Mari Carr's Blog, page 45

Steal the Moon

The unstoppable Lexi Blake is back with another awesome release today called Steal the Moon. It’s part of her Thieves series.  This woman is a writing machine! And I love it.

Steal the Moon, Thieves Book 3

When an ancient artifact enslaves every werewolf on earth, humanity’s only hope is a thief…

Zoey Donovan should be happy. Her love life couldn’t be better, her demonic nemesis is on the run, business is booming, and no one has tried to kill her in seven whole months. But without her best friend to share it with, it all seems a little hollow. Neil, her fabulous furry wingman, is missing and two grumpy werewolf bodyguards have taken his place.

Undaunted by her humorless babysitters, she intends to track Neil down even if it means risking her newfound romantic bliss. But someone else has plans for Zoey, and he doesn’t intend to play nice. Lucas Halfer is desperate for revenge, and he knows just how to get it.

An ancient Roman legend tells of an artifact that will grant its possessor the power to control all wolves. No one, including Daniel and Dev, believes the Strong Arm of Remus is real but Zoey thinks Halfer might have already located it. With every werewolf pack in North America gathering in Colorado, the demon could enslave an unstoppable army.

To save the day, and possibly the world, Zoey will have to find a way to steal the Strong Arm of Remus from one of the most powerful demons in existence. Then again, impossible is kind of her specialty.

Available at:

eBook: Amazon

Print book: Amazon

Just Because

Thought I’d take a moment to share another first chapter from the first book in my Just Because series. Because of You was one of my very first books. If you like your romances with a suspenseful twist, I hope you check it out. The second book, Because You Love Me, is also romantic suspense as well as a red hot menage romance between sexy cowboy twins and a big city journalist. Then, the final story in the trilogy is my first (and only) foray into m/m.

Here’s the first chapter of Because of You.

“I don’t understand why you can’t tell me who he was meeting with,” Jessie Warner said, her hands shaking with frustration. She’d tried for two weeks to get her late husband’s partner to agree to see her, but to say the man had been evasive was an understatement.

“Client confidentiality, Jessie,” Rex replied so smoothly she wanted to reach across the desk and ram her fist through his smug face.

“You’re an accountant, Rex. Not a fucking priest or psychologist. It’s not like I’m going to grill them about their back taxes. All I want to know is which clients Tommy met with the day he died.”

“Why?”

Jessie sighed, perfectly aware that this discussion was going to end like every other conversation she’d had regarding the night of her husband’s death.

“I just want to talk to them. See if they noticed anything strange in his demeanor that day.”

“Why?” Rex repeated, and for a moment Jessie was struck by the fact that the man was no longer looking at her with annoyance, but rather with pity in his eyes.

Shit.

She hated pity. She’d seen it on the faces of too many people lately and it only made her angrier, more frustrated. She was tired of being treated like she was weak, and she was sure as hell tired of being treated like she was crazy.

“Forget it,” she said, rising quickly. “You aren’t going to tell me a fucking thing. You know it and I know it. Thanks for nothing, Rex.”

“Dammit, Jessie, don’t leave like this. I know you think Tommy’s death wasn’t an accident, but believe me when I say it was. It’s been seven months since he died. You’ve got to let this go.”

An accident. She’d read the police and coroner’s reports and she knew what they all believed. They’d said it was an accident, but she couldn’t shake the idea that it wasn’t—despite the fact she had no proof to the contrary. Tommy had fallen on the ice and hit his head. It seemed to be an easy answer for everyone— everyone but her.

Shortly after his death, she’d begun probing into the details a bit more—asking the police and hospital workers questions, but so far everyone she had encountered had been less than helpful. They thought she was some silly, grieving widow who had watched one too many episodes of CSI and had decided to create a crime out of thin air.

Apparently Rex was no different. He’d ignored her phone messages until finally she’d decided to take the direct approach. Her spur-of-the-moment, “oh I was just in the area” visit had been a surprise to him. She knew he was too wrapped up in appearances to throw the widow of his former partner out on her ass in front of an office full of employees. She’d seen in his face that he wasn’t pleased about being shanghaied into this visit. No doubt he’d heard the rumors that she was chasing shadows and had hoped to avoid this conversation.

“I can’t let it go, Rex,” she said quietly as she reached for the door. At one point, she’d considered the man a friend, but nowadays she found it harder and harder to reconnect with the people she’d known before Tommy’s death. Aside from her best friend Todd, she’d drifted away from everyone else in her life. “Please help me.”

The man shrugged sadly. “I’m sorry, Jessie, but I can’t.”

“There’s a world of difference between can’t and won’t. I think you have them confused,” she said, storming out. She closed the door loudly behind her and sighed heavily. She’d known when she left the house this morning it would be a wasted trip. She’d been a fool to think that Rex would offer her any sort of help. Hell, the man had avoided her calls like she was a telemarketer.

“Jessie? Is that you?”

“Jordan.” She smiled at the older man in the foyer as he leaned down to hug her. Jordan Scott had been a good friend to Tommy in addition to being one of his biggest clients. He’d always been kind to her as well. He’d never forgotten to send a birthday card or his traditional bottle of champagne Christmas gift. They’d dined at his penthouse apartment on more than a few occasions. Neither she nor Tommy had been close to their families and in some ways Jordan had taken on the role of a beloved uncle. One they didn’t see often, but with whom they were always happy to reconnect.

“What a nice surprise,” she said as he released her. Always dressed to a tee, he was an extremely attractive gentleman in his mid-fifties, with salt and pepper hair and expressive deep blue eyes. She had often questioned him about why he’d never married. She couldn’t imagine a whole generation of women letting Jordan slip through their fingers. He was handsome, rich and charming.

“I haven’t seen you since—” He paused and Jessie nodded at the silence that followed.

“Since Tommy’s funeral,” she finished for him.

“How have you been, my dear? I meant to call, but I’m afraid a problem at work pulled me out of the country for a few months. I’ve only just returned from Italy this past week.”

“I’m fine,” she answered, the lie a familiar one. She hadn’t been fine for seven months. Not since the night she’d found her husband’s dead body.

“What brings you to the firm?” Jordan asked. “I thought Rex said you’d sold Tommy’s half of the business to him.”

“Oh, I did,” she said. She looked into Jordan’s compassionate face and found her suspicions, her fears falling from her lips. “I’ve had this feeling since Tommy passed away that something was wrong and I wanted to know which clients Tommy met with the day he died. I was hoping to speak to them, hoping one of them could help me understand his frame of mind that day.”

Jordan’s puzzled look gave her a moment’s pause. “Frame of mind?” he asked.

“I don’t think his death was an accident.”

“You don’t?” he asked in such a way that for the first time, she felt a glimmer of hope that someone actually understood.

She shook her head.

“I met with Tommy the day he died, Jessie.”

Jordan’s confession stopped her short. She’d anticipated another pitying look, another pat on the head, another condescending comment about being foolish. She hadn’t expected an answer. “You did?”

“We met earlier that morning about the audit he was performing for my company. Rather run-of-the- mill stuff. I can assure you his behavior was perfectly normal. I wish I’d known then that I’d never see him again. So many things I would have liked to have said to the dear boy.” The older man looked away and Jessie could see the glimmer of tears at the corner of his eyes. When he turned back toward her, the look of sadness was replaced with one of concern. “What’s going on, Jessie? Why don’t you believe it was an accident?”

The tightness in her chest that never left eased as Jordan spoke. For the first time in months, someone was listening to her, answering her questions, taking her seriously. “Tommy called me earlier in the afternoon, the day he died. He said something that made me think—” She paused, uncertain how to word her concerns.

“Made you think?” he prodded.

She paused and shrugged, her thoughts were traveling a different direction. Jordan had seen Tommy, spoken to him that day. She couldn’t focus on anything other than that fact. “Was Tommy acting strangely that day? Did he seem preoccupied, overwrought, worried?”

“Not at all. What did he say on the phone, Jessie?”

“Nothing specific.” Tommy hadn’t said anything at all really. Perhaps it was his tone more than his words that had sparked her suspicions.

“I suppose you’ve spoken to the police about this,” he said.

She nodded and sighed. “Yes, for all the good it’s done me.”

“I take it they don’t share your belief that there was foul play involved?”

She shook her head. “No. I sort of get the impression they think I’m insane.”

Jordan laughed lightly at her lame attempt at a jest. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I wish there was something I could say that would help you, but honestly, there was nothing in Tommy’s demeanor that day that leads me to suspect foul play. Tell you what. Why don’t you let me do a bit of digging around? I’ll see if I can’t scare some information out of old Rex, the shyster.”

Jessie grinned. Jordan had never made any bones about the fact that Tommy was his preferred accountant in the firm.

“Would you? Really?”

“I’m not sure what help I can be, but if it will put a smile back on that pretty face of yours, I’m willing to try.”

“Oh, thank you, Jordan, you’ve already been more help than you know. If you remember anything else about that day, will you call me?”

“Of course, my dear. You will be the first person I call.”

She said her goodbyes and walked to her car feeling lighter than she had since Tommy’s death. She still hadn’t discovered any answers, but Jordan genuinely seemed to believe her and wanted to help. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel as if she was wandering around in a dark room with no doors. Jordan had just offered her a flashlight and, God willing, a way out—back into the sunshine that had eluded her for months.

Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.

Because of You is available at Samhain, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Sony, Kobo, and All Romance Ebooks.

Quote of the Day

The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes.

- G.K. Chesterton

The Foreign Affairs series

Lexxie Couper and I had a blast writing the four-book Foreign Affairs series together. We decided to blend our countries (Go USA! Go Australia!) to create a cowboy story (you know how I love those) Aussie-style. The result was Foreign Affairs and despite pulling our hair out over language differences and time zone problems, we muddled through and we were both super pleased with the end result!

Prologue

Annie: Mornin’ sunshine!

Dylan: G’day, love. How’re things in your neck of the woods this evening?

Annie: Long-ass day. Started with rain. Ended with rain. The middle bit was filled with my boss calling me Princess in a staff meeting. Grrrrr. I may end up killing him soon.

Dylan: Don’t kill him. I’m too far away to bail you out.

Annie: LOL. Thanks for the offer, but Monet’s already promised to have my back with the bail money.

Dylan: I think I like this Monet.

Annie: Yeah. She rocks. Actually, she might be the only thing rocking in my world these days.

Dylan: That doesn’t sound good.

Annie: It’s not. You ever been sick of your life, Dylan?

Dylan: Me? Sick of life? Nope. Sick of Hunter at times. The bloody bastard’s been giving me a hard time about chatting with a woman in America again. I told him if he says another word, he’s dead.

Annie: Careful. I’m too far away to bail you out. Snort! Sometimes I wish we lived closer.

Dylan: Me too, love. But let’s be serious, a city girl wouldn’t last a day in the Outback.

Annie: What? You must be joking. I’d last a hell of a lot longer on your little ranch than you would in my big city.

Dylan: Station, Annie. Station. We don’t own ranches Down Under. Do you reckon you’d handle the snakes in the loo?

Annie: I deal with the rats in the sewers just fine.

Dylan: I’ll accept your offer of rats in the sewers and give back crocs in the river and spiders on the toilet seat. How’s that sound?

Annie: Deal.

Dylan: Two days. I’d give you two days before you were on a plane heading back to New York. Me, of course, well…I’d make one hell of a city boy. Blend in like I was born and bred there.

