.

Besides, it’s time to bite the bullet. I’d come here to pitch a project, and I was damned if I was going to leave without giving it a shot.

Jazzed from my mental pep talk, I start off in the direction in which he’d disappeared, only to be waylaid by the announcement that the film would begin in fifteen minutes, and guests should start making their way toward the theater.

The announcement pretty much destroys any chance of getting a spare moment with Jackson. For one thing, I’m certain he must have some sort of man-of-the-hour thing to do on stage before the film starts. For another, the crowd has become so thick that I have no choice but to be swept along with the throng.

I

allow myself to become part of the surge, making peace with the realization that I am going to have to either find Jackson right after the screening or wrangle my way into the after-party—a perk that my invitation doesn’t include.

Black clad ushers who are probably USC film students direct us out of the multiplex and over to the original Chinese Theater. It is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I used to escape here as a teenager, losing myself to another reality hidden in this exotic venue. It’s been recently remodeled, but unlike the shining modernism of the ballroom we have just left, the lobby of the Chinese Theater still has a bit of camp, with statues brought from Beijing and Shanghai, ornate ceiling tiles and fixtures, folding screens used as wall decorations, and lots of red walls and carpets.

Once inside the theater, though, technology rules. The iMax screen is huge and state of the art, and I can’t deny the thrill of knowing that I’m about to see both Jackson and his work splashed larger than life in front of me.

I grab an aisle seat in the very last row, figuring that I’ll have the best chance of extricating myself from the crowd and finding Jackson if I can get out the door quickly once the film is over. The theater isn’t completely full, and there are five or six seats between me and the next person over by the time lights dim. I can’t help but be relieved. I’m on edge and antsy, battered by memories that are butting up against me, pushing and prying and trying to break free. I’m tired of fighting them. After the film, I can be strong again. But for the next seventy minutes, I want to lose myself to the past, to Jackson, and to the soaring images of the world that he has made.

A ripple of applause fills the room as a man I recognize as Jackson’s companion from the stairs takes the stage and introduces himself as Michael Prado, the documentary’s director.

“As many of you may know, I serve on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project, and in that capacity it has been my privilege to observe the growth of many talented young architects. Some display raw talent. Some, a keen business sense. Still others have an innate ability to mesh form and function, location and purpose. Only once, however, have I seen all those attributes embodied in one man. And that man is here today. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jackson Steele.”

There is considerably more applause as Jackson takes the steps two at a time, then waves at the audience before shaking Prado’s hand.

“Thank you all for the warm welcome,” he says as he takes the mike. “And thank you Michael for your incredibly generous words. As you might realize,” he continues, turning so that he faces the audience without putting his back to the director, “a documentary of the nature that Michael has put together is an extremely invasive beast. And I say that with the utmost respect and affection,” he adds as the audience laughs.

“He’s trying to say that I got in his way,” Michael jokes.

“Or that I got in his,” Jackson says, handling the audience with undeniable skill. “But seriously, I owe this man a great debt. This documentary was in the works even prior to the board of the Amsterdam Contemporary Art and Science Coalition choosing my design for their museum. And while I can’t say that I was prepared to have my process so fully scrutinized, I can say that the experience has been both educational and rewarding. I’ve had the luxury of seeing my work through another’s eyes. That is a rare gift and one that should not be squandered. It taught me to respect my vision, but also to open my eyes.”

I am riveted as I watch him, so personable, so comfortable in front of a crowd.

He shifts on the stage so that he seems to look at everyone in the audience. “And now I am pleased to welcome you to the US premier of Stone and Steele, and to offer you this glimpse into another type of joint work. Michael Prado’s interpretation of the trials, tribulations, and successes that surrounded the funding, building, dedication, and opening of the celebrated—some might say infamous—Amsterdam Art and Science Museum.”

He pauses as the audience applauds once more, and it strikes me how much he reminds me of Damien Stark. Not only in appearance—they both share a dark, masculine beauty—but in his ability to handle the spotlight and draw people in. If he were ending with a sales pitch, I’m entirely certain that he would rake in a million tonight.

But there is no sales pitch. Tonight is a celebration, and after a few more words about the history of the project, Jackson invites the audience to settle in and enjoy the show.

The lights dim, the curtain parts, and I lean back in my seat as the music swells and the screen fills with motion and light. The camera rises in a magnificent shot that starts at the ground then climbs faster and faster, rising up the now-iconic smooth edge of the museum to ultimately flare out as blue sky and sun fill the frame.

The screen turns a blinding white that dissolves into a title sequence and then a close-up of Jackson, his hair ruffling in the wind and his jeans tight on well-muscled thighs as he leans over a table littered with blueprints. He is deep in conversation with another man, but their words are muffled beneath the precise, careful voice of the narrator.

I watch, mesmerized by the man on the screen. By the passion and precision of his movements. He is absorbed by his work, compelled by it. There is power in what he does. Majesty, even magic.

And the depth of emotion I see on his face makes my skin heat and my heart pound in my chest.

I have seen that same fire, that same determination. I have seen joy and rapture. I have held him close and felt his heat, and I have been burned by the intensity of this man.

My chest aches and my hands begin to hurt. I realize that I am clutching the armrests too tightly. More, I have been holding my breath.

Air, I think as I start to stand. I just need to get to the lobby. Maybe hit the ladies’ room and splash some cold water on my face.

But as I start to lever myself out of the seat, someone slips into the chair beside me.

Jackson.

I haven’t seen him—haven’t turned to face him—and yet I have no doubt. How could I when my skin already tingles simply from his proximity? When the scent of his cologne surrounds me, all spice and musk and smoke?

I close my eyes and hold myself half in and half out of the chair, suddenly unsure of where I am going and why.

“Stay.”

One simple word, and yet it compels me. I draw another breath, nod, and then settle back into the upholstered theater chair. I turn toward him and find him focused on me. Shadows dance upon his face, and I swear that I could tumble into the brilliant blue of his eyes.

I start to speak, though I’m not at all sure what I’m going to say. Then he leans toward me and places his palm on my leg, so that the heel of his hand rests on the thin material of my dress, but the tips of his fingers graze my bare skin. Every nerve ending in my body seems clustered in that one area, sparkling and sizzling.

I’m desperately, painfully, aware of the contact, and I have to fight the urge to draw in a breath, to stiffen as my pulse pounds and a wild heat bursts through me. I don’t want to react to him; I don’t want to give anything away. And I damn sure can’t let go of the tight grip I have on control.

But he is leaning closer, the pressure increasing upon my thigh as his lips come within a whisper of my ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

I consider playing it coy, but there is no profit in that. Not to mention the fact that I’m not at all sure I could pull it off. Not now, when he’s touching me. When he’s thrown me so off-kilter. “I need to talk to you,” I say simply.

“Do you?” he asks, his voice as smooth and tempting as chocolate. “I’m fairly certain you don’t have an appointment.”

His finger moves slowly on my skin, back and forth, the motion so idle that he might be unaware of it. Except I know that’s bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Do I need an appointment to chat at a party?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks as his finger strokes and teases. “Chatting?”

I feel my chest tighten and a thin panic rise. “Please, Jackson.”

“Please what?”

“Outside.” I hope that he cannot hear the way my voice shakes. “Can we just go talk for a minute in the lobby?”

I try to rise, but he holds me down with a gentle but firm pressure on my leg. In the process, he manages to slide my hem up, revealing just a sliver more of bare skin. It is enough, however, to make me feel even more exposed. Even more vulnerable.

To make me remember the way his hands felt when he was touching me without anger or pretense.

I swallow as a wave of longing and regret breaks over me. “Jackson—“

“You’re so determined to talk, then talk here.” His voice hasn’t lost the velvet, but there is steel under it now.

“We’ll bother everyone around us,” I whisper, determined to regain my equilibrium.

His brows rise, and I see amusement dance at the corner of his mouth. “Will we?” His hand eases higher, pushing my skirt up with the motion. “I didn’t think our … conversation … would be quite that loud.”

“Stop.” I close my hand hard over his, preventing him from gaining even another millimeter.

“Why?”

“Because I said so, dammit.”

“I meant why do you need to talk to me,” he clarifies. “But the same applies.” He eases his hand higher, pushing my skirt up inch by excruciating inch. “Tell me why you say I should stop. Because you don’t want me to touch you? Because you don’t want me to slide my hand just a little bit higher? Because you don’t want my fingertips to stroke your panties and find you wet and hot?”

My mouth is dry, my body burning. And—damn me all to hell—he is right. I am desperately wet, my thighs hot and my sex throbbing.

“Or maybe it’s because you do want me to keep going? Because you can imagine—can remember—the way my finger feels inside you, teasing you, stroking your clit. Are you wet now, princess?” he asks, his voice as gentle as the finger that still skims along my thigh.

“Are you hot and needy and silently begging me to touch you, to slide my finger over your slick, wet heat? Is that what you want? Come on, sweetheart, you can tell me. Don’t you want me to take you there? To take you higher and higher until you tremble in my hand as the orgasm rocks you? Because I think you do. I think you want it so bad you can taste it.”

I close my eyes, determined not to let him see the truth of his words on my face. “Stop it,” I repeat. “You can’t—“

“The hell I can’t.” The soft sensuality in his tone has vanished, replaced by harsh accusation. “Do you think I haven’t watched you tonight? Do you think I didn’t see the way you’ve looked at me? We both know you still want me, and we both know that pisses you off. So tell me, Sylvia. I want to hear it. I want you to say it out loud.”

But there is no way in hell that I am conceding. Because while it may be true—God help me, I do want him, and that does piss me off—I don’t want what comes after. The panic and wariness. The tightness and fear. That horrible sense that everything around me is spinning out of control, and that no matter how hard I try to hold it together, I’ll inevitably get ripped apart.