Annie: You wouldn’t last a New York minute, tough guy.

Dylan: I tell you what. Let’s see who outlasts the other. A Yank in the Outback or an Aussie in New York. Next week. Game?

Annie: Game on.

Dylan: Let me take a look at the flights online.

Annie: LMAO. Are we seriously doing this?

Dylan: I’ve never been more serious in my life. Okay. I’ll see you in four days, city girl. This Saturday. Qantas. Sydney International. One p.m.

Chapter One

Annie Prince sank on to one of the hard plastic seats at Sydney Airport, giving in to exhaustion. She looked down at her very wet, now defunct iPhone—she vowed she’d never text on the toilet again—and decided this trip had been cursed from the word go.

In the past twenty-four hours she’d run the gamut of emotions—anger, frustration, annoyance, disappointment, excitement, happiness, sheer panic and now…nothing but numbness.

She studied the hubbub of the airport again. How the hell did she get here?

She’d roamed the International Arrivals area for nearly an hour before giving in to the realization he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Dylan wasn’t waiting for her.

When she’d replayed this scenario in her mind three thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven times—it had been a long-ass flight to Sydney—she’d always seen him standing in front of the crowd of families and friends waiting to welcome loved ones home. In her mind’s eye, he’d been smiling widely, holding flowers, maybe even a balloon. She’d imagined he’d give a true cowboy woot when she stepped through the doors and every woman around them would watch with jealousy as he rushed over to pick her up, spin her around and kiss her.

Instead, she’d watched all her fellow travelers receive those warm welcomes while she stood completely alone, in a foreign country.

How the hell did I get here?

She closed her eyes wearily, thinking of that fateful night when she’d met Dylan online, the night that had set her on this misguided, insane path.

It was all Monet’s fault.

 

“I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Thanks for coming over, Monet.”

“Wine cures everything,” Monet announced. “You know that.”

She and Monet had been neighbors in their high-rise Manhattan apartment building for nearly a year. They’d met on the elevator the day Monet moved in, and had clicked. Their friendship had flourished through numerous nights of drinking, broken hearts and, “oh my God, I just had awesome sex” chats.

“It cured my lousy day.”

Monet topped up her wineglass. Annie winced when she noticed it was empty. Hadn’t she just filled it up a few minutes ago?

“Damn.” Monet squinted at the bottle. “That one went fast. Should we go for broke and make it a three-bottle night?”

Annie giggled. “Sure. Why not? My hangover is pretty much guaranteed at this point.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“My boss skipped over me for another big assignment, the paparazzi were out in full-force this afternoon and I dumped Joel.”

Monet reared back. “That’s a lot of shit for one day. Let’s tackle this one at a time. Your boss is a prick. Why are you still working there?”

“Because it’s one of the few magazines in New York my father doesn’t own. You know how I feel about making it without his help.”

“Pardon me, Annie, but you’re not ‘making it’. That asshole boss of yours is working against you.”

Annie sighed. “I know.”

“What’s the deal with the paparazzi? Thought they’d become bored with you lately.”

“That’s actually connected to my breakup. Joel did a tell-all interview with People magazine where he casually hinted there may be wedding bells in our future. What the fuck is that about? We’ve been dating five months and I have zero intention of locking myself in wedded hell with anybody right now. He knows that.”

Monet took a sip of wine and looked at her sympathetically. “You think he was trying to force your hand?”

Annie was too familiar with the Joels of the world. Unfortunately, she also sucked at recognizing them until after they’d screwed her—figuratively and literally. “He wants a piece of the Prince pie. I’m freaking done with men.”

Monet rolled her eyes. “No, you’re not. You enjoy sex too much.”

“I’ll hire a paid escort.”

Monet laughed. “You’re a romantic at heart and it’s pretty obvious that’s never going to change. If all your asshole exes haven’t beaten that out of you, we can assume it’s a character flaw that will stick.”

“Great. So I’m destined for life as an old maid because every man in America wants my family’s money a hell of a lot more than they want me.”

“So broaden the search.” Monet leaned over and grabbed her laptop from the coffee table.

“What are you doing?”

Monet didn’t answer. Instead, she quickly tapped several keys on the computer then turned the screen around so Annie could see it.

“An online dating service? Be serious.”

Monet raised an eyebrow. “I’m one-hundred-percent serious. I never joke around about getting laid. Let’s assume that every man in the United States knows your family’s name.”

“Prince Incorporated has large holdings in Europe and Asia too,” Annie pointed out. Her buzz was now full force. “So unless that service can find me a man on Mars, this is a waste of time.”

Monet kept typing. “So we’ll go extreme.” Her eyes widened as her gaze landed on something on the screen. “Ooo la la. What do we have here?”

Annie tried to peer at the laptop, but Monet turned it away from her.

“What is it?”

Monet grinned. “What’s your stance on a sexy Australian cowboy?”

“Jesus. They have those on there? Sign me up.”

Monet giggled—and then she did just that.

 

Annie sighed and glanced around the airport once again. Sitting and sulking was accomplishing nothing. There were a thousand possible scenarios for why Dylan wasn’t here. Maybe something had come up at the ranch.

Crap. Station. She’d never remember that.

Or maybe he was stuck in traffic, his car broken down. Maybe he’d gotten a nasty stomach flu. She’d walked by a customer service desk at least a dozen times during her trips around the terminal searching for her cowboy. She’d ask them to do an all-call over the intercom. She needed to determine Dylan truly wasn’t here before she tried to figure out her next move.

As she waited in line to speak to the representative, she remembered the morning after her impulsive, drunken decision to join the world of international online dating. She’d woken up bleary-eyed, with a pounding headache, and had decided to call in sick to work. Annie had never taken a sick day, but her boss’s determination to treat her like a nonentity and her queasy stomach made the choice to remain home an easy one.

 

She walked toward the kitchen for a handful of saltines, stopping to power up her laptop on the way. When she returned to her desk, she discovered an email from someone she didn’t know. Dylan Sullivan. Her hand hovered over the button that would send Mr. Sullivan straight to the trash, but something stopped her. Some niggling memory from the previous night.

She and Monet had drunk way too much and stayed up far too late. Monet had consoled her over work and Joel.

Oh fuck! The online dating gag. Monet had signed her up and then…

Some Aussie cowboy had expressed interest. Monet had talked her into sharing her personal information.

Annie rubbed her aching head. How could she have been so stupid? If the tabloids caught wind of the “practical Prince sister” soliciting for dates online, they’d be ruthless. She might as well give up any hope of avoiding the limelight. Maybe she should just pack it in and join her ditzy sisters’ ridiculous reality show, Life with the Princesses. It’s not like she’d ever be taken seriously after this little tidbit leaked out.

Her hand hovered over the mouse, and then she quickly clicked to open the email. She’d gone this far. She might as well see what she was risking her reputation for. She read Dylan’s message.

His email was nice, well written and humorous. It also seemed pretty clear he had no idea who Annie Prince was.

Feeling like she’d dodged a bullet, Annie responded, explaining nicely that she’d been tipsy when her friend talked her into signing up for the service. She let him down as gently as she could, turned off the computer and crawled back into bed with a couple of aspirin and a tall glass of ice water.

When she awoke later that afternoon, she was surprised to find a very funny response from her would-be Aussie suitor. Dylan had taken her rejection with good grace and he’d even sent her a list of ingredients for the Sullivan family hangover cure. Against her better judgment, Annie tried the hangover recipe, which worked, and then wrote Dylan again, thanking him.

 

After that, they’d fallen into a pattern of emailing every day. If anyone asked her to list her three closest friends at the moment, Dylan would be included on the list. For the past few months, they’d talked about anything and everything. She’d even taken a huge leap of faith and told Dylan about her family and their money. Monet had been correct. Australians—at least those in Dylan’s neck of the woods—didn’t have a clue who the Prince family was.

“May I help you, miss?”

Annie glanced up and discovered she was next in line. “Yes. I was hoping you could page someone for me. My friend was supposed to pick me up about an hour ago, but I can’t find him.”

The airport employee nodded and gave her what looked like a pitying smile. “Of course. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Dylan Sullivan.”

“I’ll page him right away. Should I have him meet you here?”

Annie murmured a quiet “yes, thanks,” then stepped away from the desk to wait as Dylan’s name was broadcast throughout the airport.

Please God, let him hear it. Let him be here.

Not only was her sex life depending on him being the good guy she believed him to be—she’d foolishly hitched the success of her career to Dylan’s wagon as well.

Miraculously, she’d managed to convince her editor, Mr. Lennon, to let her write a four-part series for the magazine about life on an Australian cattle station. It was the only way she’d managed to swing the trip across the ocean and the time away from work on such short notice. He’d only agreed because his boss saw the picture of Dylan that she’d attached to the proposal. Apparently the editor-in-chief had a thing for Aussie cowboys too. She’d demanded Lennon give Annie the assignment, and he’d begrudgingly complied.

There was no way she could go home without the articles and expect to keep her lousy job.

“Come on, Dylan,” she muttered. “Where the hell are you?”

* * * * *

Hunter ran his finger down the pretty blonde’s arm, enjoying the flirting and easy banter. He’d hit the bar after seeing his idiot brother off at his gate. They’d flown the station helicopter to Sydney, leaving so early this morning it had still been dark. Hunter had a couple of hours to kill while he waited for the flight mechanic to refuel the chopper and clear him for takeoff.

“So you live on a cattle station?” the blonde asked. He’d forgotten her name the second she’d said it. One of these days he was going to have to learn to pay attention to details like that.

“Yep. Farpoint Creek. My family’s owned it forever. Established it back in the 1800s.”

The woman feigned interest, but Hunter could see the disdain in her eyes. She was clearly a city girl and the idea of living out whoop whoop in the Outback was less than appealing to her. Lucky for both of them, he wasn’t considering taking this game of slap and tickle out of the airport.

She leaned closer, accidentally brushing the side of his arm with her breast. They’d started their flirting at different tables. Then he’d joined her. After a few minutes of sexual innuendoes, he’d given up his seat across the table and moved over to share her side of the booth.

“You know, I’m a member of the Qantas Club.”

“Is that right?” he asked.

“I was actually thinking of heading over there and freshening up before my flight. They have showers in the lounge.”

“Showers, eh? Bit bloody fancy.”

She dragged her hand along his leg, starting at his knee and working her way up. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to grab it. His dick twitched when her hand crept closer.

“Wish I had someone to wash my back,” she purred.

He started to offer his sudsy services, but something on the PA caught his attention. “What did she say?”

“What did who say?”

The PA announcement was repeated. Dylan Sullivan, please meet your party at the customer service desk located at terminal one.

What the hell? Dylan wasn’t here. At least, he bloody well shouldn’t be.

Hunter reluctantly pushed the woman away while silently cursing his brother. “Sorry, love, but I gotta go do something.” Dylan would pay dearly for costing him a shower with this beauty in the high flyer’s club. He retrieved his hat from the table and put it back on his head.

“You’re leaving?”

Hunter nodded regretfully. “Yeah. Afraid it can’t be helped.” He threw enough cash on the table to cover both of their drinks and a generous tip for the waitress. “Sorry.”

He walked toward terminal one, trying to figure out why Dylan wasn’t jetting away from Sydney, getting closer to making one of the dumbest mistakes of his life. He’d loaded his brother on a plane headed for New York over an hour ago.

Hunter had spent most of their morning trek to Sydney trying to convince Dylan that taking off halfway around the world to hook up with some broad he’d met on one of those stupid online dating services made him look pretty desperate.

He’d also pointed out that precious little could come of this trip, besides getting a piece of New York tail. Dylan lived and worked on Farpoint Creek cattle station. In Australia. Trying to hook up with some American chick wasn’t exactly practical.

Dylan, ever the romantic idiot, seemed to think Annie had the potential to be his soul mate. Jesus, his brother had actually used those words—soul mate—and was supposed to be headed to New York to prove that asinine fact.

Had Dylan missed his plane? Hunter couldn’t figure out how. They’d made it to the departure gate in plenty of time. And if so, why would he page himself rather than ask the customer service rep to page Hunter? Maybe Dylan had given his own name as well and the lady had fucked it up.

He glanced at the crowd standing around the service desk as he walked toward the terminal. He and Dylan weren’t lacking in the height department. If his dickhead brother was around, he sure as hell wasn’t standing up; he’d tower over these people. Add the fact he and Dylan hardly ever took off their bloody hats and Hunter should be able to spot him a mile away.

He started to get in line at the desk to ask who’d paged Dylan when a woman walked up to him.

“You’re here!” she said.

Hunter tried to place the woman’s face. She looked vaguely familiar. “I am?” His mother claimed he’d been cursed with a sarcastic streak as wide as Farpoint since the day he was born. While his mum found it annoying, Hunter had never found a good reason to curb that personality trait.

The pretty woman smiled. “I was starting to worry.”

Before he could tell her she had the wrong bloke and should go ahead and hang on to her anxiety, she took a step closer and threw her arms around him.

The hard-on Hunter had managed to batten down as he’d walked away from his potential shower partner reemerged when her firm breasts brushed against his chest. Bloody hell. Who knew the airport was such a great place to pick up women? He might have to fly to Sydney International more often.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, he accepted the embrace, loosely wrapping his arms around her back. The lovely lady was just the right height for him and had some sexy curves. He liked a woman with meat on her bones.

She pulled away slightly and he started to release her, but she kept her arms wrapped around him and upped the ante, kissing him.

It started as a sweet, friendly kiss, but Hunter wasn’t having any of that shit. She smelled and tasted too good. He grasped her soft face and held her close. He turned his head and deepened the kiss, pressing her lips open so he could get an even better taste. He was thrilled when her tongue met his halfway. Jesus. This chick could kiss.

The flash of a camera distracted him and he felt the woman stiffen slightly. He ignored both, pressing his lips more firmly against hers. She relaxed—then another camera flashed. And another.

He thought he heard the woman mutter the word “fuck” as she stepped away.

“We need to get out of here,” she said.

With some distance between them, Hunter’s brain reengaged. It was clear she had the wrong guy, but it was going to be awkward to admit that, given the liberties he’d taken with her mouth.

“Listen, love—” he began.

She ignored him. Bending over, she retrieved her suitcases. Handing one to him, she briskly walked away from the service desk. He dragged her bag and tried to keep up.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“Don’t have one.”

That admission stalled her for a moment. “Dylan, the paparazzi have spotted me. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Two words resonated in his brain. “Dylan” and “paparazzi”.

Who the bloody hell was this woman?

More flashes. Hunter glanced over his shoulder and saw three men with cameras following them. People turned to stare, curiously trying to determine which famous person was walking through Sydney airport.

Hunter grabbed her hand. “Here, this way.”

He led her toward the terminal where his helicopter awaited. He glanced at the time as they passed under a clock. The thing should be fueled up and ready by now. The cameramen continued to dog their steps. There were nearly a dozen people trailing them now as cameras continued to flash. He showed his ID at the terminal, they were ushered through a doorway and, at last, the paparazzi were shut out.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked as they paused in the small hallway that led to the tarmac and his helicopter.

She pulled her hand from his grip and frowned, clearly unhappy about his question. “I told you about my family, Dylan. I warned you this could happen.”

“Love, you didn’t warn me about a damn thing. Why don’t we start at the beginning? I’m Hunter Sullivan.” He stressed his first name. “Now, who are you?”

The woman paled slightly. Hunter was impressed when she recovered quickly. She looked like she’d been run through the wringer but she clearly wasn’t beaten yet.

“You’re Dylan’s brother.”

He nodded. “We’re twins. Obviously.”

Annie studied his face. “Identical.”

He didn’t respond. She clearly knew his brother’s face well enough to know there wasn’t much to distinguish one from the other. Apart from the fact Dylan shaved less than him, they were mirror images. “And now that we’ve determined who I am, who are—”

“Why did you kiss me back there?”

Shit. Hunter was hoping she’d forget that little tidbit. The answer was simple—pure, instant animal attraction. He’d been worked up and horny as shit after his encounter with the blonde in the bar.

What he told her was different, and he tried not to wince at his own cocky, arrogant tone. “When a pretty broad throws herself at me, I’m not likely to refuse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t throw myself at you. If you were any sort of gentleman, you would have told me who you were right away.”

“Kind of hard to talk when someone’s got their tongue in your mouth.”

“You put your tongue in my mouth first.”

Hunter grinned and took a step closer, looking at her lips once more. He raised his eyebrows as if to say he’d do it again if given the chance.

She glanced at the door they’d just walked through. Hunter could read the indecisiveness on her face. He wondered if she’d subject herself to another dash through the airport with the paparazzi hot on her heels or if she’d tough it out with him. Given his current behavior, he’d choose the cameramen if he was her. He was being a right bloody arsehole.

“Listen, maybe if you told me who you were, I could help you get where you need to be. You’re obviously not from here. American, right?” But as soon as he asked the question, a horrifying reality crashed down on his head. “Annie?”

The woman nodded.

“You’re Dylan’s Annie? From New York?” The fact she was here wasn’t sinking into his thick skull as quickly as it should.

“Yes. Is he okay? Is there a reason why he sent you to pick me up? He’s not ill, is he?”

Hunter shook his head. “No. He’s not sick. He’s on his way to see you.” Hunter glanced at his watch. “His plane will land at JFK in about eighteen hours.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. I’d say you two crossed wires somewhere. Ordinarily I’d suggest we head to the terminal, hit a bar and make a plan about where to go from here, but I suspect you don’t want to go back there with all those cameramen breathing down your neck.”

Annie shook her head.

“Is there anyone you can call?”

She repeated the headshake. “I dropped my phone in the toilet when I was texting Dylan to find out where he was. It’s officially dead.”

Hunter bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The poor woman was having a rough day.

“Is there somewhere more private we can hide out?” she asked. “Until I figure out what I’m supposed to do now.”

Hunter pointed down the corridor. “I guess we could sit in the chopper.”

“Chopper?”

He grasped the handles on both her suitcases and began dragging them as he walked toward the runway. He was pleased when Annie followed rather than run in the opposite direction.

“Dylan and I came to the airport in a helicopter.”

Annie gave him a funny look. “You have a thing against cars?”

“You have any idea how big Australia is? We live damn near in the middle of it, love. We could either fly the chopper to the airport in four or five hours or drive to Sydney in just under a dozen. I can’t afford to be away from work for so long, so it was a pretty easy decision. I flew Dylan here early this morning and intend to fly home later today.”

“This can’t be happening,” Annie muttered behind him. “How could this all get so fucked up?”

Hunter picked up the bags and carried them down the stairs to the tarmac, where his chopper sat waiting.

A flight mechanic approached. “You’ve got a full tank, Mr. Sullivan, and I gave everything a quick inspection. It’s ready to roll. Just radio the air traffic control room when you’re ready for takeoff.”

“Thanks, mate. Will do.”

Hunter threw her luggage in the back. Annie paused when he opened the passenger door of the helicopter for her. “Who flies this?”

“I do.”

“Jesus. Are you serious?”

Hunter suppressed a grin. Her American accent was cute. “Yes, Annie. I’m a fully qualified helicopter pilot. Not that you need to worry. We’re just hiding out in here, right?”

Annie bit her lip as she looked up at the propellers nervously. Rather than reply, she tried to climb into the passenger seat. The devil prodded him forward and he gave her a boost, using her arse for leverage. It was firm, tight. It took all this strength not to give it a good squeeze.

She startled when he placed his hands on her rear end, but accepted the momentum he provided to claim her seat. “Thanks.” Her slightly narrowed eyes and sardonic tone almost made him laugh.

“My pleasure.” He crossed in front of the chopper and took his place behind the controls. “So I guess we need to figure out how you ended up here when Dylan said he was going there.”

“He didn’t say he was going to New York. We were chatting on IM and he said something like ‘put your money where your mouth is’. Then he said Qantas, Sydney Airport, November twentieth, and gave me a time. I booked the flight, even though the arrival time he listed was a bit off, but I figured that’s because airlines are constantly changing their schedules.”

Hunter frowned. “I was there when he sent that stupid— Ahem.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I saw him send you the flight details—his flight details—in an email about an hour after that. He forwarded you the information from the airline.”

Annie looked around the helicopter and he wondered what she was thinking. “I never got that email.”

“Well, he sent it.” Hunter didn’t want to mention that satellite reception on Farpoint Creek was sketchy at best. There was a very good chance Dylan’s email was still bouncing around somewhere in space.

Annie sighed. “I swear to you I never got it. I just said ‘challenge accepted’ or ‘game on’ or something in our chat.”

He nodded. “Yeah, Dylan took that to mean you were excited about his visit. Bloody dickhead.”

“But I meant I was coming here. I thought he’d invited me to Australia.”

“Well, I don’t mean to criticize, love, but what woman accepts an invitation to visit a bloke she’s never met in a foreign country and only gives herself four days to prepare? Didn’t your family and friends try to talk you out of this?”

Annie’s shoulders straightened and he could see she was pissed off. “I know Dylan.”

He rolled his eyes. “A few emails and IMs and—”

“We’ve been corresponding for months. Plus we’ve Skyped and talked on the phone and exchanged pictures. I feel like I do know him.”

“And I suppose from that kiss you gave me back in the terminal, you didn’t intend for this to be just a friendly visit.”

She bit her lip again. Hunter wished he didn’t find the gesture so cute. “That’s none of your business.”

He let her off the hook. Her blush answered his question just fine. “What’s the deal with the paparazzi? You an actress or something?”

“Dylan didn’t tell you about my family?”

Hunter shook his head. “Nope. Dylan didn’t share much about you at all. Showed me a photo of you a few weeks ago. Besides that and the fact you don’t read your emails carefully, I don’t know a thing about you.” Hunter didn’t mention the soul mate comment.

“I’m a journalist. I work for a magazine in New York.”

“Didn’t realize journalists were so popular in the States.”

She flashed him a dirty look. “It’s not my job that interests the press, it’s my name. I’m Annie Prince.”

He shook his head. “I’m still not following you.”

“Prince Incorporated?”

Hunter recognized that name even less. “Nope. Haven’t got a bloody clue what you’re talking about.”

“I guess Monet was right. She said there had to be somewhere on the planet where I could live incognito. Go Australia.” She raised one fist in a cheer for his country.

“I don’t know who this Monet is, but that’s not exactly true. You’re in Sydney and there are cameramen following you.”

She blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Yeah. My family owns and operates a huge conglomeration of newspapers, magazines, hotels and other properties. Our net worth is in the billions. For some insane reason, this makes us interesting to people. Not to mention the fact my dad is a bit of a glory hound, constantly doing stuff to draw attention to himself. My two sisters have followed in his footsteps and now star on the most inane, idiotic reality series ever to air on television. And I suppose everyone expects me to be the same, to want the same spotlight cast on my life.”

“But you don’t?”

“God no. Did you see me pose for photos? Your ranch in the middle of the desert actually sounds like paradise.”

Hunter scoffed. “I think you’re the first woman, besides my mother, to ever feel that way. And it’s not a ranch. It’s a station.”

Annie ignored his correction. Maybe she was used to it. He’d heard Dylan tell her a time or two when he’d accidentally eavesdropped on their chats. She let out a wobbly sigh. “What the hell am I going to do now?”

Hunter studied her desolate face and was sorry Dylan hadn’t invited her for a visit. The idea of Annie spending a week or two on their family’s cattle station was very appealing.

Then he recalled Dylan’s comment. She could be my soul mate. He couldn’t poach on his brother’s girl.

“Seems to me your answer’s simple. Go back inside and catch the next flight out of Sydney. Chances are it won’t leave until tomorrow, so you could book a hotel in the city and take in a couple of the sights. No reason the trip has to be a total waste. You’ll only be a day or so behind Dylan. Once you get back, the two of you can take New York by storm. No harm, no foul.”

Annie didn’t respond for several moments. Finally she released another sigh, this one less wobbly. “I can’t go back to New York right away.”

Hunter frowned. “Why not? If you’re worried about those wankers with the cameras, I can talk to security, get you an escort.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m here for work as well. On an assignment for the magazine. It was the only way I could miss two weeks of work. I haven’t been there long enough to build up any real vacation time.”

“What’s your assignment?”

“I’m writing a four-part series about life on a cattle station. And I’m supposed to interview a real live Aussie cowboy.”

She looked at him hopefully—and he knew he was in trouble.

“I’m a stockman, Annie. We’re called stockmen over here, or grazier, if we’re being more formal. Which we’re not.”

“Oh. Okay. Then I need to shadow a stockman.”

“Me?”

She lifted one shoulder as if to ask why not. “I’d intended to interview Dylan, but he’s not here and likely won’t be for a while. The first piece is due in three days and once I start, I sort of need to stick with the same cow…er, stockman.”

She really expected him to take her back to the cattle station? Let her follow him around for two weeks watching him work? How was he supposed to keep his hands off her if she was under his roof and his bloody brother was half a world away?

Dylan better get his arse back Down Under, and quick.

Otherwise, this was not going to end well.

Misplaced Princess is available at Ellora’s Cave, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, ARe, Kobo, and Sony.

Lead Me On

Lexxie Couper is continuing the tale of those red-hot rockers in her Heart of Fame series with Lead Me On.

He may rock her world, but she will shake him to his soul.

Heart of Fame, Book 5

Brooding. Arrogant. Narcissistic. Rock legend Samuel Gibson has worn all these labels—and he’s in no hurry to drop them. Until he meets Lily Pearce, whose brother would be the perfect new singer for the band. There’s an allure beneath Lily’s prickly demeanor that makes Samuel wonder if it’s time to correct some of the misconceptions trailing behind him like a mile of bad microphone cord.

After watching her brother get chewed up and spit out, Lily has no love for the hedonistic world of rock ’n’ roll, or anyone in it. Yet her own body betrays her with an instantly sizzling sexual attraction to the very symbol of everything she hates about that lifestyle—Samuel Gibson.

Things heat up and Lily’s heart is on the line once she starts to catch glimpses of the man beneath the reputation. But can she reconcile her feeling for Samuel with everything she knows his world to be?

Product Warnings

Be prepared for sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. As well as molten, relentless seduction. And heartbreak. Because rock stars rarely play by the rules.

Excerpt:

His heart clenched. For some reason, the realization she was concerned about her brother pushed a button deep inside Samuel, a confusing one that seemed to have a direct line to his chest. “How can you expect to clean up if you’re going to be throwing yourself into all the crap all over again so soon?”

“Y’know,” Jax said, leaning forward, “we’re not all deviants. I know there’s been some stuff written about us but—”

“But we’re rock legends,” Samuel finished for Jax, letting his stare hold Lily’s angry one. He really didn’t know why he was antagonizing her. Maybe it was the only way to see her in any other emotional state but chilly. Maybe to have her look at him. “We don’t lead the same life as normal people.”

Jax’s groan scraped at Samuel’s brain. “Jesus, Strings.”

Samuel didn’t care. Because there it was. In Lily Pearce’s eyes. Green fire.

Oh boy, she despised him. Within fifteen minutes of being in his company, she despisedhim. Passionately.

“And you think this makes it okay to rush my brother out of rehab?” Brittle distaste cut her question. “You think your lifestyle makes all the crap excusable?” She swung her stare to Eugene, leant across the table and snared his fingers with hers. “Gene, please stay until your time is up. Let the doctors help you. I’m beseeching you. I can’t keep seeing you die like this. You’re an amazing singer, and Zombie Grill is a great band. You just need to clean up, get another job for a while—away from the rock world—and regroup. That’s all. I’ll help you do that. I just—”

Her voice cracked. She stopped, pulled away, closed her eyes and swallowed.

“Ly, you’re embarrassing me.”

Lily’s answering sigh was short. She opened her eyes and nodded at her brother. Beside Eugene, Jax gave Samuel another frown.

Samuel’s gut clenched. This wasn’t what either of them were expecting. They didn’t have to put up with this. They really didn’t. And yet he couldn’t stand up and leave.

Not because he desperately wanted to hear Eugene sing again—he did, the guy had the most unique, amazing voice—but because he didn’t want to walk away from Lily Pearce yet. Not until he figured out what it was about her he found so…so…

“I’m sorry, Gene.” She turned her gaze on Jax, affording Samuel the chance to study her profile. She had a high forehead, turned-up nose and full lips. There was a smattering of freckles on her high cheekbones. Her neck was long. She truly was beautiful, but in the most untraditional sense. Like a child had somehow become trapped in a woman’s form—as if she hadn’t yet grown into her age. “I apologize for my outburst.”

Jax nodded, his smile warm. Friendly. Samuel couldn’t help but notice she didn’t apologize to him. “No worries,” Jax said. “I get you’re concerned about your brother. I’ve got two of them, and holy crap, I worry about them all the freaking time. One of them is a high school teacher. How’s that for a dangerous job? The other trains police dogs. Seriously, I spend each day wondering if they’ve had their hands bitten off—bothof them. These high school kids today are wild.”

The most incredible thing happened. Lily laughed. Really laughed.

Samuel sat in his seat, the rich sound seeping into his being and playing hell with his senses. Damn, it was a beautiful sound. He wanted to be responsible for her making such a sound. Wanted to hear her do it again as she looked at him, her full, lush lips stretched wide in a smile.

At this very moment in time, he wanted that more than hearing her brother sing.

More than finding a replacement for Nick.

More than anything, in fact.

Damn.

How the hell was he going to do that?

 

The prickling weight on the side of her face told Lily the guitarist was looking at her. She fought the urge to shift on her seat. To glare at him. Rock legend. Pfft.“We don’t lead the same life as normal people.” Huh. What a freaking ego. It was clear Samuel Gibson was a classic example of the world she hated so much. The kind of guy who thought just because he could play a guitar, prance about on a stage and looked hot in tight black leather the rules didn’t apply. The kind who thought they could sleep with whomever they wanted, just because their shoulders were broad, their muscles sculpted and they could hold a tune.

Well, this whomever wasn’t swallowing it. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him see how much she wanted to yell at him to leave her brother alone.

He may be gorgeous and sexy and have an accent to drive her to distraction, to make her fantasize about him saying her name over and over again while he slipped his hands under her shirt and smoothed his palms up to her breast and—

Wait, what was she thinking?

She scrunched up her face and bit back a curse. Where was her brain?

Crossing her arms over her breasts, she wriggled deeper into the visiting room’s hard plastic seat and corralled her deluded libido.

She may find him sexually attractive, but she didn’t like him. Not at all. The sooner she was out of his company, the better.

The sooner she didn’t have to listen to that subtle Australian accent…feel those mesmerizing blue eyes peering all over her…breathe in his expensive cologne…look at his incredibly well-built—

Red heat flooded Lily’s cheeks as the realization she was gawking at his arms, his torso, his chest, slammed into her.

She jerked her eyes away. But not before her gaze collided with his.

His lips twitched.

I don’t like you, Samuel Gibson, she thought, pivoting on her seat to present him with her stiff back as she tuned into what Eugene and the other musician, Jax something-or-other, were talking about.

“Do you know where that is?”

Whatever Jax had asked, Eugene nodded. “Yeah, it’s in the Mission District. Zombie Grill rehearsed there a few times. Dodgy neighborhood. Awesome acoustics.”

Jax grinned. “Best in San Francisco. I suspect once we get the rest of the guys here, we could hear you do your thing by midday. I’ve got a standing arrangement with the owner so there’s no stress getting the space.”

Eugene tossed her a smile, and her heart twisted at the sheer jubilance shining in his eyes. “Excellent.”

Jax shoved his hand into his back pocket and withdrew a cell phone. Lily wanted to chuckle at the iPhone’s protective case—an image of The Wiggles in all their skivvy finery. “I’ll call Timmo now. Give us a sec.”

He put the phone to his ear and began talking.

“So. Eugene turned to the man Lily was determined to ignore. “Are you going to stay in San Francisco until next Saturday?”

“Think so.” Samuel Gibson’s deep voice teased Lily’s tenuous calm. “It’s been a while since I was here. Figure I might do the whole tourist thing while we’re waiting for you to be ready.”

Eugene tossed her a wide smile. “You should. Lily knows all the exciting places. Comes with being a paramedic. She’d love to show you them, wouldn’t you, Ly?”

Available now at Samhain as well as all other third party vendors.

The Shadow and the Night

The latest in Lila Dubois’ amazing Glencailty series, The Shadow and the Night, comes out tomorrow at Samhain. If you haven’t checked this series out, hop in now! It’s so cool.

Sins and secrets aren’t the only skeletons in the closet…

Glenncailty Castle, Book 3

London forensic anthropologist Melissa Heavey isn’t anything like the characters in her grandmother’s beloved television crime dramas. Especially since an accident left her crippled and weary. While in Dublin to rest and recuperate, she’s asked to help the local Garda Síochána identify bones found in a rural luxury hotel.

Curiosity-seeking bone gawkers were not the clients Tristan Fontaine anticipated when he took over the Glenncailty Castle restaurant. And a scientist taking over part of his kitchen for her lab? He’s having none of it. Yet she’s not backing down…and his pulse won’t stop speeding up when she’s near.

As their attraction flares, Melissa soon discovers why Tristan is so dismissive of the bones—he’s been talking to the ghosts themselves. But the bones aren’t Glenncailty’s only secret, and Tristan is hiding a tragedy in his past more frightening than what’s lurking inside the castle walls.

Product Warnings

Contains a sexy French chef whose gifts aren’t limited to his hands, and a dry-witted scientist with intellect as sharp as scalpels. Delicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Excerpt:

Out of the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kris slide down one of the busy kitchen aisles. The maître d’s mouth was pursed, which was as close as the elegant man came to having a tantrum.

He turned away from the salmon fillets en papillote they were preparing for that night’s special.