“Tell me,” he repeats, his words heavy with five years worth of hurt and anger. “And then I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

I wince as something like guilt crashes over me. But I push it aside even as I shove his hand away and bolt up out of the chair. “Fuck you,” I snap, ignoring the low-pitched “Sssshhhh” from down the row.

I stumble up the aisle, then practically slam myself against the door, not even taking a breath until I am safely in the lobby.

I lean against the wall and tell myself to get my shit together. I haven’t quite managed that task when the door opens and Jackson strides out and heads straight toward me. I think I must flinch, because I see his jaw tighten, and he comes no closer.

“Not exactly the sweet words I was looking for,” he says wryly. “But good enough.”

“Just leave me the hell alone,” I say.

“I can do that.” His tone is now all business. “Or you can tell me what you want to talk about.”

I blink, a little whiplashed by his sudden change in tone. “A job,” I manage to say, even as my shoulders sag with both relief and, though I hate to admit it, a touch of disappointment. I push the latter firmly away—there is no room for anything but business between Jackson and me, and even imagining there might be more is a recipe for heartache.

His eyes stay fixed on mine, then he nods briskly. “All right. I’m listening.”

I stand straighter, sliding into business-mode and relishing the sense of being back in control. “It’s for Stark International,” I say. “And before you tell me that you already turned down the Bahamas resort, I’d like you to hear me out.”

I take his silence as acquiescence and continue, giving him the full rundown of the project from inception to the horrific news that Glau has not only melted down, but pulled out.

“Miss America got slammed on Facebook, and now the runner-up has the crown?”

“No,” I say firmly. “This isn’t about bringing in the runner-up. It’s about making this resort the best that it can be.”

“Really?” His gaze skims over me, as sensual as a slow caress. “I don’t recall being approached when the project was initiated.”

“You were tied up with the job in Dubai.”

“Was I?” he says, as if that commission was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that your precious resort is in more trouble than you’ve let on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Problems with the FAA, Sylvia. Utility permitting. Environmental groups. Do you want me to go on?”

“Everything you’ve listed is being handled,” I say, which is technically accurate. Apparently there is a lot of red tape to cut through in order to install even a small landing strip on a tiny island. And he’s right about the environmental groups, too. Apparently the island is a habitat for a rare species of cave crickets, and negotiating that possible land mine was as fraught with destructive potential as disarming a nuclear bomb.

But what really concerns me is how he’s heard about those problems. Because we’ve kept a tight lid on each and every one of them.

I fight the urge to drag my fingers through my hair out of sheer frustration, and tell myself not to worry about that right now. “Dammit, Jackson, the bottom line is that it’s a great opportunity.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

I glance at his hand, but I don’t take it. After a moment, he lowers it, and the shadow I see in his eyes comes very close to breaking me.

He says nothing else, but turns and starts walking. I follow him in silence all the way back to the ballroom and then into a hallway that I hadn’t entered before. “Won’t they miss you?”

“This is Hollywood. They’re used to putting on a spin when the talent goes missing.” He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way I find both disarming and very, very sexy. “Besides, the after-party is here. Eventually, whoever needs me will find me.”

I nod, then take the opportunity to look around. The hallway is wide with white walls rising to a low ceiling. The floor is brushed concrete, and it’s broken up by several geometric, flat-sided pillars spaced down the length.

Dozens of framed black and white photographs line the walls, and as we walk we pass Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, Harrison Ford, Marlon Brando, and countless other stars of some of my favorite movies.

But it is not those images that Jackson wants me to see. Instead, he takes me to the first pillar and the full color photograph that hangs there. It is of the Winn Building in Manhattan, a glass and steel skyscraper that rises like royalty over the city, with so much retail, office, and living spaces that it is practically a city unto itself.

Jackson says nothing as we look at the image, and I estimate that a full minute passes before we move to the next pillar and the framed image of the new Salzburg Opera House, with its curved facade that seems to flow like music in perfect harmony with the mountains that frame it.

The last photograph is a not of a commercial project, but of a house in the mountains outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s burnished exterior blends with the stone and rock, and though the single story residence is obviously both new and state of the art, it flows over the landscape with the kind of bold confidence that suggests it rose fully formed from the mountains that bore it.

“What do you know about these?”

I tell him, giving him the details that he already knows. How the Santa Fe getaway for a well-known philanthropist finally earned him the recognition he deserved and jump-started his architectural career. How the opera house thrust him into the design-build arena when he branched out from strict design work to the full spectrum of property development. And how the Winn Building was a major victory for Steele Development, as it marked his company’s foray into the lucrative New York market, and resulted in the first project in which he retained an ownership interest.

I don’t mention the murder and suicide that took place at the Santa Fe house not long after it was completed. It doesn’t seem relevant and, frankly, I’m afraid that kind of gossip might spoil whatever progress we’re making.

Nor do I mention that the rental income from a properly like the Winn Building must have at least quadrupled Jackson’s net worth overnight. But we both know that I am aware. You can’t work for a man like Damien Stark for all these years and not gain some understanding of the income potential for the kind of projects Jackson now commands.

In other words, Jackson doesn’t need the income from The Resort at Cortez. And considering how fast his star is ascending with the documentary and the possibility of a feature film, he doesn’t even need the publicity.

All I have to offer is the challenge. I can only hope that will be enough.

I turn so that I am facing him, my back now to the pillar. “So? How did I do?”

“Not bad. You’ve been watching my career.”

“No,” I say, the lie coming easily. “But I’m good at my job. And that means I know who I’m recruiting.”

“Recruiting,” he repeats. He takes a single step toward me.

“Yes.” The word is firm, and I am proud of how steady I feel.

He steps closer, reducing the distance between us to mere inches. I tilt my head back. Even with me in heels, he is a head taller than me, and right then I cannot help but feel small. Vulnerable.

I push that down, though, and meet his eyes, hoping mine show ice and determination.

“Do you remember Atlanta?”

His words are like a slap, and despite all my resolve, I step backward, only to be foiled by the pillar behind me. “I—of course I do.” I lick my lips. “Jackson, I’m sorry about the past. But this isn’t—“

“No,” he says, holding up a finger to silence me. “Do you remember before? Before you tore it all apart. Do you remember the way it felt when I touched you?”

My throat has gone completely dry, and I can feel small beads of sweat at the nape of my neck.

“Jackson. Don’t.”

He steps closer, ignoring me. “Tell me, Sylvia. And be honest, because I swear I’ll know if you’re lying.” His voice is low, seductive, and utterly commanding. “Do you remember?”

I shake my head, but that isn’t enough to push away the truth. Of course I remember. I remember every a laugh, every touch, every breath. I remember every word of every conversation, the taste of every meal. I remember the glorious sensation of his hands upon me and his cock inside me.

But I also remember when the panic set in. When I started to drown, and no matter how hard I fought to keep afloat I kept getting pulled down into the swirling waters of cold fear and harsh memories.

I’d ended it because I had to. Because the only way I could survive was to destroy everything.

Because the only way I could breathe was to push him away.

For that matter, I’m having a little trouble breathing right now.

His fingertip hooks under my chin and he tilts my head up so that I am staring deep into his eyes.

“Do you remember?” he repeats.

I say nothing.

“And at the end,” he persists. “Do you remember what you asked me in Atlanta?”

I lick my dry lips, then nod.

“Tell me.”

Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

Jackson, I—I need you to leave me. I need you to walk away and to never look back.

The memory pounds like red neon inside my head.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I asked you to leave.” I say the words simply, as if every syllable isn’t ripping me to shreds.

“And did I?” His voice is still even, still calm, but there is no hiding the tension that backs each and every word. “Did I not do exactly what you asked? Did I not walk away even though it just about killed me?”

It killed me, too. I want to shout the words at him, but I don’t. I can’t, because that would only make him suffer more, and after everything I’ve done to him, I can’t add that burden. So all I do is nod.

“Yes.” My voice sounds lost. Hollow. “You did.”

He leans closer, placing one hand on the pillar just over my shoulder. He is at an angle, his face so close I can smell whiskey on his breath. “So what exactly do you want from me now?” He strokes his free hand down my bare arm until he reaches my hand. He twines his fingers with mine and pulls me hard against him.

I gasp and try to ease backward, but it’s not possible. He has moved his palm from the pillar to my lower back. He holds me close, so tight that I am breathless, lost in the feel of him and, yes, in the erotic sensation of his erection, unmistakable against my abdomen.

“Jackson—“

“Are you offering me a job,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “Are you offering me you? Are you offering to bring back everything you killed when you pushed me away?”

He releases my hand. “Or are you offering me this?” he asks, as he brushes his fingertip over my lower lip, so softly and gently that I have to fight not to gasp with pleasure. “Or maybe this?” he asks as his hand moves lower, his palm grazing over my breast.

My nipple tightens as my skin prickles with need. I have to focus on breathing, on not letting my knees give out.

Jackson takes no pity on me. Instead, he gently rubs circles on my breast, taunting and teasing even as his words continue to flow over me. “Surely you remember how it felt,” he presses. “You in my arms. Your release. That expression of ecstasy etched on your face. The surrender I felt in your body.”

“Don’t.” That single word is a cry. A plea.

“Don’t?” His hand slides down again, his fingers twining with mine once more. “But I have to. So tell me, Sylvia. Because I need to know. What exactly are you offering me?”

My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, wishing for the release of tears but they just won’t come. “Just the job,” I finally say. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to face him. “Nothing has changed, Jackson. We can’t…” I shake my head, letting my words trail away.

He holds my gaze. The heat building in the space between us is so intense that I swear I can see the molecules spinning.

Slowly, he releases his grip on my hand. He steps back and I feel cold when he lifts his other hand from the small of my back. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t.”

And that is it. Two little words, and then he turns away from me and walks down the hall. I stare after him, breathing hard, watching until he disappears into the shadows of the larger room.

He never once looks back.

PreOrder:

Amazon/Kindle http://amzn.to/1rf9aTO

Amazon Fr http://amzn.to/1E6JBxh

Books-A-Million http://bit.ly/1Eg63Ug

IndieBound http://bit.ly/1yXRiGk

Google Play http://bit.ly/1B9LTNE

iBooks UK: http://apple.co/18hwtdh

Amazon ANZ: http://bit.ly/1b7ietr

Sharable snippets!Ch3 Now available - SAY MY NAME #StarkInternational by @JulieKenner #TeaserTuesday Tweet Buffer

Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

Looking to meet JK?

Got a question for JK?

Subscribe with your email address:

1 like · Like • 0 comments • flag

Published on March 31, 2015 13:00

Have you preordered SAY MY NAME? Enter to win an iPad Mini!

Have you preordered SAY MY NAME by J. Kenner the first installment in the sexy new Stark International series?

Preorder now and enter to win an iPad mini… http://bit.ly/SMNiPadGiveaway (Click on link to see full rules and entry options) You can get to know JACKSON Steele April 7th!

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Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

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Playing with Temptation (The Players Club Book 1)

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Published on March 26, 2015 07:47

Hump Day books from Erika Wilde, Patricia McLinn, Avery Aster, Lisa Hughey, Angela Quarles, Cindy Procter-King, JoAnne Kenrick, and J. M. Maurer!

Please enjoy eight new fantastic Hump Day books, including the first book in Erika Wilde’s series The Players Club! Also featured this week, The Bad Boys of Eden romance collection and Get Lucky, a collection of paranormal and contemporary romances!

Hump Day books from Erika Wilde, Patricia McLinn, Avery Aster, Lisa Hughey, Angela Quarles, Cindy Procter-King, JoAnne Kenrick, and J. M. Maurer!

Temptation has never been so hot!

More at Erika Wilde’s website!

A Stranger in the Family, a western romance (Bardville, Wyoming Trilogy, Book 1)

The first book in the Bardville, Wyoming Trilogy is now free!

For more visit Patricia McLinn’s website!

THE BAD BOYS OF EDEN: Billionaires, Alphas, Bikers, and Doms

99 cent Mega Romance Bundle Sale. Limited Time Only!

Connect with Avery Aster at her website!

Get Lucky: Seven Steamy Romances

Seven tantalizing paranormal and contemporary romance tales designed to heat your days and melt your nights for only $0.99!

Find out more at Lisa Hughey’s website!

Julie Kenner's Hump Day Eye Candy, Colton Haynes

Steam Me Up, Rawley: A Steampunk Romance (The Mint Julep & Monocle Chronicles Book 1)

A steampunk romance with a Kindle Countdown Deal of $0.99! Jack the Ripper might be in town. But is marriage more terrifying?

NOTE: This countdown deal starts on 3/25 and ends the morning of the 31st….

Visit Angela Quarles at her website!

Head Over Heels: A Romantic Comedy

Laugh-out-Loud Romantic Comedy 99 Cents for a Limited Time! (Regularly Priced at $3.99)

Be sure to visit Cindy Procter-King’s website!

Irish Kisses: Boxed Set (1Night Stand)

A collection of five romances set in Bell’s Irish Pub, each with its own special tasty treat served by the staff of Bell’s.

More at JoAnne Kenrick’s website!

Seeking Love (Emerging From Darkness Book 1)

New romance out April 2nd!

Connect with J. M. Maurer at her website!

Would you like to submit your book to be included in our Hump Day feature? Click here for more information!

Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

Looking to meet JK?

Got a question for JK?

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Published on March 25, 2015 01:00

Chapter Two: SAY MY NAME #StarkInternational by J. Kenner #TeaserTuesday

Say My Name by J. Kenner will be available April 7th.

READ CH. 1 -

Get to know Jackson Steele - HERE

Say My Name Fan Graphic - SS

New York Times bestselling author J. Kenner kicks off a smoking hot, emotionally compelling new trilogy that returns to the world of her beloved Stark novels: Release Me, Claim Me, and Complete Me. Say My Name features Jackson Steele, a strong-willed man who goes after what he wants, and Sylvia Brooks, a disciplined woman who’s hard to get—and exactly who Jackson needs.

I never let anyone get too close—but he’s the only man who’s ever made me feel alive.

Meeting Jackson Steele was a shock to my senses. Confident and commanding, he could take charge of any room . . . or any woman. And Jackson wanted me. The mere sight of him took my breath away, and his touch made me break all my rules.

Our bond was immediate, our passion untamed. I wanted to surrender completely to his kiss, but I couldn’t risk his knowing the truth about my past. Yet Jackson carried secrets too, and in our desire we found our escape, pushing our boundaries as far as they could go.

Learning to trust is never easy. In my mind, I knew I should run. But in my heart, I never felt a fire this strong—and it could either save me or scorch me forever.

Say My Name is intended for mature audiences.

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iBooks UK: http://apple.co/18hwtdh

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READ CH. 1 -

Get to know Jackson Steele – HERE

Chapter 2

“Whatever time he has available today,” I say, holding my phone tight to my left ear and my hand tight over my right. Even so, it’s hard to hear Jackson’s New York based secretary over the noise of the helicopter powering down.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brooks. Mr. Steele’s documentary is screening in Los Angeles this evening, so I’m afraid every minute is booked.”

I’m on the roof of Stark Tower in downtown, and despite the sensation of literally being on top of the world, I do not feel composed or in control. I want to pull open the door to enter the elevator alcove, but I know from experience that I run the risk of losing my cell signal, and I have a feeling that if I let this woman get off the phone I won’t ever get her back.

So I stand in the wind with the sun burning down on me and the asphalt all around me, feeling decidedly at the mercy of not only the elements, but of Jackson Steele, his secretary, and even the damned cellular provider.

“How about tomorrow?” I ask. “I realize that’s Saturday, but if he’s not going right back to New York—“

“Mr. Steele will be staying in Los Angeles for at least a week.”

“Perfect,” I say, going limp with relief. “When would be convenient?”

“Just a moment, please. I’ll see if I can reach him on his cell.”

I stand there, feeling a little foolish, as the peppy hold music plays. When the phone clicks, signaling that the woman has returned to the line, I straighten my back and shoulders as if springing to attention, then roll my eyes at my own ridiculous behavior.

“I’m afraid there is no convenient time, Ms. Brooks.”

“Oh, no, really. I’m happy to make myself available anytime. And if it’s more convenient I’ll go to his hotel or he can come to my office. Whatever works.”

I hear her sigh, long and deep, and I bite my lower lip as she says, “No, Ms. Brooks, you misunderstand. Mr. Steele has asked that I decline your request for a meeting. And to express his regrets, of course.”

“His regrets?”

“He said that you would understand. He said that you two discussed this already. In Atlanta.”

“He—what?”

“I’m terribly sorry if you’re disappointed, Ms. Brooks. But I can assure you that Mr. Steele’s refusal is final.”

My mouth has gone completely dry. Not that it matters. I may want to argue, but it is too late. The line has gone dead.

I stare at my phone for a moment, not quite believing what I’ve just heard.

Jackson said no.

“Shit.” I run my fingers through my hair, then look up at Clark, who has secured the helicopter and is heading my direction.

“Trouble?” he asks, his brow furrowed as he peers at my face.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” I say. Because there is no way I’m calling Damien and telling him that I blew it so badly I couldn’t even get a meeting. Which means that I very badly need a Plan B. Another starchitect. A magic potion. A goddamn freaking miracle.

I start to follow Clark into the alcove, then stop short, remembering. “Have a good weekend,” I say to him. “I need to make one more call.”

And then I scroll through my contacts, find Wyatt’s number, and call the photographer to see if he can wrangle that miracle.

#

“You do know how awesome this is, right?” Cass asks as she climbs into the limo and takes a seat opposite me.

She looks amazing as usual in a slinky black dress slit so far up her thigh it’s a wonder she didn’t flash the neighborhood. The dress is held up by a single, simple bow over her left shoulder, and she fills it out with the kind of curves I can only dream about. Her hair is red this week, and she is wearing it up so as to accentuate the dress. Other than a small diamond stud in her nose, she wears no jewelry, which makes the tattoo of an exotic bird on her shoulder, its tail feathers trailing down her arm in an explosion of color, all the more stunning.

As soon as she’s settled, Edward shuts the door and returns to the driver’s seat. We don’t see him, as we are snug behind the privacy screen, but I feel the motion as the limo pulls away from the curb in front of Cass’ tiny house in Venice Beach.

“Seriously, Syl. Your job perks rock.”

“Definitely on the upside of awesome,” I agree as I pass her a glass of wine. The limo is one of the Stark International fleet, and Edward is Damien’s personal driver, on loan to me for this evening. With any luck, I’ll make this worth Edward’s overtime.

“I think we both need a moment of deep contemplation,” Cass says. “You, in appreciation of the serious perks of your job. And me, in gratitude that you are so anti-social that there’s no one else you want to invite tonight.”

“Bitch,” I say, but I’m laughing as she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

“Ommm,” she says, as if she’s in a yoga class and not in the back of a stretch limo on her way to a Hollywood release party.

I’d debated whether or not to bring her, but in the end had decided that not only would Cass get a kick out of a red carpet premier, but she’d also make a damn fine human security blanket.

Cass has been my best friend since I snuck into her dad’s tattoo parlor at the ripe old age of sixteen. He’d sent me packing, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t about to lose his license so some Brentwood brat could get a tat in order to piss off mommy and daddy.

I hadn’t cried—I hadn’t cried since I was fourteen—but I had felt my face go hot as my temper and frustration rose. I’d called him a bastard, yelled that he didn’t know a thing about my parents and he sure as hell didn’t know anything about me. I don’t actually remember calling him a fucking prick, but Cass assures me that I did.

What I do remember is storming out, then running blindly until I reached the beach. I’d rushed across the bike path, almost knocking over a toddler, and then tripped in the sand. I’d fallen face down and just laid there like an idiot, my forehead on my arm and my eyes squeezed together because I wanted to cry—so help me, I wanted the tears to flow—but they didn’t. They couldn’t.