“Kris,” he called out, and the other man turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked in French.

Kris shrugged. That wasn’t a good sign. With a curse, Tristan put a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel over the dough he was working with, heading to a quieter corner of the kitchen where Kris met him.

“There’s a woman in the restaurant,” Kris said.

“We’re not open. Throw her out.”

“I cannot. Sorcha brought her here, and the woman, she says she needed a quiet place to work.”

“Then she can go to the library.” Tristan liked and respected the guest relations manager, but the restaurant and the kitchen were his domain.

“I think she came about the bones.”

The bones. Tristan cursed. He was sick unto death of hearing about these bones. The Irish were so dramatic, getting upset over a few ghosts and bones. They should go to Paris—the whole city sat atop bones and the French weren’t thrown into a tizzy by it. But the police, the Gardaí, had closed the west wing until they were dealt with, and that risked the whole hotel and what he was trying to build here.

“Then let her stay, put her out of the way.”

“I did, but she’s hungry.” Kris drew in a long breath through his nose. “She wants to see a menu from the pub.”

“Non. If she wants to eat pub food, then she will go there.” Tristan suddenly understood Kris’s ire. No one seemed to understand that the ambiance of dining was as important as the food, and that meant a beautiful room with well-appointed tables, candlelight and the aroma of fine wine, truffles and fresh herbs—not the stench of chips and meaty stew.

“Give that to me.” At his order, Kris handed over the pub menu, a laminated sheet of uninspired—though delicious, because if Tristan had to serve fish and chips, it was the best fish and chips ever cooked—pub fare.

Tristan stormed out of the kitchen into the restaurant. He took only a moment to appreciate the crystal chandeliers, cozy private areas created by half-walls and high-backed chairs, and headed for the darkest corner, a lost space where Kris seated those who wanted the utmost privacy or who weren’t dressed nicely.

Tristan’s brows rose in surprise when he saw who was seated there. A pretty blonde woman no older than thirty sat with her head bent over a castle map. She wore a tunic embroidered with geometric shapes in bold earth tones over a simple white turtleneck. A heavy brass medallion hung from a cord around her neck, and she toyed with it as she read. Her hair was straight, falling to just above her shoulder. She was lightly tanned, and when she looked up her eyes were a beautiful hazel rather than the blue he was so used to seeing.

She studied him, her gaze lingering on his face, but he could tell it wasn’t sexual—it was almost clinical.

“Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. You’re…” She did a second once-over. “…either the head chef or the poissonnier.” She was English and well-educated, from the sound of her accent.

Tristan stopped, taken by surprise. “I am the chef de cuisine.” He used the proper name for head chef.

“And you’re French. That explains the western European Caucasian bone structure but Mediterranean coloring.”

Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?”

“A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“And you are here for the bones.”

“So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”

“I am not staff. I am the chef.”

“Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”

“And that is how you know poissonnier.” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.

“The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”

Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”
“No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”

Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”

“I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”
“Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”
“But I’m hungry.”

“Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.

“I want to eat here.”

“And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”

She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”

“Oui.”

She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.

Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the derrière that he got the feeling that under the loose tunic top was a nice body. It had been a long time since he’d been drawn to a woman the way he was drawn to her. And it wasn’t just physical attraction—she was intelligent and strong.

He was so distracted by her derrière and his unexpected reaction to her that it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t headed for the front door, but deeper into the restaurant.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, jogging a few steps to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m hungry.” She stopped for a moment, looked around and then headed for the kitchen.

Tristan darted ahead of her, positioning himself in front of the swinging doors. He folded his arms. Pretty or not, intriguing or not, she wasn’t going to interfere with his dinner prep.

“This is my kitchen.”

“I can tell. I’m excited to see it.”

She tried to push past him, and he grabbed her upper arms. She made a little noise, and her eyes widened with pain. The case she carried fell from her hand.

Tristan released her. He’d barely touched her, yet it seemed he’d caused her pain.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“I…have a bruise there.”

Tristan raised a brow. “From another chef whose kitchen you tried to disrupt?”

“The result of killing the last man who tried to come between me and my dinner.”

Her expression was so deadly serious that Tristan had a moment of real worry. Then she smiled and laughed. It changed her whole face, making her seem less serious and disconnected—more warm and approachable.

“You looked quite alarmed,” she said as her laugh faded.

“I do not understand English humor.”

“Too bad, I’m quite funny.” With a smile, she grabbed her case and slid past him into the kitchen.

Cursing, Tristan followed her.
“Hello everyone.”

The busy sounds of the kitchen stopped as everyone looked up at the strange blonde woman standing in the doorway. “My name is Melissa Heavey and I’m hungry. Is there someone here who might be able to—”

Tristan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back out through the doors.

“You are…crazy,” he said as he set her down. He was too surprised to be really angry.

“You’re not the first to mention that.”

Resigned, Tristan threw his hands in the air, then planted them on his hips. “Fine, I will bring you food. You will have stew, fresh bread, a salad.” That was as far as he was willing to relent.

“That sounds lovely.” She stooped and picked up her case. “Thank you very much…?”

“Tristan, Tristan Fontaine.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tristan.” She held out her hand. “As I said, I’m Melissa.”

Rather than shaking, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

He was both surprised and pleased when she blushed. He’d expected her to laugh.

“Enchanté, monsieur,” she replied.

He held her hand for a moment longer than was casual. When she pulled back, he let her go, watching her walk to her table with a smile. Tristan was looking forward to learning more about Dr. Melissa Heavey.

The Shadow and the Night is available at Samhain.

Invitation to Eden

This is your Invitation to Eden, an exciting series coming in 2014 from 27 of the biggest names in sizzling romance. Join us as we take you on an exciting adventure to Eden, where anything…and everything goes! Check back over the next few weeks as more details, cover reveals, book blurbs and excerpts appear! Are you ready for the journey?

MARCH 31: Lauren Hawkeye free series prequel

APRIL 15 : Julia Kent, Avery Aster, Adriana Hunter

MAY 13: Sharon Page, Suzanne Rock, Marian Tee

JUNE 17: Sara Fawkes, Eliza Gayle, Cathryn Fox

JULY 15: Carly Phillips, Erika Wilde, Daire St. Denis

AUGUST 12: Karen Erickson, Mari Carr, Roni Loren

SEPTEMBER 16: Lauren Hawkeye, Eden Bradley, Opal Carew

OCTOBER 14: Delilah Devlin, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Tawny Stokes

NOVEMBER 4: Steena Holmes, CC MacKenzie, Julie Kenner/J Kenner

DECEMBER 2: Joey W. Hill, RG Alexander, Sarah Castille

How about some cowboys?

Today I’m featuring my cowboy series from Ellora’s Cave. These are three red-hot quickies–Spitfire, Rekindled and Inflamed. I sure do LOVE cowboys!

Here’s the first chapter from the first book, Spitfire.

Chapter One

“You promised, Jeb.”

“Aw Liv, you can’t hold me to that. I was drunk and—”

“Get the hell out, you asshole, and don’t come back! I’m tired of your fucking games.”

Rem grimaced as he stood on the front porch of his ranch house, the sounds of yelling coming through the screen door.

Some homecoming.

He saw Liv and Jeb going at it like gangbusters in the foyer. No doubt they’d failed to hear his truck pull up thanks to the battle they were waging. He stepped to the side so they couldn’t see him, trying to figure out what the hell they were arguing about.

“Goddammit, Liv,” Jeb shouted. “Can’t you at least hear me out?”

“Hear you out?” Liv moved forward and shoved her older brother. Rem fought back a grin as he caught sight of his little spitfire. She was a foot shorter than he and Jeb and as she moved, he was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of her firm, full breasts in the too-tight blouse she was wearing.

Christ, was she wearing a bra? How the woman could make blue jeans and simple shirts sexy as hell, he’d never know.

Jeb threw his arms up to defend himself as Rem watched silently. Her slight frame didn’t stop her from putting up one hell of a fight when they pissed her off. She may be small, but she was fierce. “Why the hell should I listen to you, Mr. Shit for Brains, when you never listen to me?”

Scowling at her coarse language, Rem reached for the door only to have it swing open roughly, nearly hitting him in the process.

“Fuck,” Liv said, jumping back. She clearly hadn’t seen him standing there and he’d startled her.

“We’re gonna have to have a long talk about this filthy language of yours, spitfire,” Rem said. “Don’t recall you having such a gutter mouth when my dad was around. Hope you don’t think I won’t hold you to the same expectations as my old man.”

Her tanned face—red with anger—darkened even further at his threat, and he was overwhelmed with the desire to see that same lovely flush covering other parts of her body. He shifted slightly to adjust his jeans, hiding the hard-on she’d produced just by looking at him with those beautiful doe eyes.

Then those same eyes narrowed and Rem shook his head. Damn girl had never practiced one ounce of self-preservation, and as she’d matured into a woman, it seemed that fact hadn’t changed.

“You home to stay?” she asked angrily.

He nodded solemnly and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her anger to turn on him. She wouldn’t be wrong to want to throw a bit of that fury his way. He’d stayed away too damn long and he wasn’t sure this homecoming would be well received.

“Hey, Rem,” Jeb said from behind the safety of the screen door. “We weren’t expecting you. You really coming back for good?”

Rem muttered a soft “yes” in response but his eyes never drifted from Liv’s face. He’d worried about her reaction to his return for weeks.

“’Bout time,” was all she said as she turned back to her brother. “I meant what I said, Jeb. You run off to that rodeo again and you can just stay away. I won’t spend one more minute of my life worryin’ about you. I’m done with that.”

“Dammit, Liv. Don’t leave it like that,” Jeb said, stepping out onto the porch.

Liv held up her hand to ward off the rest of his words before turning and walking away. She climbed into her pickup truck and pealed the tires as she drove off. Rem fought back the ingrained instinct that told him to go after her. She shouldn’t be driving when she was so angry but he knew chasing her down would only make her angrier.

“You’re going back to the circuit?” Rem asked as he turned to face the man who’d been more like a brother than a best friend for most of his life.

Jeb shrugged wearily.

“How the hell did you expect her to react, Jeb?” he asked. “She worries about you. Bull riders don’t exactly have long life expectancies.”

Jeb walked over to one of the rocking chairs and Rem moved to stand before him, leaning against the railing. “I knew she’d be pissed but dammit, Rem, I can’t give the rodeo up.”

Rem nodded. His friend had been bitten by the rodeo bug at eighteen and Rem knew no force on earth, short of death, would stop him from riding the circuit. Rem had taken off with Jeb after their high school graduation to try his hand at the rodeo as well, but three years of dust, bruises and battered pride had been more than enough for him. He’d quit, returning home for one brief summer before enlisting with the Marines.

Rem rubbed his eyes and tried to ward off the headache growing. “You were gonna leave her alone to run the ranch?” he asked, annoyed at the thought of Jeb leaving Liv on her own.

“Who the hell do you think’s been runnin’ it these last few months since Joe passed? I can’t stay here, Rem. I’ve been living like a zombie. Liv tells me what to do and I do it. I’m not a rancher.”

Rem had believed the same thing when he’d taken off to join the Marines. He thought he’d needed excitement and adventure to give his life meaning, a purpose. He’d thought a career in the military would make his father proud.

So much for that theory .

His old man was gone and their decade-long estrangement would remain an eternal one. He pushed back the regret and guilt that snuck in and attacked his insides when he least expected it. He’d come home to find peace of mind and a quiet life.