I don’t know how long I’d laid there, breathing shallow so I wouldn’t suck up the sand. All I know is that she was there when I looked up, all long legs and tanned skin and short black hair slicked into dozens of spikes. She crouched on her haunches, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hand as she stared at me. Just rocked back and forth and stared.

“Go away,” I’d said.

“It’s not his fault. My mom bailed, and he’s gotta take care of me, so it’s not his fault. I mean, if they yank his license, they’ll close his shop and then they’ll repossess the house and we’ll end up living in the back of his Buick, and I’ll have to turn tricks in Hollywood just to keep us in Snickers and Diet Coke.”

My gut clenched at her words, and for a second I thought I would be sick. “Don’t,” I said. “That’s not even funny.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, then she stood up, as gangly as a colt. She held out her hand to help me up. “He can’t do it, but I can.”

“Can what?”

“You want a tat, I can give you a tat.” She shrugged, as if tattooing someone was the kind of thing every teenage girl knew how to do.

“Bullshit.”

“Suit yourself.” She started to walk away.

I pushed myself up so that I was kneeling in the sand and watched her leave, never once looking back to see if I’d changed my mind.

I had. “Wait!”

She stopped. A moment passed, then another, then she turned. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Sixteen. How old are you?”

“I just turned fifteen. You can really do it?”

She came toward me, then stuck her leg out so that there was no missing the black rose on her ankle. “I can do it.”

“Will it hurt?”

She snorted. “Duh, yeah. But not any more than it would if he did it.”

I assume she was right about that, but I’ll never know for sure. Because Cass is the only one who has ever given me a tattoo, and she’s given me several. That first day we’d hung out on the beach until her dad had locked the shop. Then we’d snuck back in, and she’d adorned my pubic bone with a beautiful golden lock, sealed tight and bound with chains.

She asked me why I wanted that design, and I hadn’t told her. Not then. And even later, I didn’t tell her everything. Just the surface, but not the deep down truth. And even though she’s my best friend, I don’t think I ever will.

That tat—and the ones that followed—are for me alone. They are secrets and triumphs, weakness and strength. They are a map, and they are memories.

Most of all, they are mine.

“So who’s going to be there?” Cass asks after a while. “There’s a red carpet, right?”

“That’s what I hear. But don’t get too excited. It’s a documentary, not a blockbuster. I’m guessing a few studio execs, some agents, maybe a few C-listers.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re gonna walk down a red fucking carpet. I guess I can knock that one off my bucket list.”

“I guess you can. The dress rocks, by the way. Where did you get it?”

“That Goodwill near Beverly Hills. It’s my favorite hunting ground.” Cass owns Totally Tattoo now and makes a good living, but it wasn’t always that way, and I don’t think I’ve ever once seen her buy retail.

“Usually I only score a ten dollar pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans and some kickass Tees,” she continues. “But this time there was an entire rack of evening clothes. I swear, I don’t get those women. Wear it once and then donate it.” She shrugs philosophically. “But whatever. I’m happy to take advantage of their economic idiocy.”

“And look incredibly hot in your frugality.”

“Damn skippy. You look pretty amazing yourself,” she adds.

“I should. I spent two hours getting a trim and having my make-up done.” I’ve worn my hair short since I was sixteen. That’s when I cut off my long, loose waves in favor of a cut that’s a cross between a pixie and a bob. At the time, all I’d wanted was a change, and as dramatic a one as I thought I could get away with. Since shaving my head was a bit too radical even for my mood, I’d dialed it back.

Now, though, I genuinely like the cut. According to Kelly, the girl who does my hair, it suits my oval-shaped face and highlights my cheekbones. Honestly, I don’t care about the reason. I just want to like what I see in the mirror.

“The red tips are especially awesome,” Cass says.

“I know, right? Isn’t it fun?” My hair is dark brown with natural golden highlights. Frankly, I like it that way, so I’ve never been tempted to follow Cass’ lead and dye my hair temporarily pink or purple or even just plain red.

Tonight, however, I thought I’d have a little fun, and I’d asked Kelly to see about giving me some colored highlights. She went a step further, focusing on the tips of a few chunks of hair in a way that seems not only fun but elegant.

“It’s awesome, yes, but what I meant was that the color matches your dress. Which is fabulous, by the way.”

“It should be. It cost a freaking fortune.”

I may not spend my life trolling consignment stores like Cass, but I rarely spend as much on a dress as I did on this one. It’s fire engine red, and though I decided to go with cocktail length, I think it’s as elegant and sexy as Cass’ floor-skimming evening gown. And, yes, as I did a turn in front of the dressing room mirror, I’d tried to see myself through Jackson’s eyes. Not because I wanted to look hot—or, not entirely—but because I wanted to look successful. Competent.

Powerful.

“It works?” I ask Cass. “Not too slutty? Or worse, too corporate?”

“It’s perfect. You look like a confident, professional businesswoman. And clearly you took my advice and invested in a padded push-up bra, because you even have cleavage.”

“Bitch,” I say, but with the utmost affection. I’ve got an athletic build, slim and lean. Which is great when it comes to finding clothes, but not so great when I’m trying to fill out a dress.

I expect her to shoot me a snarky comeback, but instead there is only silence. “What?” I demand, when I can’t take it any longer.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

It is the gentleness in her voice that cuts through me. Cass is loud and boisterous, and I am used to that. Softness from her can break me.

I nod. “I’ve put my heart and soul into this project. I’m not going to let it die if I can save it.”

“Even if saving it hurts you?”

I force myself not to wince. “It won’t.”

“Dammit, Syl, it already has. Do you think I don’t get it? There is no one who knows you better than I do, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one who inked your back when you got back to LA from Atlanta. I know how wrecked you were, and I swear to God, if you hadn’t been pumped up about the job with Stark you would have just crumbled into dust and blown away.”

“Cass, don’t—“

“Don’t what? Don’t worry about you?”

“It was five years ago. I put it behind me.”

“And now it’s back in front of you.”

“No,” I say, and then stop, because she is right. “Okay, maybe. Yes. Guilty as charged. I’m walking into the lion’s den. Pouring the gasoline and striking the match. Jumping off the cliff. Pick your metaphor, because it doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“Are you really asking me that?”

Her shoulders droop. “No. I get it. I’ve watched you work this project. I know how much it means to you. It’s like me and the studio. I loved working for my dad, but it’s better now that the place is totally mine. I feel, I don’t know, grown up. Complete.”

“Yeah. It’s like that.”

“It’s just that he already said no, right? He told Stark, and then he refused to even take a meeting with you. So do you really believe you can change his mind?”

“I have to believe it,” I say. “Right now, unsupported optimism is all I’ve got going for me.”

“Oh, man. Don’t say that.”

I lean forward so I can take her hand. “I can do this. And I’ll be fine. Really. I’m not as fragile as I used to be. I can do this,” I repeat, as much to convince her as myself.

“Fuck yeah, you can,” she says, though the words are belied by a weak smile.

“Come on,” I urge. “How can I fail when I look this hot?”

That gets a laugh. “You’ve got a point,” she admits. “I mean, right now you look good enough to eat. And, hell, I can remember when you schlepped around looking so ratty that not even a dog would want to give you a lick.”

“No kidding, right?” I’d spent my last years of high school trying very hard to be invisible. It was Cass who’d slapped some sense into me the summer before I started college at UCLA.

It’s a day I remember with crystal clarity. It was a Tuesday, and we’d decided to go check out the campus that would soon become my home. A couple of upperclassmen had given us both the once over, and my immediate reaction had been to hunch my shoulders and cross my arms over my chest.

“Are you a fucking moron?” she’d asked in that gentle Cassidy way that she has.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Syl. You need to stop this. You’re totally hot and you hide it under ugly sweatshirts and baggy jeans. And the hair—“

“I am not growing out my hair.”

“Have ya considered maybe, I don’t know, combing it?”

I’d shoved my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and stared at the sidewalk.

“Look,” she’d said more gently. “I get it. I do. You wanna get all comfy on my shrink couch and I’ll tell you exactly what is going on in that head of yours.”

“I didn’t finally tell you about what happened so you could pick me apart,” I’d snapped.

“Guess what? I don’t care. Because you are my best friend and I love you and you are handing that asshole power on a silver fucking platter.”

“I’m not handing him anything,” I’d said. “He is gone. Long gone.” And thank god for that.

“The hell he is. He’s the reason you walk around looking like you’re trying to get typecast as Dumpy Female Neighbor. Maybe you haven’t seen the prick since you were fourteen, but he is with you every fucking day.”

I’d clenched my hands into fists as my temper rose. “Do not even think about going there,” I’d said, lifting my head and taking a step toward her.

“I’m already there.” Cassidy is only about three inches taller than me, but she’s always been larger than life, and I’d been overwhelmed by her shadow. And that had just made me angrier. I was hurting. I was lost. And even my best friend wasn’t backing me.

“Just. Fucking. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she’d asked. “Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t try to beat through that thick head of yours how absurd this is? Some pervert photographer preys on you because you were young and pretty, and so now you’re still trying everything in your power to disappear? Fuck that shit. You were fourteen—fourteen. He was the asshole.”

I’d shaken my head slowly, my eyes burning even though no tears came. I’d wanted to run, but it was Cass I always ran to, which meant there was nowhere left to go. “I should never have told you.”

The truth is I hadn’t told her all of it—not even close. But I’d told her enough.

“Dammit, Syl,” she’d said, and there’d been tears streaming down her face. “Don’t you get it? Some fucked up a-hole took your virginity. He took sex. But he didn’t take you. You’re smart and you’re beautiful, and he can’t touch that shit. You need to own it. Because every time you hide behind some bullshit like this,” she’d said, plucking at my ugly gray sweatshirt, “you’re letting him win. You want your life back, you take it back. And you look damn hot doing it.”

Now, as I sit in my sexy red cocktail dress in the back of the limo, the memory of that day is still crystal-clear. I can still feel the way my stomach twisted when she’d talked about what Bob did to me during those months when I was fourteen. More than that, though, I remember how warm and safe I’d felt just knowing that I’d had a friend who really cared.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

She tilts her head, obviously not following my train of thought. “For what?”

“For this,” I say, plucking at the dress. “If you hadn’t bitched me out all those years ago, I’d probably be wearing sweatpants tonight.”

“Not if you’re going with me,” she retorts, and we both laugh.

“Look, Syl,” she says after a moment, “I just don’t want you getting all twisted up again. You never really told me what happened with Steele, but I know you well enough to know you’re kinda screwed up where guys and relationships are concerned.”

“Understatement of the century,” I agree. I don’t need a shrink to know I still have issues.

“Have you even slept with a guy since Atlanta?”

I tense. “I’ve been focusing on work,” I say, my words crisper than I intend. “It’s not like my job is nine-to-five.”

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I get it. I do. And it’s not like I’m saying you should go back to the way you were before Steele, either.”

I cringe, because the truth is I’d fucked a lot of guys in college. Not because I wanted them, or even because I wanted to get off. No, I was using sex as therapy, proving over and over that despite everything I knew about myself, I could keep my feelings and reactions and emotions in a nice, tight little box. That I could win over the memories and fight the nightmares. That I could keep control.

Cass knows more about that time in my life than anybody. And she also knows that it isn’t a time I want to talk about. “Don’t do this, Cass. Don’t fuck with my head tonight. Please.”

“I’m sorry. I am. But tonight’s the whole point. You’re still raw.”

I shake my head automatically, wanting to deny even though she’s right. “I haven’t had a nightmare since I moved back to LA.”

“And that’s great. That’s my point. And I don’t want you to get hurt now. Again. You’ve already gone through too much.”

“I won’t,” I say, though the promise is hollow. “I love you, you know.”

Humor flashes in her green eyes as her mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Yeah, but will you get naked with me?”

“After all the time I took to get dressed?” I quip. Considering I really am screwed up where guys and relationships are concerned, I sometimes wish I could go there. But that’s not me. And though we’ve had our awkward moments, for the most part, the crush she’s never bothered to hide is just one more dynamic between us.

She grins wickedly, then glances at her watch. “We’ve still got a couple of minutes before we get to the theater. We could drop the privacy screen. Give Edward a little show.” She purses her lips, then manages a boob-shaking shimmy.

I laugh out loud. “That is wrong on so many levels.”

“Honestly, what’s the point of going to a Hollywood shindig if sex and alcohol aren’t part of the mix?”

“We have alcohol,” I remind her, as I refill her wine glass. “As for the sex, I’m sure there will be plenty of prospects.”

“From the C-list,” she reminds me.

I consider a moment. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Graham Elliott shows up.” Elliott is Hollywood’s latest mega-star. “Apparently he’s gunning to play Steele in a feature film that’s in the works, and he’s A-list all the way.”

“Not exactly my type, but that means Kirstie Ellen Todd is probably coming, too, right?”

“I doubt it. I saw online that they broke up.”

Cass makes a face, then sighs. “Well, at least I’ve got a shot at her again.”

“One, I’m pretty sure she’s straight. And two, there’s the small problem of the fact that you’ll never in a million years meet her.”

“Minor inconveniences, all.”

I shake my head, amused. “Confidence, thy name is Cassidy.”

“Damn straight. Oh, wow, check it out.” She slams back her wine, then uses the empty glass as a pointer. “Spotlights.”

She’s right. Twin searchlights are doing the criss-cross in the sky routine right in front of the old Grauman’s Chinese Theater, which is now the TLC Chinese Theater. When I was growing up, it was Mann’s Chinese Theater, and so mostly I just think of it as the Chinese Theater in Hollywood with the hand and footprints of so many movie and television stars.

Edward slides the limo into line, and we creep forward slowly until the rear door is even with the red carpet. The limo stops, the door opens, and Cass and I emerge to the flash and buzz of reporters. It slows down as soon as they realize that we aren’t celebrities, though I think that Cass’ killer legs probably kept them snapping a bit longer than they otherwise might.

In front of us, red velvet ropes separate the theater and its forecourt from the spectators who have gathered along the Walk of Stars that adorns this section of Hollywood Boulevard.

Cass squeezes my hand as we start to walk the red carpet toward the iconic pagoda-style entrance to the famous theater. “This is completely iced.”

I really can’t argue, and as we follow the path over the forecourt filled with the hand and footprints of television and movie stars, I feel a bit like a celebrity myself. That fantasy is only accentuated as I glance around at the tuxedoed men and well-coiffed women who mingle in this open area, chatting with the press and giving tourists and celebrity watchers a chance to snap dozens and dozens of photos.

Wyatt waits at the end, and as Cass and I approach, he grins. I expect to pass by and join the mingling guests, but he ushers me in front of a banner advertising the studio that financed the documentary, and proceeds to do the full-on Red Carpet Photo Moment.

“Thanks for wrangling the extra tickets for me,” I say. “I owe you big.”

“No problem,” Wyatt says as he aims his camera at Cass. “Just another manifestation of my subversive, artistic personality. I’m all wacky that way,” he adds, making me laugh.

Cass and I link arms and follow the well-dressed crowd. We go first toward Grauman’s Ballroom in the adjacent multiplex where the VIP reception is being held prior to the screening in the original theater. I lean toward Cass. “Definitely iced,” I say, repeating her word. And I mean it. Right then, I feel pumped up, confident, and ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, to conquer Jackson Steele.

Uniformed staff stands at the door, offering us flutes of champagne as we enter the ballroom. “Wow,” Cass says, and I silently echo the sentiment.

The room is stunning. Huge, but not overwhelming. Golden light fills the space, but is broken up by a pattern of geometric blue images projected onto the floor and ceiling. A few corners of the balcony are highlighted in red, giving the room a festive, nightclub atmosphere. Two massive columns seem to stand guard over the space, and between them, a crowd gathers around a circular bar, the stacked wineglasses twinkling like colored stars in the clever lighting.

Behind the bar, a screen displays a montage of photographs—soaring skyscrapers, angular office buildings, innovative housing complexes. I recognize each as a Jackson Steele project, and those images are interspersed with sketches, blueprints, and construction shots of the Amsterdam museum that is as much the focus of the documentary as the man himself.

Cass drains her flute of champagne and makes a beeline for the bar. “I need a refill and you need liquid courage,” she says.

“I do not,” I lie, but she orders a glass of cabernet for both of us anyway.

I take it, ignoring the voice of reason that tells me that I shouldn’t be even slightly tipsy around Jackson Steele. That if I am going to get through this, I need to be clear headed, professional, and ice, ice cold. Smart words, and I shoot them all to hell when I lift my glass and down a long, slow sip.

“To kicking butt and taking names,” Cass says, as she holds her glass out in a toast. I clink mine against hers, then take another smaller sip. What had she said? Liquid courage? Yeah, maybe that was a good thing after all.

I glance around, scoping out the area and searching the faces. The room is comfortably elegant, with linen-covered tables mixed in with plush couches and designer chairs. Most are empty, as the guests are standing to mingle and work the room. I recognize a few of them. A reality TV star in the corner, an agent I met once at a party. I don’t see Jackson, though, and I’m starting to get antsy. He must be here somewhere, and I’m afraid if I don’t find him before the screening, that he’ll be whisked away to some after-party before I have the chance to talk with him.

“What’s he look like?”

“You don’t know?”

She shrugs. “You didn’t tell me until today that your Atlanta fling grew up to be a hot shit celebrity architect. Hot shit and just plain hot, right?”

“That’s about the sum of it.” I stumble for a moment—because how do you describe perfection—and then I stop, because he is right in front of me. Not the man, but his image, projected on the screen behind the bar for all the world to see.

“Whoa,” Cass says as she follows my gaze. “Shit, fuck. Seriously? That guy is positively gorgeous.”

I nod, my eyes glued to the screen, my throat thick. I’d thought that the magazine cover did him justice, but I was wrong. On the cover, he is brushed and polished, his rough edges smoothed away by the magic of Photoshop. But this—this is raw and grainy. It’s candid and stunning and awe-inspiring.

It’s Jackson, standing astride two parallel iron girders at least thirty stories above a city I don’t recognize. He’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeve white T-shirt, and a white hardhat. He is holding onto a giant hook suspended in front of him, and seems unaware of the camera that I can only assume is taking this shot through a long lens from a safe distance.

The shadow of beard stubble is as unmistakable as the brilliant blue of his eyes, which seem to burn in the white light of the sun. His free hand rests against his forehead like a visor, blocking the sun as he surveys the structure rising all around him. Behind and beneath him, the city spreads out, but it is Jackson who is the focal point. And from this single image, there is no question that Jackson is a man with the power to grab hold of the earth and remake it as he wants it. And in that moment, I can only hope that what I can offer is something that he wants to claim.

I hug myself, then step back as the image fades and is replaced by another building site. I turn and find Cass staring at me. She sighs, then shakes her head slowly. “Christ, Syl. I can see it on your face.”

I look away, but she grabs my arm.

“This job isn’t worth it. He’s going to rip you to pieces all over again. He half has already.”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “No, he won’t—he hasn’t. And he didn’t rip me to pieces in the first place. I did that all by myself. All he did was—“

“Leave?”

“All he did was what I asked him to.” And with any luck, he would do exactly that again.

“Fine. Okay. But are you sure you don’t want a wingman? At the very least I can hang with you until you find him.”

“No. I’m good. Go mingle. Who knows. Maybe Kirstie Ellen Todd really is here.”

She hesitates, then nods. “I’ll tell her you said hi.” She gives me a quick hug, then slides up to the bar again for another glass of wine. I do the opposite and set my half-full glass on a passing waiter’s tray. Definitely better to be clear-headed.