Oh Christ, who was he fooling? He’d come home for Liv.

He’d joined the rodeo at eighteen, only to come home at twenty-one to discover the girl next door had grown up. At seventeen, Liv was wild and reckless and so beautiful she made his gut ache. His father had seen the sparks flying between his son and his foster daughter and told him to get the hell out. He’d gotten out and limited his returns to only short visits for nearly a decade.

“I gotta go,” Jeb said quietly.

“So go,” Rem said. “You don’t need my permission.”

Jeb closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. “I didn’t mean to upset her, Rem. You and Liv are the only family I’ve got.”

Jeb and Liv’s parents had owned the ranch next to the Bradley spread. When Mr. and Mrs. Carter were killed in a car accident, leaving their two children orphaned, Rem’s dad had stepped up and taken them in, raising them as his own. Jeb had been seventeen at the time, Liv only thirteen.

“Liv has a temper like a spark in a powder keg. You know that. Once she’s had some time to calm down, she’ll come around.” Even as he spoke the words, Rem wondered at the veracity of them. He’d never seen Liv so angry, so desolate.

Rem’s father, Joe, had died of a massive heart attack six months earlier. He’d come home briefly for the funeral before promptly returning to his unit. His father’s death had cut deeply and left him with a mountain of regret but he was home now, ready to take up the reins of his inheritance and to claim the girl he’d left behind.

“You really quit the Marines? For good?” Jeb asked.

Rem nodded.

“So now you wanna be a rancher?” his friend asked with disbelief. It wasn’t so long ago they’d both turned tail and run away from this place as fast and as far as their legs would carry them.

“Now I want to be a man my father could be proud of,” he said softly.

“Shit, you already were,” Jeb replied.

Rem shrugged and changed the subject. “When are you leaving?”

Jeb grinned guiltily. “Right now. I was hoping to sneak out while Liv was working in the barn. She caught me.”

Rem shook his head, grinning. “Christ. No wonder she was pissed.”

“I left her a note,” Jeb said defensively before laughing. “That woman is mean as a rattler when riled. No way in hell I was gonna volunteer for her abuse. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of making a clean getaway.”

“Yeah, well, I hope you have better luck on the circuit.”

“Amen, brother,” Jeb said, rising. “Guess I’ll shove off. Don’t wanna take a chance on her coming back before I leave. I don’t think I’m up for round two. You’ll look after her, won’t you, Rem?”

Rem knew his friend wouldn’t ask for such a favor if he knew the impure thoughts he’d been having with regards to Liv. He’d managed to fight back his attraction to her for years, keeping his distance from her during his short visits home, but seeing her at his father’s funeral had uncovered and kick-started a bunch of latent feelings he hadn’t realized were still there.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly, praying he would be able to follow through on that promise. He had quite a bit of making up to do in regards to Liv Carter and, if her response to his return was any indication, she didn’t intend to make things easy on him.

* * * * *

“Where the hell is she?” Rem muttered to himself as he glanced out at the ever-darkening night. After Liv ran out of the house, he’d said goodbye to Jeb then moved back into his old room. He’d had lunch and dinner and was officially ready to crawl out of his skin with worry.

A knock on the office door pulled him away from the window as Bridget, the ranch cook, came in.

“Hey, Bridget,” he said. “Did Liv call?”

She shook her head. “No, and I have to admit I wouldn’t be worried if you weren’t here. Liv is a free spirit, always has been. When that girl gets mad, it can take her hours to blow off the steam.”

“I know I haven’t been around much, haven’t spent much time with Liv since she’s grown up,” Rem admitted. “I’m afraid in my mind she’s still somebody I need to look out for, take care of.”

Bridget chuckled. “Yeah, well. You can certainly try but I have a feeling you might suffer for it.”

Rem grinned. “Maybe things haven’t changed that much after all. Liv didn’t like being coddled as a little girl either. Always Miss Independent.”

“That she is.” Bridget’s smile faded. “I made some phone calls after supper. Like I said, your worryin’ seems to be infectious.”

“Did you find out where she is?” he asked.

“You’re not gonna like this. Promise me you won’t overreact.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Stan’s Bar.”

“What?” he yelled. “Of all the dangerous, stupid—”

Bridget tried to calm him down. “Now don’t go gettin’ all riled, you know Stan will keep an eye on her.”

He grabbed his truck keys off the desk, heading for the front door.

“Don’t yell at her,” Bridget instructed as he strode across the porch.

He turned at her words. “Don’t yell at her?” he asked incredulously. “She’s gonna be lucky if I don’t take her across my knee and paddle her ass black and blue.”

Bridget shook her head as he opened the door to his truck and he clearly heard her yell, “Just so you know, that’s what I call overreacting.”

He slammed the door of the truck with so much force the whole cab shook. His blood pressure was skyrocketing at the thought of Liv hanging out in Stan’s Bar. To say the place made a Hells Angels meeting look inviting was an understatement. Stan catered to the toughest and meanest drunks the merciless heat of Texas could produce.

Clearly she’d been given free rein since his father’s passing, as it was painfully apparent neither Jeb nor Bridget had bothered to try to curb her reckless impulses. He’d have to cure her of the notion she could hang out in dangerous bars by herself. He had every intention of making sure the woman understood a little thing called common sense. His first lesson would involve convincing her that she should never set foot in Stan’s Bar alone again.

As he pulled into the crowded parking lot of the bar, he tried not to growl at the large number of Harleys parked there. The clientele at Stan’s hadn’t changed much in the decade he’d been away.

He opened the door to the bar and was immediately besieged by the thick, rancid smell of stale cigarette smoke, liquor and sweat. He took a second to allow his eyes to adjust to the hazy, dark atmosphere.

“Hey, Stan,” he said, making a beeline for the bar. Stan looked over at Rem with a grimace that he suspected was supposed to pass for a smile.

“’Bout time you got your fucking ass over here. She’s in the back,” Stan said, never removing the cigarette that dangled from the side of his lips.

“The back,” Rem said with disgust.

“I told her to stay up here where I could keep an eye on her, but somebody lit a fire inside her that I’m not about to touch.”

Rem fought back a grin at the idea of Stan actually being afraid of Liv. “Jeb went back to the rodeo.”

“Aw hell. Well, that explains it. You mind gettin’ her the fuck outta here? She’s back there with some rough customers, playing pool. Don’t know whether to be worried about her or them, but either way I don’t want my place gettin’ wrecked.”

Rem nodded, hoping he could drag Liv out peacefully but suspecting Stan had a right to be worried.

As he approached the back room, he was treated to a bird’s-eye view of Liv’s ass in tight denim jeans as she bent over the pool table to line up a shot. He had to fight back his growing arousal at the sight. Shit, the woman sure did know how to fill out a pair of Levi’s.

One tough-looking customer in leather stood beside her and groped her ass. Rem took a step forward, ready to break the man’s hand, but before he could react, Liv’s hand shot around and grabbed the man’s wrist.

“Butch, you have one second to take your hand off my ass before I shove this pool cue up yours,” she threatened darkly.

Rem was surprised when the man laughed uneasily and stepped away. Liv bent down again to make her shot, sinking the eight ball in exactly the hole she’d claimed.

“I win,” she said to a greasy-looking guy across the table. “Pay up, Slick.”

“Double or nothing,” the man said, looking extremely angry at being beaten.

“Fuck off,” she said. “I told you I was only playing one game. Now give me my fifty bucks.” She held her hand out and Rem held his breath at her daring. These guys were no doubt hustlers who were used to reeling in their victims and then bleeding them dry. Liv was seriously messing with their routine.

“You gotta give me a chance to win my money back,” the guy insisted. “Gentlemen’s rules.”

“Last time I looked, I didn’t have a penis. You gonna give me my winnings or not?” Liv asked.

The same man who’d grabbed her ass moved closer. “If you want a second opinion on that penis, I’d be happy to take you out back and have a closer look, Liv.”

She shot the man a disgusted look. “I wouldn’t waste my time, Butch. I’m pretty sure you don’t have one either.”

Several men laughed and Rem watched Butch clench his fists angrily at her insult. Time to move in.

“There you are,” Rem said, walking up behind her and enveloping her in his arms. He tried not to spend too much time dwelling on how right she felt as he pulled her close to him. His cock came to life as her taut ass brushed against it and he gritted his teeth. This wasn’t exactly the best place to sport a hard-on.

She twisted her head, looking over her shoulder at him in surprise. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

He bent down to whisper in her ear. “Taking you home. Come with me now and nobody in this room will get hurt.”

“Slick owes me fifty bucks. I’m not leaving without it,” she said.

Slick seemed an apt name for the man as Rem wondered what grease pit the asshole had crawled out of.

“I was explaining to the little lady that it’s only polite to give a guy a chance to win his money back.”

“And I told you—” she started angrily.

“We’re leaving,” Rem said shortly. “Give her the money.”

Liv jerked lightly in his arms, clearly surprised by his demand. No doubt she’d expected him to merely drag her away.

The man began to protest again but Liv cut off his comments by slamming the pool cue on the table. “Are you trying to renege on our deal?” she shouted.

Several patrons who’d been drinking, not paying attention to the drama unfolding at the pool table, turned. Rem could see that while there might be an unspoken rule about playing a second game, there was a hard-and-fast rule about paying a debt. A couple badass customers walked to the table.

“There a problem here, little lady?” one of the men asked. Jesus, Rem thought, as he gazed at the giant. At six foot five, he wasn’t used to looking up to any man, but this guy had him by at least three inches.

“Slick owes me money. Won’t pay up,” Liv answered. Several of Slick’s friends had gathered at his back and as quickly as that, she’d thrown up the flag to indicate the beginning of the brawling phase of the night. He needed to get her out of here now.

“Let’s go,” he murmured in her ear, backing them both away from the pool table and forcing his way through the crowd gathering.

“No,” she said, attempting to break his iron-tight grip on her. “He owes me money.”

“I’ll give you the goddamn fifty dollars,” Rem growled. “Now move!”

Angry words began flying across the table and Rem wasn’t sure who threw the beer bottle but within seconds, every man in the room jumped and he was reminded of a pack of wild dogs he’d once seen attack an unprotected calf. Chaos ensued.

He was shoved roughly from behind, losing his grip on Liv, who’d been waiting for a chance at freedom. She made her way over to Butch, grabbing the man and punching his jaw with the force of a trained boxer. Rem tried not to be impressed, but she was fierce and powerful and by God, she was going to be his. He couldn’t wait to release that fiery spirit in the bedroom.

Rem knocked over three men, punching two others as he attempted to retrieve Liv before Butch could retaliate. His blood turned cold as he watched Butch reach down, grab a pool cue and swing it at Liv. She ducked the blow at the last minute, slamming forward into the man’s gut with her head. Butch fell backward, crashing into a table before hitting the floor.

“You fucking bitch,” he screamed as he attempted to get to his feet, slipping on spilled beer.

The hustlers made their way over to Liv, ready to attack, and Rem blocked a punch from one man while delivering a roundhouse kick to Slick, who’d attempted to sneak up behind him. He watched Liv dispatch the third man by smashing a beer bottle over his head. Rem moved forward, shoving Liv toward the back door as sirens broke through the air. The rioting mass of men scattered like ants at the sound of the police approaching. He managed to get Liv out of the building and around to his truck in time to watch four police cars pull into the parking lot.