After fifteen minutes, though, I’m regretting my forced sobriety. I’ve circled the room twice and seen dozens of almost famous actors and well over a hundred other faces that aren’t familiar at all. I’ve seen Cass chatting up pretty much everybody, a waitress I recognize from my favorite restaurant who tells me she’s moonlighting, and Wyatt circulating through it all with his camera and flash.

But I haven’t seen Jackson.

He must be here, though, so I decide that the best approach is to go up to the second level, park myself along the balcony, and scan the guests from above. I’m heading that direction, my head slightly down as I’m taking a second to check my office email and messages on my phone, when I catch a glimpse of something familiar in my peripheral vision.

I look up, ignoring the sudden tightness in my chest, and search the surrounding faces for him. Except he’s not there, and now my chest tightens even more, this time with disappointment.

I take another step as I slide my phone back into my tiny red purse.

And that’s when I see him.

He descending the stairs, his attention focused on the distinguished looking man beside him. He is clean-shaven and elegant in a collarless black jacket over a white cotton pullover. I had expected a tux, but can’t deny that this is a much better choice. He looks dark and sexy and unpredictable. More, he looks important. The kind of man who can say ‘fuck you’ to convention, and have everyone scrambling to keep up with him.

This is the man who lives in my memories. Those crystalline blue eyes. That wide, gorgeous mouth. The thick brows and sculpted features.

He descends two more steps, then turns slightly away from his companion. As he does, I realize that he isn’t entirely as I remember him. Now there is a scar that intersects his left eyebrow, then arcs across his forehead to his hairline. It wasn’t there in Atlanta, but it’s well-healed, and must be several years old.

The scar does nothing to mar the sensuality of this man who so undeniably commands the room. Instead, that single flaw adds to his mystique, giving him a dangerous and mysterious edge. Even so, I know that there must be pain beneath it, and my fingers itch to touch it, to trace the path of it. To hold and soothe and comfort against whatever evil had the gumption to scar that incredible face.

But that is no longer my right, and that reality is pounded home as I glance around and realize that every woman in the vicinity is looking at him, just as I am. I close my hand into a fist, feeling suddenly proprietary, even though I have no claim on this man anymore. I gave that up. Sacrificed him to save myself.

A wave of melancholy crashes over me, and I tell myself to stop it, stop it, stop it.

I did the right thing, I am certain of it. And it doesn’t matter anyway. The past is over, goddammit. I need to just suck it up and move on, just like I’ve been doing for my whole screwed up life.

I take a deep breath, then another, as I force myself to get my shit together. I’m a businesswoman with a lucrative proposition. I’m not a starry-eyed girl getting weak-kneed around the ultra-sexy man of the hour.

I can do this. I can approach him, greet him, tell him that I’m not going to accept a brush off. That it’s been five years, we’re both grown-ups, and he’s just going to have to listen to me.

Straightforward. Direct. To the point.

Right. I can manage. No problem at all.

I take a step toward him, then another.

I straighten my shoulders and put on the professional smile that I have honed over five years of working for the CEO of Stark International.

I keep my eyes on Jackson as I move toward the staircase, taking a path designed to intercept him as he reaches the ballroom floor.

He doesn’t see me—he is completely focused on the man beside him. I cannot hear their conversation, but Jackson’s hands move as he talks, and I know that they are discussing architecture. I smile with affection, remembering the way he would outline a skyscraper in the air and the way his fingers would dance as he considered facades and footprints, purpose and plan.

His companion says something, and Jackson laughs, his wide, sensual mouth curving into a smile that freezes in place as he casually scans the crowd—and then finds me.

A wild heat burns across his expression, but is banked so quickly that I almost think I imagined it. Now when I look, I see only a blank stoicism. And yet there remains an intensity to him, the illusion of motion even though he has stopped dead still on the staircase.

His eyes are locked on mine, and I stand motionless as well, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

“Jackson,” I say, but I am not sure if I have spoken aloud or if his name has simply filled me, as essential as oxygen.

We hold like that, time ticking by, the world around us frozen. Neither of us move, and yet I feel as though I am spinning through space and hurtling toward him. The illusion terrifies me, because right then I know two things—I want desperately to be in his arms again, and I am absolutely terrified of the collision.

And then, suddenly, the world clicks back into motion. His eyes hold mine for a split second longer, and in those few brief moments before he turns away, I see the flash of cold, hard anger. But there’s something else, too. Something that looks like regret thawing under the ice.

I realize that my limbs will function again, and take a step toward him, knowing that this is my chance. For the project—and for something deeper that I do not want to think about because opening that door scares me too much.

But it doesn’t matter. Not my fear, not the project.

Because Jackson doesn’t look at me again.

Instead, he strides right by me, never looking back, never even slowing. And I am left to watch him pass, as anonymous as all the other women who stand there and look after him with longing.

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Sharable snippets!Read Ch2 of SAY MY NAME #StarkInternational by @JulieKenner Tweet Buffer

Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

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Obsession (BBW, Werewolves of Montana): Mating Mini #2 (Werewolves of Montana Mating Mini)

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Published on March 24, 2015 13:12

Hump Day books from Bonnie Vanak, Pam McCutcheon, Opal Carew, Kimberly Dean, Jamie Farrell, Jacintha Topaz, Lisa Mondello, and Jean Brashear!

Please enjoy another eight fantastic Hump Day books, this week including the five-book Hope Chest series, the new BDSM romance from Jacintha Topaz, and Texas Ties, the latest from NYT Bestselling author Jean Brashear!

Hump Day books from Bonnie Vanak, Pam McCutcheon, Opal Carew, Kimberly Dean, Jamie Farrell, Jacintha Topaz, Lisa Mondello, and Jean Brashear!

A tormented alpha werewolf who is determined to never love again finds his passion awakened by a lovely redhead who threatens his pack’s safety.

Find out more at Bonnie Vanak’s website!

The Hope Chest Series: Time Travel Romance Boxed Set

When five people are drawn to the items they find in an antique hope chest, each is sent to the past where they must accomplish a task and find their own path to true love with the help of a magical matchmaker determined to bring soul mates together, even across time.

And check out Pam McCutcheon’s website!

Riding Steele (Ready to Ride Series Book 3)

In the arms of an outlaw, she found the freedom to live out her wildest fantasies!

More at Opal Carew’s website!

Dream Man (Dream Weavers Book 1)

An unknowing witch casts a love spell and meets her Dream Weaver.

Find out more at Kimberly Dean’s website!

Julie Kenner's Hump Day Eye Candy, Channing Tatum

Smittened (Misfit Brides of Bliss)

New $0.99 Contemporary Romance!!

For more info visit Jamie Farrell’s website!

The Inspection

New F/F BDSM Release! Mercedes Samford finally caves in to seek counsel in the form of relationship expert Roxanne Evers.

Connect with Jacintha Topaz at her website!

Leaving Liberty, a Western Romance (Texas Hearts Book 5)

From NEW YORK TIMES Bestselling Author Lisa Mondello, the Gentry boys tales continue in LEAVING LIBERTY, only 99¢ for a limited time.

Visit Lisa Mondello at her website!

Texas Ties: Book Babes Trilogy Part One (Texas Heroes 13)

Now only .99c!

Don’t forget to visit Jean Brashear’s website!

Would you like to submit your book to be included in our Hump Day feature? Click here for more information!

Where do you want to go next?

The Stark Series ... bestselling, swoonworthy erotic romance. Have you been Damienized?

The Most Wanted series ... dark, edgy, sexy badboys. Need we say more?

Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom ... oh, come on. The series title says it all!

The Dark Pleasures Series ... dark, dangerous ... and immortal.

Protector Superhero series ... fun, flirty paranormal romance.

The Blood Lily Chronicles ... dark, sensual urban fantasy.

The Shadow Keepers ... edgy and sensual paranormal romance

Devil May Care ... who will the next ruler of Sin City be?

and more stories to come ...

Looking to meet JK?

Got a question for JK?

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Published on March 18, 2015 01:00

Chapter One of Say My Name by J. Kenner #StarkInternational #TeaserTuesday

It’s Teaser Tuesday and here is chapter one of Say My Name by J Kenner which will be available April 7th.

Say My Name by J Kenner

New York Times bestselling author J. Kenner kicks off a smoking hot, emotionally compelling new trilogy that returns to the world of her beloved Stark novels: Release Me, Claim Me, and Complete Me. Say My Name features Jackson Steele, a strong-willed man who goes after what he wants, and Sylvia Brooks, a disciplined woman who’s hard to get—and exactly who Jackson needs.

I never let anyone get too close—but he’s the only man who’s ever made me feel alive.

Meeting Jackson Steele was a shock to my senses. Confident and commanding, he could take charge of any room . . . or any woman. And Jackson wanted me. The mere sight of him took my breath away, and his touch made me break all my rules.

Our bond was immediate, our passion untamed. I wanted to surrender completely to his kiss, but I couldn’t risk his knowing the truth about my past. Yet Jackson carried secrets too, and in our desire we found our escape, pushing our boundaries as far as they could go.

Learning to trust is never easy. In my mind, I knew I should run. But in my heart, I never felt a fire this strong—and it could either save me or scorch me forever.

Say My Name is intended for mature audiences.

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Google Play http://bit.ly/1B9LTNE

iBooks UK: http://apple.co/18hwtdh

Amazon ANZ: http://bit.ly/1b7ietr

Chapter One

The thwump-thwump of the helicopter’s rotors fills my head like a whisper, a secret message that I cannot escape. Not him, not now. Not him, not now.

But I know damn well that my plea is futile, my words flat. I can’t run. I can’t hide. I can only continue as I am—hurtling at over a hundred miles per hour on a collision course with a destiny I thought I had escaped five years ago. And with the man I’d left behind.

A man I tell myself I no longer want—but can’t deny that I desperately need.