She started to walk toward her own vehicle as Rem dug his keys out of his pocket.

“Not so fast, spitfire,” he said, intercepting her and lifting her up with a strong arm around her waist. “You’re riding home with me.”

“My truck’s right there,” she said.

“You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on your breath.”

“I had one beer,” she said. She kicked up a fuss but Rem was in no mood.

He pulled the passenger door open and placed her none too gently in the seat. “Goddammit, Olivia. Sit still!” His words were harsh, loud, and she stopped fighting him as he hooked her seat belt.

“You are seriously pissing me off, Rem Bradley,” she seethed.

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh darlin’, you can’t compete with me on pissed off right now.”

He slammed her door shut and crossed to the driver’s side. As he started the truck and pulled onto the road, he forced himself to calm down, forced himself to take several deep breaths.

“I hope to God you don’t think you can start ordering me around now that you’re home,” she said.

Rem’s vision went red with fury and he pulled the truck off the road, squealing the tires as he hit the brakes.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelled, bracing herself with both hands on the dashboard. “What are trying to do? Kill us?”

The memory of her initiating the massive fight at Stan’s drifted through his mind and his temper snapped. She’d done nothing but test his patience since she’d turned seventeen. He’d shied away from staking his claim out of respect for his father and her youth, but that time had passed. Liv Carter had just spent her last night as a free woman.

Unhooking her seat belt, he grabbed her and pulled her across the seat. He didn’t give her a chance to respond as he took her lips in a kiss that showed her exactly what she was about to become.

His woman.

He forced her lips apart, moving into her mouth with his tongue, tasting and touching every part of her he could reach. Dragging his hands along her neck, he dug his fingers into her thick, silky mass of light brown hair, using his grip to hold her head in place while he feasted on her plump lips.

He wasn’t surprised by her initial astonishment. She remained motionless for several seconds before he felt her small hands pushing against his chest in a halfhearted attempt to fight him. He deepened the kiss and she responded for several glorious moments before he practically heard the wheels begin to spin in her lovely brain.

He pulled his face away from hers when she increased the pressure on his chest, trying to shove him away.

“Don’t fight me, Liv.”

“Don’t kiss me,” she whispered, her gaze averted.

He grinned, forcing her to look at him with a slight tug on her hair. “I’m gonna do a hell of lot more than just kiss you,” he warned. “You might want to go ahead and accept that fact.”

Her brown eyes narrowed but he was finished listening to her hostile words and bullshit. He reclaimed her lips and this time, she didn’t shove him away as he pushed her onto her back, moving on top of her and caging her with his body. He ground his rock-hard erection into her stomach, backing up his threat with a promise. His body wouldn’t be denied.

His fingers drifted down to her shirt, grasping her breasts through the thin material, fondling her.

“God, Rem,” she murmured. The heat of her breath on his face and the need lacing her words stirred him on as he bent down to suck her covered nipple into his mouth, drawing on the tight bud.

Her hands gripped his shoulders and he gave the other nipple the same treatment before moving up to kiss her again. He started to unbutton her shirt, ready to stake his claim and ride her like the wildest stallion on his ranch. By God, he’d already waited far too long for her.

“Stop,” she whispered, turning her face away from his kisses.

Her words and the sound of a car passing on the road gave him pause. What the fuck was he doing? His cock was threatening to split the denim of his jeans and he was ready to throw Liv’s legs over his shoulders and pound into her in the middle of town. Shit, if the brawl in the bar hadn’t broken out, he’d have thrown her over the pool table and taken her there. She heated his blood to boiling and he lost all sense of control in her presence.

“You’ve wanted this as long as I have, Liv. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Yeah, well, a lot has happened in the last ten years, cowboy. And don’t forget, it was you who left me.”

Spitfire is available at Ellora’s Cave, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Sony and All Romance Ebooks.

Yes, Professor

A dear friend of mine, Lainey-Jo Charles, has her first book out today with Ellora’s Cave. It’s called Yes, Professor, and I thought I’d share the details with you.

David Monroe can’t seem to keep his thoughts off his assistant Shellie. Her high-heels invite his gaze to run the length of her toned legs. Her prim skirts inspire wicked thoughts of what they conceal. Everything about her provokes his basest needs and stirs desires he’s never admitted to anyone—even himself. When Shellie enters his office one night after work, knowledge and lust darkening her eyes, she pushes David to not only voice his every fantasy, but make them a reality.

Available at Ellora’s Cave.

And the series fun continues

Today I’m sharing the first chapter of the first book in my Cocktales series. In this series, I gave four girlfriends my dream business, Books and Brew, a combination bar/bookstore in Portland, Oregon. All four books are named after drink recipes (the recipes are shared at the beginning of each story) and titles include Party Naked, Screwdriver, Bachelor’s Bait and Screaming Orgasm.

The fun kicks off with Party Naked.

Party Naked

As a mixed drink:

1 shot of rum

½ shot of Southern Comfort

½ shot of Razzmatazz

½ shot of peach schnapps

Pour in a glass with ice and fill with 7-Up

 

As a shot:

In a shaker with ice, add

½ shot of rum

¼ shot of Southern Comfort

¼ shot of Razzmatazz

¼ shot of peach schnapps

Shake and strain into chilled shot glass.

Chapter One

“Goddamn, motherfucker, son of a bitch on a cheese cracker!” Stephanie Harper looked at the mass destruction around her feet and felt the overwhelming desire to smash every bottle in the damn bar.

“What was that?” Her best friend Jayne’s head popped up from where she was bent over, stocking new-release books on the shelf.

“Just me redecorating the bar area with broken glass.” Her tone betrayed the fact she was finding no humor in her clumsiness.

“Trip on the mat again?” Jayne’s question—laced with a giggle—told Stephanie her friend was finding humor in the situation.

“Yes, Miss Unhelpful. I tripped on the motherfucking mat again.”

“Uh oh. Two MFs in under a minute. You really are having a bad day.”

Stephanie took a deep breath and tried to take stock of the damage. “You can say that again. I just broke two bottles of vodka, one of Jack and a brand new Beefeater.”

Jayne approached the bar, crawling on a stool to peer over at the mess Stephanie had made. “What’s Beefeater again?”

“Gin. Jesus, Jayne. You’ve worked in this bar nearly two years now. You’d think you’d pick up some of this stuff.”

Jayne shook her head, plopping her ass down. “I work in the bookstore. You work in the bar. And I don’t like alcohol.”

Stephanie shook her head in mock disbelief, though Jayne’s distaste for the strong stuff was a well-known flaw in her friend’s character. “Yeah, well, you don’t know what you’re missing. Nothing like a splash of Beefeater with Sprite and a twist of lime in the summertime. Very refreshing.”

“Lemonade serves the same purpose. I take it the gin was important.”

“No, not really. However, the loss of that particular brand of vodka was deadly. Books and Brew isn’t gonna open at all today without it. Your Romantic Hearts book group likes their special Screwdrivers.” Stephanie moved toward the corner to grab the broom, while Jayne walked behind the bar to inspect the broken glass.

“Tell you what. I’ll clean up the mess and you can run to the liquor store for more. Maybe the drive will clear your head a bit. Not quite sure what’s thrown you out of whack, but the fresh air might do you some good.”

Stephanie gratefully relinquished the broom and dustpan, but she didn’t think a drive was going to help her escape the dark cloud she’d woken up under. “Maybe I should just say ‘screw it’ to everything, go home and crawl back in bed. Hope for better luck tomorrow.”

Her friend placed a consoling hand on Stephanie’s shoulder. “Just go get the vodka. You really don’t want me to have to man the bar.”

Stephanie imagined Jayne with her nose buried in the bartender’s guide, trying to figure out how to make a scotch on the rocks, and grinned. “True that.”

Jayne started cleaning up the shattered glass and liquid, while Stephanie grabbed some money out of the cash register to pay for the booze.

“Don’t forget to tell Jordan you took that money, and bring back a receipt. You know she goes mad when she can’t account for every penny in the cash register.”

Stephanie waved her hand briefly in response. She’d been a thorn in her accountant friend’s side since she, Jordan, Jayne and Sophie opened Books and Brew two years earlier. Owning their own business had been a shared dream for the four women since they’d graduated from college and, so far, their joint venture was a relative success. Books and Brew was a twist on the coffee shop/bookstore idea. Stephanie wasn’t a fan of coffee, but she could see the beauty in sipping a cold glass of wine while perusing the shelves for new reading material.

Because of their diverse interests, they each managed to bring something unique to the table. Jordan was using her B.S. in accounting by taking care of the store’s finances, and the information Sophie had gathered in her marketing classes was put to good use in advertising for the store. Even Jayne was applying her liberal arts education—using her knowledge of literature and history to stock the bookstore and hold weekly reading groups.

In the meantime, Stephanie was sitting on a psych degree while tending bar. A fact her mother, Beverly, managed to bring up during every single conversation they’d had since Stephanie’s graduation from college. Beverly considered her daughter’s chosen profession a stage she’d outgrow, which made Stephanie all the more determined to make the business a success.

She loved her job, using her degree in a rather unique way, and she adored the patrons of the store. People loved to unload their problems to bartenders and, while she certainly wasn’t trying to practice her profession, she liked being able to provide an ear and perhaps some words of comfort or advice. Stephanie joked she’d traded a barstool for the couch. She’d found her niche, and she refused to give all that up by caving to her mother’s constant nagging that she open a “respectable” practice and hold down a career her mother felt was brag-worthy. Apparently telling her friends at the country club that her daughter was a bartender wasn’t cutting it for good ol’ Mom.

“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She grabbed her purse and car keys.

“Anything I should know before you get back? Expecting any deliveries? Hank coming by?” Jayne wiggled her eyebrows as she asked the last question.

“Do me a favor. Don’t mention Hank and ‘coming’ in the same sentence.”

“So he’s still driving you crazy?”

Stephanie shuddered at the mention of their beer distributor. “The guy doesn’t get it. He calls to ask me out and I say no. He calls again and I say no. You’d think after twenty-or-so calls, he’d figure it out. One moment of weakness and it’s like I’m going to be punished for life.”

“I think it was more like three moments,” Jayne teased.

“Wow. You’re a regular laugh a minute today. We should call The Daily Show and see if they’ll give you a job co-anchoring with Jon Stewart.”

“I’d love that. I think he’s hot.”

“Of course you do. You go for that brainiac type.”

Jayne didn’t deny the truth of Stephanie’s assessment. “You know, I’d like to say I know your type, but I can’t pin you down. You never seem to go for the same kind of guy twice or for longer than a month.”

“That’s because my time is too valuable to waste. And I’m a fast learner. For example, a few nights with Hank proved weightlifters are not my cup of tea.” Hank had a major self-esteem issue which manifested itself in his obsession with outward appearances. After a couple trips to the gym with him, she’d discovered the same held true for quite a few of the uber-muscular men in his social circle.

“Seems sort of narrow-minded. What if the next weightlifter is cool and you never give him a chance?”

Stephanie shrugged, not wanting to admit her friend had a valid point. The whole argument was moot anyway. Dating anyone seriously was a luxury she simply didn’t have time for.

Luckily Jayne was a good friend. She let her off the hook easy. “You’ll just have to keep looking.”

“Maybe, but regardless of who I date, let’s get one thing straight, Jayne. I’m not looking to fall in love. Lust? Definitely. Sexual attraction? I’m in. Red-hot, set-the-sheets-on-fire fucking? Hell yeah. Forever? No way.”

Jayne looked at her thoughtfully. “I kind of think forever would be nice.”

“Ha, that’s because you weren’t raised by Beverly Harper Price Fitzgerald Warner, the queen of the five-minute marriage.”

“Agreed. Your mom’s giving Elizabeth Taylor’s record a run for the money. Which husband is she on now? I lost track after the second.”

Stephanie sighed and pretended to count on her fingers. “Four.”

Jayne winced. “Wowza. Well, you shouldn’t let your mother’s missteps lead you astray. True love does exist, Steph. You just have to keep your eyes and your heart open.”

Stephanie smiled. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels. They’re rubbing off on you. Unfortunately, it’s not like Portland is crawling with hot guys who frequent bookstores and right now, this bar is the only place I’m likely to meet someone. I can’t remember the last time you and I hit the nightclubs together.”

To make their store a success, Stephanie and her friends had made quite a few sacrifices—the main one being social lives. Because of the bar component, weekend evenings usually found the store open for business. To keep the profits high, they’d decided to do most of the running of the store themselves rather than hire outside help. Stephanie hadn’t had a day off in nearly five months.

“So obviously you grabbed one of the few available men to darken our door and had sex with the beer distributor.”

Stephanie shifted her purse on her arm, grinning widely. “You have to admit, he’s easy on the eyes with all those muscles and that rich, golden tan, even if he is kind of dim.”

“Dim might be an understatement. I think it’s all those steroids he swears he doesn’t take.”

Jayne’s laughter was contagious and Stephanie giggled before flexing her muscles and deepening her voice to mimic Hank the Tank. “Feel those guns there, baby. All natural.”

Jayne feigned a girlie swoon.

Stephanie’s laughter gave way to a heavy sigh. “Christ. I really am pathetic.”

“Not really. At least you’re getting laid occasionally. I’m living a life more celibate than a nun.” Jayne scooped up a pile of broken glass and dumped it in the garbage pail.

“There’s a big difference between getting laid and getting laid well.”

“Is this why Hank’s history?”

“One of the reasons. His insecurity was the main one, though. We couldn’t have a conversation. It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about anything other than how much he could bench press. After a few dates, it felt like I was spending more time counseling him than trying to build any sort of relationship.”

Jayne leaned the broom against the bar. “You know, Jordan seems to think we’re getting more financially secure. Maybe we could consider hiring a second bartender so you can at least attempt a social life. We’ve been at this for two years and I think it’s obvious Mr. Right isn’t going to come walking through that door for any of us. We need to get out more.”

Stephanie shook her head. There was no way she’d ever give Beverly a reason to say, “I told you so”. Books and Brew would continue to thrive and grow because Stephanie wouldn’t accept defeat. “No. We agreed to give this place three years of solid hard work, so there would be no regrets about not trying hard enough if it goes under. I’m not going back on that commitment. I’m just in a bitchy mood. My morning sucked and I’m feeling whiny. Ignore me. In fact, I’ll make that easy for you. I’m off to the liquor store. Don’t attempt to make anyone anything alcoholic to drink before I get back.”

Jayne glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly eleven. You better hurry or I might not be able to keep that promise.”

Stephanie headed for the back parking lot and her car, stepping out of the bar and into the late spring morning. It was May. Flowers were in full bloom, the trees and grass green and leafy. It was a beautiful day full of sunshine and clear blue skies. She drank in the clean air and willed away her dark mood. She could do this. Today was just a normal day.

One foot in front of the other.

Her pep talk and attempt at happiness was short-lived when twenty minutes later, she slammed her hand against the steering wheel of her Volkswagen Bug and started around the city block a second time.

“What the hell is going on?” It was a lousy Thursday and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. There shouldn’t have been so many cars parked on the street. All she needed to do was dash into the liquor store for a few bottles of booze. Surely there was one open parking spot in this godforsaken city.

She hit another red light and her face flushed with a sudden surge of anger. She was two seconds away from blowing a major fuse. There was no denying it. She was trapped in the day from fucking hell. She’d overslept then, in her haste to get ready, she’d dropped her iPod in the toilet. Her cat had yakked up a hairball in the middle of her new dining room rug, and then the incident behind the bar with all the shattered liquor bottles.

Jayne was wrong. Stephanie did need a do-over, a chance to claim defeat, limp into bed and sleep ’til the growing headache pressing against her skull stopped hurting. Then tomorrow she’d try getting out of bed on the right side.

As she rounded the corner and faced passing the liquor store once more, she cried uncle on finding a parking spot. “Fuck it.”

She pulled up to a sweet cherry-red Camaro parked right in front of the store, threw on her blinkers and turned the car off. She could get what she needed in a jiffy. The street wasn’t that damn busy and it was wide enough to support her brief stint of double-parking.

“Two minutes,” she said to no one in particular as she climbed out of the driver’s seat and hastily walked into the liquor store.

 

Jarod Nolan emerged from the barber shop and ran his hand through his short brown hair, enjoying the lighter, cooler feel of it. He’d considered letting it grow longer, now that he was a detective, to blend in with the lowlifes on the southeast side of the city, but after last night he’d decided fuck it. It was time for a fresh start. He’d finally received his promotion to detective, a position he’d wanted since graduating from the police academy, and today was his first day in the new job.

He’d intended to celebrate his success last night with Cheryl, but that plan had backfired, big time, and now he didn’t feel much like smiling about anything.

He let his brain replay Cheryl’s words as she’d dumped him after the special dinner he’d organized. “I can’t really explain it, Jarod,” she’d said. “Fact is you’re just too nice for me. You’re sort of boring.”

He rolled his eyes. Since when was being a cop synonymous with acting like a bad boy? Fucking television and movies glamorized a job that at times felt like little more than grunt work.

While Cheryl liked bragging to her girlfriends she was dating some super-macho version of Dirty Harry, the truth was he typically sat on his ass patrolling the streets for long hours, ticketing speeders and arresting drunks or abusive husbands. After hours of driving around in his patrol car, he preferred going home at the end of his shift and just chilling, watching movies or reading a book. Unfortunately, Cheryl would beg him for details about his day, hoping for some exciting drama she could relate to others. His real life never lived up to her romanticized idea of what it should be, and eventually he stopped talking about work completely.

“Boring,” he muttered, his temper spiking at the recollection. “Fucking nice.” A blonde woman, walking some poor frou-frou dog with ridiculous purple ribbons around its ears, gave him a quick sideways glance and then hurried along.

He’d dated Cheryl for nearly six months and, while the breakup wasn’t completely unwanted, he’d actually expected he’d be the one doing the dumping.

He walked down the sidewalk toward his car. As he approached, he realized he was blocked in by some asshole who’d decided to double-park.

What the fuck?

He glanced at the time on his cell phone. He was exactly ten minutes away from being late to work—on his first day in a new division. Great.

He sucked in an annoyed breath and then an evil thought occurred to him. Pretty stupid to double-park next to a cop. Maybe he should clock in early. He disengaged the locks on his car, opened the door, and reached toward the passenger seat, where he had his ticket book. He was supposed to turn it in today. As a detective, that was one part of the job he was looking forward to leaving behind.

Looked like he was about to write his last parking ticket.

Cheryl’s voice rang in his ears, taunting him. Too nice, huh? Yeah, well, this person was going to see just how nice he wasn’t.

He stood behind the light-blue convertible Bug and started writing down the tag numbers. If the owner didn’t show up in the next five minutes, he’d call for a tow truck. He did a mental tally of how much money this ill-advised decision was going to cost someone and let that figure soothe his anger.

He finished filling in the information before tearing off the ticket and tossing the book back into his car. He’d just thrust the ticket into the back pocket of his jeans, prepared to wait for the car’s owner, when a pretty chestnut-haired woman walked out of the liquor store with a box full of bottles. She acknowledged his presence behind her car with a quick nod then proceeded to place the box on the passenger seat of her vehicle. Looked like she was having one hell of a party.

She was an extremely attractive woman. He ventured to guess she was in her late twenties. Her light suntan told him she was either a sun worshipper or no stranger to a tanning bed. She wasn’t thin, though he wouldn’t say she was overweight either. When she bent down, he was treated to a pretty nice view of her full, round ass. He forced himself to look away before he forgot his purpose.

When he didn’t move, she looked at him, her chocolate-brown eyes capturing his as she shrugged. “Parking is brutal in town these days.”

He nodded. She had no reason to suspect he was a cop. He was dressed in street clothing and driving his own car. There wasn’t anything to clue her in to how screwed she was.

“Double-parking is illegal.”

His comment stopped her for a second and she looked at his Camaro. “Oh my God, is that your car? I’m so sorry. I swear I circled the block twice looking for a spot. I knew I’d only be inside for a few minutes. You couldn’t have been waiting long, right?”

He hadn’t been standing on the street much time at all, but that wasn’t the point. “Long enough,” he muttered. Ordinarily, he’d have shrugged off the offense and issued the woman a warning. Problem was, he wasn’t in the mood to be generous. He was tired of being nice.

His cold response tweaked her temper—anger flared in her dark eyes and strangely enough, it pleased him. He was itching for a fight.

“I wasn’t in the liquor store more than ten minutes.” Her voice had lost some of its conciliatory tone.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? Whether you were double-parked for ten minutes or ten hours, it’s still a violation.”

She narrowed her eyes, annoyed by his haughty tone. “What are you, a cop?”

He grinned at her question and pulled the ticket out of his back pocket. “As a matter of fact…” He handed her the ticket, adding, “Detective Nolan.”

She muttered a softly spoken but clearly enunciated “fuck” under her breath. “Listen, Detective—”

He cut her off. He’d heard every excuse in the book during his years patrolling the streets. One of the best parts about being undercover with the drug task force meant he wouldn’t be subjected to angry retorts, tearful pleas or seductive come-ons as women tried to get out of tickets. “Save it for the judge.”

“Judge?”

“You clearly want to protest this injustice.” He was sure to imbue as much sarcasm into his comment as possible. “You can lodge your complaint in court, not to me. I’m late for work. So if you don’t mind—” He gestured to her car.

Her eyes narrowed. “You know, you don’t have to be such a jerk about this. I wasn’t away from my car more than ten minutes.”

“And because your time is more valuable than mine, you felt justified in parking illegally, blocking me in and breaking the law.”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you have any real crimes to solve, Detective? You have nothing better to do than harass a law-abiding citizen?”

He raised his eyebrow at her comment. “Do you need me to define ‘illegal’ for you?”

She placed her hands on her hips and leaned forward slightly. “Oh wow. Hello, Mr. Power Trip. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it doesn’t cost anything to be nice?”

He released a bark of cold laughter. “What is it with you women? You want us to be nice when it suits you and bad boys when it doesn’t.”

The woman looked confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He shook his head. He was letting his anger at Cheryl carry over to the job. It was stupid and unreasonable. This woman didn’t deserve his abuse. However, before he could offer an apology or backtrack, the woman jammed the parking ticket into her jeans pockets. “Whatever. This sucks. You suck. Goodbye.”

She quickly walked to the driver’s side and climbed in. He regretted letting her leave the second she pulled away.

Shaking his head, he got into his own car, leaning his head against the headrest.

She was right.

He did suck.

Party Naked is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Ellora’s Cave, Sony, All Romance Ebooks and Kobo.