I clutch my fingers tighter around the copy of Architectural Digest in my lap. I do not need to look down to see the man on the cover. He is as vivid in my mind today as he was back then. His hair a glossy black, with just the slightest hint of copper when the sun hits it just so. His eyes so blue and deep you could drown in them.

On the magazine, he sits casually on the corner of a desk, his dark grey trousers perfectly creased. His white shirt pressed. His cufflinks gleaming. Behind him, the Los Angeles skyline rises, framed in a wall of glass. He exudes determination and confidence, but in my mind’s eye, I see even more.

I see sensuality and sin. Power and seduction. I see a man with his shirt collar open, his tie hanging loose. A man completely at home in his own skin, who commands a room simply by entering it.

I see the man who wanted me.

I see the man who terrified me.

Jackson Steele.

I remember the way his skin felt as it brushed mine. I even remember his scent, wood and musk and a hint of something smokey.

Most of all, I remember the way his words seduced me. The way he made me feel. And now, here above the Pacific, I can’t deny the current of excitement that runs through me, simply from the prospect of seeing him again.

And that, of course, is what scares me.

As if to emphasize that thought, the helicopter banks sharply, sending my stomach lurching. I reach out to steady myself, pressing my hand against the window as I look out at the deep indigo of the Pacific below me and the jagged Los Angeles coastline receding in the distance.

“We’re on our approach, Ms. Brooks,” the pilot says a short while later, his voice crystal clear through my headphones. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Thanks, Clark.”

I don’t like air travel, and I especially don’t like helicopters. Perhaps I have an over-active imagination, but I can’t seem to shake the mental image of dozens of absolutely essential screws and wires getting wiggled loose by the persistent motion of these constantly vibrating machines.

I’ve come to accept that I can’t avoid the occasional trip by plane or helicopter. When you work as the executive assistant to one of the world’s wealthiest and most powerful men, air travel is just part of the package. But while I’ve resigned myself to that reality—and even managed to become somewhat Zen about the whole thing—I still get all twisted up during take-off and landing. There’s something horribly unnatural about the way the earth rises up to meet you, even while you are simultaneously careening toward the ground.

Not that I can actually see any ground. As far as I can tell, we’re still entirely over water, and I am just about to point out that little fact when a slice of the island appears in my window. My island. Just seeing it makes me smile, and I draw in one breath and then another until I actually feel reasonably calm and somewhat put together.

Of course, the island isn’t really mine. It belongs to my boss, Damien Stark. Or, more specifically, it belongs to Stark Vacation Properties, which is a d/b/a of Stark Real Estate Development, which is an arm of Stark Holdings, which is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Stark International, which is one of the most profitable companies in the world, which is owned by one of the most powerful men in the world.

In my mind, though, Santa Cortez island is mine. The island, the project, and all the potential that goes with it.

Santa Cortez is one of the smaller Channel Islands that run up the coast of California. Located a little behind Catalina, it was used for many years as a Naval facility, along with San Clemente Island, which is still operated by the military, and sports an army base, barracks, and various other signs of civilization. Unlike San Clemente, Santa Cortez was used for hand-to-hand combat and weapons training. At least, that’s what I was told. The Navy is not known for being forthright about its activities.

Several months ago, I’d noticed a small article in the Los Angeles Times discussing the military’s presence in California. The article mentioned both islands, but noted that the military was ceasing operations on Santa Cortez. There wasn’t any other information, but I’d taken the article to Stark.

“It might be up for sale, and if so, I figured we should act fast,” I’d said, handing him the article. I’d just finished briefing him on his schedule for the day, and we were moving briskly down the corridor toward a conference room where no less than twelve banking executives from three different countries waited with Charles Maynard, Stark’s attorney, for the commencement of a long-planned tax and investment strategy meeting.

“I know you’ve been looking for potential sites for a couples’ resort in the Bahamas,” I continued, “but I was thinking that a high-end getaway location for families with easier access to the States might have real potential as a business model.”

He’d taken the paper, reading as he walked, and then stopped outside the conference room’s glass doors. I’d come to know his face during the five years I’d worked for him, but right then I hadn’t even an inkling what he was thinking.

He handed the article back to me, held up one finger in a silent demand for me to wait, and then stepped inside the room, addressing the men as he entered. “Gentlemen, I apologize, but something has come up. Charles, if you could take over the meeting?”

And then he was back in the corridor with me, not bothering to wait for Maynard’s reply or the executives’ acquiescence, but absolutely confident that things would go smoothly, and just the way he wanted them to.

“Call Trevor Galway at the Pentagon,” he’d said as we moved down the hall back toward his office. “He’s in my personal contacts. Tell him I’m looking to acquire the island. Then get in touch with Nigel. He’s gone to the Century City site to help Trent with some problem that’s come up during construction. Ask if he can get away long enough to meet us for lunch at the Ivy.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to find my balance. “Us?”

Nigel made sense. Nigel Ward was the vice-president of Stark Real Estate Development, and was currently overseeing the construction of Stark Plaza, a trio of office buildings off of Santa Monica Boulevard in Century City. What I didn’t understand was why Mr. Stark would want me at the lunch, when his usual practice was to simply fill me in after the fact on any post-meeting details that I needed to track or follow-up.

“If you’re spearheading this project, it makes sense for you to be at the initial meeting.”

“Spearheading?” Honestly, my head was spinning.

“If you’re interested in real estate development, especially for commercial projects, you couldn’t ask for a better mentor than Nigel,” he said. “Of course, you’ll be pulling longer hours. I’ll still need you on my desk, but you can delegate as much as makes sense. I think Rachel would like to pick up some more hours, anyway,” he added, referring to his weekend assistant Rachel Peters.

“Use the business plan that Trent put together for the Bahamas resort as a model, and work up your own draft and timeline.” He glanced at his watch. “You won’t be able to finish before lunch, but you can take us through some talking points.” He met my eyes, and I saw the humor in his. “Or am I assuming too much? I thought that real estate was one of your particular interests, but if you’re not looking to shift into a managerial role—“

“No!” I practically blurted the word, my shoulders squared and my back straight. “No. I mean yes. I mean, yes, Mr. Stark, I want to work on this project.” What I really wanted was to not hyperventilate, but I wasn’t entirely sure that was going to be possible.

“Good,” he’d said. We’d reached my desk in the reception area outside his office. “Call Trevor. Make the lunch arrangements. And we’ll go from there.”

Go from there had led in a more or less straight line directly to this moment. I’m officially the Project Manager for The Resort at Cortez, a Stark Vacation Property. At least I am now.

Hopefully, I’ll still be tomorrow. Because that’s the question, isn’t it? Whether the news that I received two hours ago is going to shatter the Santa Cortez project, or whether I can salvage the project along with my nascent career in real estate.

Too bad I need Jackson Steele if I’m going to pull that off.

My stomach twists unpleasantly and I tell myself not to worry. Jackson will help me. He has to, because right now everything I want is riding on him.

Considering my frayed nerves, I’m especially grateful that our landing is soft. I slide the magazine into my leather tote, then unstrap myself and wait for Clark to open the door. As soon as he does, I breathe in the fresh scent of the ocean and lift my face to the breeze. Immediately, I feel better, as if neither my worries nor my motion sickness are any match for the pure beauty of this place.

And beautiful it is. Beautiful and unspoiled, with native grasses and trees, dunes, and shell-scattered beaches.

Whatever the military had been doing here, it didn’t harm the natural habitat. In fact, the only signs of civilization are right where we’ve landed. This area sports a tarmac sufficient for two helicopters, a boat dock, a small metal building used for equipment storage, and another small building with two chemical toilets. There’s also a bobcat, a generator, and various other bits of machinery that have been carted in so that the process of clearing the land can begin. Not to mention the two security cameras that had been mounted to satisfy both Stark International security and the insurance company.

There is a second copter beside the one that Clark set down, and beyond it is a makeshift path that leads away from this ramshackle work area to the still-wild interior of the island. And, presumably, to Damien, his wife Nikki, and Wyatt Royce, the photographer Damien hired to take seaside portraits of his wife and also pre-development photos of the island.

While Clark remains with the bird, I follow the path. Almost immediately, I regret not taking the time to change out of my skirt and heels before making this jaunt. The ground is rocky and uneven and my shoes are going to end up scuffed and battered. I’d planned to put on jeans and hiking boots, but I’d been in a hurry, and if I can get this project back on track, then I figure my favorite navy pair of heels are a small price to pay.

The ground slopes up gently, and as I crest a small hill I find myself looking down at a sandy inlet nestled against a cluster of rocks. Waves batter the stones, sending droplets of water up to sparkle in the air like diamonds. On the beach area, I see Damien slide his arm around his wife’s waist as she leans her head upon his shoulder while they both look out at the wide expanse of the sea.

Nikki and I have become good friends, so it’s not as though I’ve never seen the two of them together. But there is something so sweetly intimate about the moment that I feel as though I should turn back and give them time alone. But I have no time to squander, and so instead I clear my throat as I continue forward.

I know of course that they won’t hear me. The sound of the ocean crashing against the shore was sufficient to drown out the helicopter’s approach; it’s certainly enough to cover my small noises.

As if to prove my point, Damien presses his lips to Nikki’s temple. Something tight twists inside me. I think of the magazine in my tote — and the image of the man on the cover. He’d kissed me the same way, and as I remember the butterfly-soft caress of his lips against my skin, I feel my eyes sting. I tell myself it’s the wind and the salt water spray, but of course that’s not true.

It’s regret and loss. And, yes, it’s fear.

Fear that I’m about to open the door to something I desperately want, but know that I can’t handle.

Fear that I screwed up royally so many years ago.

And the cold, bitter certainty that, if I’m not very, very careful, the wall I’ve built around myself will come tumbling down, and my horrible secrets will spill out for all the world to see.

“Sylvia?”

I jump a little, startled, and realize that I have been standing there, staring blankly toward the sea, my mind gone far, far away. “Mr. Stark. Sorry. I —“

“Are you alright?” It’s Nikki who speaks, her expression concerned as she hurries toward me. “You look a little shaky.” She’s beside me now, and she takes my arm.

“No, I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little motion sick from the helicopter. Where’s Wyatt?”

“He set up down the beach,” Stark says. “We thought it was best if he went ahead and got started on the shots for the brochure.”

I wince, because I am over an hour late. The plan had been for me to spend the morning in Los Angeles while Nikki, Damien, and Wyatt came early to the island. I’d arrive later, once they’d had time to complete the private portrait shoot, and I’d spend the rest of the morning working with Wyatt to capture a series of shots that we could use in the resort’s marketing material.

Damien would pilot his copter back to the city, and then Wyatt, Nikki, and I would return with Clark. Nikki and I recently discovered that we share a love of photography and Wyatt has offered to give us some pointers after the work is finished.

“You didn’t bring your camera,” Nikki says, her forehead creasing into a frown. “Something is wrong.”

“No,” I say, then, “okay, yes. Maybe.” I meet Stark’s eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’ll go check on Wyatt,” Nikki says.

“No, stay. I mean if Mr. Stark—if Damien—doesn’t mind.” I’m still uncomfortable calling him by his first name during working hours. But as he has repeatedly pointed out, I’ve spent a good number of hours drinking cocktails by his pool with his wife. After so many Cosmopolitans, formality when we’re alone begins to feel strained.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he says. “What’s happened?”

I take a deep breath, and spill the news I’ve been hanging onto. “Martin Glau pulled out of the project this morning.”

I see the change in Damien’s face immediately. The quick flash of shock followed by anger, then immediately replaced with steely determination. Beside him, Nikki isn’t nearly so controlled.

“Glau? But he’s been nothing but enthusiastic. Why on earth does he want to quit?”

“Not want to,” I clarify. “Has. Done. He’s gone.”

For a moment, Damien just stares at me. “Gone?”

“Apparently he’s moved to Tibet.”

Damien’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “Has he?”

“He’s sold his property, shut down his firm, and told his attorney to let his clients know that he’s decided to spend the rest of his life in prayerful meditation.”

“The son-of-a-bitch,” Damien says with the kind of contained fury I rarely see in his business dealings, though the press has made much of his temper over the years. “What the hell is he thinking?”

I understand his anger. For that matter, I share it. This is my project, and Glau has managed to screw us all. The Resort at Cortez might be a Stark property, but that doesn’t mean that it’s fully financed by Damien, or by Damien’s companies. No, we’ve worked our tails off over the last three months pulling together a Who’s Who of investors—and every single one of them named two reasons as to why they were committed to the project: Glau’s reputation as an architect, and Damien’s reputation as a businessman.

He runs his fingers through his hair. “All right then, so we handle this. If his attorney is notifying clients today, the press is going to get wind of this soon, and everything is going to unravel fast.”

I grimace. Just the thought makes my skin feel clammy, because this project is mine. I conceived it, I pitched it, and I’ve worked my ass off to get it off the ground. It’s more than a resort to me; it’s a stepping stone to my future.

I have to keep this project alive. And, dammit, I will keep it alive. Even if that means approaching the one man I swore I could never see again.

“We need a plan in place,” I say. “A definitive course of action to present to the investors.”

Despite the situation, I see a hint of amusement in Damien’s eyes. “And you have a suggestion already. Good. Let’s hear it.”

I nod and tighten my grip on my tote bag. “The investors were impressed by Glau’s reputation and his portfolio,” I say. “But that’s not something we can replicate in another architect.” As the moving force behind some of the most impressive and innovative buildings in modern history, Glau was a bona fide starchitect — an architect with both the skill and celebrity status to ensure a project’s success.

“So I suggest we present the one man who by all accounts is poised to meet or surpass Glau’s reputation.” I reach into my bag and pull out the magazine, then pass it to Damien.

“Jackson Steele.”

“He has the experience, the style, the reputation. He’s not just a rising star in the field—with Glau out of the picture, I think it’s fair to say that he’s the new crown prince. And that’s not all. Because even more so than Glau, Steele has the kind of celebrity element that this kind of project can use. The kind of publicity potential that will not only excite the investors, but will be a huge boon when we market the resort to the public.”

“Is that so?” Stark says, his voice oddly flat. I see him catch Nikki’s eyes, and can’t help but wonder at the quick look that passes between the two of them.

“Read the article,” I urge, determined to prove my point. “Not only is there a rumor that the story surrounding one of his projects is going to be adapted into a feature film, but they’ve also produced a documentary on him and on that museum he did last year in Amsterdam.”

“I know,” Damien says. “It’s premiering at the Chinese theater tonight.”

“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Are you going? You could talk to him there.”

Damien’s mouth twists with what I think is irony. “Oddly enough, I wasn’t invited. It’s only on my radar because Wyatt mentioned it. He’s been hired to take the red carpet photos and some candids of the guests.”

“But that’s my point,” I press. “It’s a red carpet event. This guy has celebrity sparkle all the way. We need him on our team. And the article also says that he’s looking to open a satellite office in Los Angeles, which suggests that he’s trying to move more into the West Coast market.”

“Jackson Steele isn’t the only name in the pot,” Damien says.

“No,” I agree. “But right now he’s the only one with a serious spotlight on him. More than that, I’ve already looked into the few others who might be appealing to the investors, and none have current availability. Steele does. I didn’t present Steele as a possible architect in the original development plan because he was committed for the next six months to a project in Dubai.” At the time, I’d been grateful that Jackson had been unavailable because I didn’t want to be in exactly this position. Now, however, things have changed.

“The Dubai project fell through,” I continue. “Political and financial issues, I guess. It’s all outlined in the article. I did some quick research, and I don’t believe Steele has another green lit project, but it won’t stay that way for long. Jackson Steele can save the Cortez resort. Please trust me when I tell you that I wouldn’t suggest him if I didn’t absolutely believe that.”

And wasn’t that the god’s honest truth?

“I believe it, too,” Damien says. “And I agree with your assessment of the situation. If we don’t get Jackson Steele on board right away, we’ll lose our investors. The only other way to keep the project alive is if I fully fund the project, either using corporate assets or my personal funds.” He draws in a breath. “Sylvia,” he says gently, “that’s not the way I do business.”

“I know. Of course I know that. That’s why I’m suggesting we approach Jackson. I mean Steele,” I correct, biting back a wince at my unintentional familiarity. “This is a high profile project—exactly the kind of thing that he’s focusing on these days. He’ll sign on. Everything about it is what he’s looking for.”

Once again, Damien and Nikki share a look, and worry snakes through me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But is there something I don’t know?”

“Jackson Steele has no interest in working for Stark International,” Nikki says, after a brief hesitation.

“He—what?” It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “How do you know?”

“We met him when we were in the Bahamas,” Nikki explains. “He made it very clear that he doesn’t want to work for Damien or for any of Damien’s companies. He says that Damien casts a long shadow, and he’s not interested in being caught under it.”

“Trust me when I say that we won’t be landing Steele for this project,” Damien says. He glances at his watch, then at Nikki. “I need to get back,” he says, then returns his attention to me. “Call the investors personally. This isn’t the kind of thing I can sit on. I’m truly sorry, Syl,” Damien adds, and it’s the nickname that drives home how real this is. The project is dead. My project is dead.

I tell myself I should be relieved not to risk the memories. That I’ve been a fool to think that I have the strength to taunt my nightmares. That I should just let this project go rather than walk right back into everything I once ran from.

No.

No. I’ve worked too hard, and this project means too much. I can’t just let it go. Not like that. Not without a fight.

And, yes, perhaps there is a part of me that wants to see Jackson Steele again. To prove to myself that I can do this. That I can see him, talk to him, work so goddamn intimately with him—and somehow manage to not shatter under the weight of it all.

“Please,” I say to Damien, as I squeeze my hands into fists and tell myself that the staccato beat of my heart and the clamminess of my skin stem from fear of losing the project and not the thought of seeing Jackson again. “Let me talk to him. We need to at least try.”

“There will be other projects, Ms. Brooks.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “This isn’t your last opportunity.”

“I believe you,” I say. “But I’ve never known you to walk away from a floundering deal if there was any chance of saving it.”

“Based on what I know of Mr. Steele, there isn’t any way.”

“I think there is. Please, let me try. I’m just asking for the weekend,” I rush to add. “Just enough time for me to meet with Mr. Steele and pitch the project to him.”

For a moment, Damien says nothing. Then he nods. “I can’t keep this from the investors,” he finally says. “But it’s already Friday, and we can make that work for us. Call them. Let them know we need to update them about the project, and schedule a conference call for Monday morning.”

I nod, quick and businesslike. But inside, I am jumping with glee.

“That gives you the weekend,” Damien continues. “Monday morning we’ll either announce that we have Jackson Steele on board. Or that the project is in trouble.”

“We’ll have him on board,” I say, with a confidence borne more of hope than reality.

Damien’s head tilts ever so slightly to the left, as if considering my words. “What makes you think so?”

I lick my lips. “I—I met him. About five years ago in Atlanta. Right before I came to work for you, actually. I don’t know if he’ll agree, but I think he’ll at least hear me out.” At least, I thought he would before I learned that he’d already turned down a Stark project.

Now, the entire playing field has changed. Before, I’d thought I was bringing him a kickass project on a silver platter. Me, doing a favor for Jackson. Me, in control.

Now I know the opposite is true.

He can walk away. He can say no. He can lift his middle finger and tell me to stay the hell out of his life.

I think about the last conversation we had—a conversation that had ripped me apart.

“I need you to do something for me,” I’d said.

“Anything.”

“No questions, no arguments. It’s important.”

“Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.”

He had kept his word, then. He’d done as I asked, even though it had just about destroyed us both.

Now there is something else I need.

And I desperately hope that once again I only have to ask.

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