LOVE, LIES AND A BLOKE by April Fifer, Danielle Hylton-Outland

LOVE, LIES AND A BLOKE by April Fifer, Danielle Hylton-Outland

What do you do when you don’t know who you are…and the one you love doesn’t either?

Katherine Thomas is a lackluster kind of girl who refuses to bend the rules. Until one day she loses her job and is forced to re-evaluate her life. One trip to Australia changes her world forever. 

She meets Brody, a hot and steamy man—in uniform. What she thinks is a night of fun and little lies turns out to be much more. One thing leads to another and Katherine realizes she’s in love. 

When an unexpected turn of events reveals Katherine’s true story, she must fight to make Brody understand that her love is real. Will she find a way?

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Excerpt:

Copyright © April Fifer, Danielle Hylton-Outland 2015. All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Totally Bound Publishing.

“Next!” Katherine shouted from behind the outdated photo booth counter. “Please sit up straight and place your shoulders back.” Her voice carried through the building, and every time she spat out that same boring sentence it would be followed by a blinding flash from the camera bulb.

“Umm, can I at least smile?” the young girl asked, irritated and apparently over-confident just having earned her new license.

“No,” Katherine quickly said, then snapped the picture. The young girl stomped off speedily to what Katherine could only assume was the girl’s mother.

It’s a license, not a photo shoot, Katherine thought to herself. Katherine’s own license immediately popped into her head. Her chocolate-colored hair looked oily black and her deer-in-headlights look taunted her every time she had to display it.

Katherine Thomas was the photo taker, and she spent her entire day standing in the same spot and shouting out the same sentence over and over. She liked to call herself a ‘photo taker’ because ‘DMV photographer’ seemed a little overkill. There was nothing glorious about snapping people’s pictures on a camera that was older than her and having them come out looking like the customers were sunburned because the machine had too much red ink in it.

“Kathy… Kathy…” a man’s voice sang behind her.

Katherine rolled her eyes and finally turned to face her boss, Chuck. “My name is not Kathy,” she said through clenched teeth. He was a scumbag, and sleaze saturated every ounce of his aura. She could always feel him staring at her while she stood behind the photo booth.

When Chuck wasn’t treating her like she was an idiot, he was making sexual remarks to her. On two occasions, Katherine could have sworn he had brushed up against her ass on purpose. If she could have proven it, she probably would have nailed him square in the jaw.

“What do you want, Chuck?”

“I need to see you in my office,” he sputtered.

“What an asshole,” Katherine said under her breath. She motioned for Janice, her co-worker, to come take her place. Katherine and Janice had worked together for a couple of years. Janice was very beautiful and sweet in nature. Katherine wasn’t really friends with her per se, but she did like Janice. Katherine had always thought that she had the cutest shape and gorgeous red hair.

The line for the photos wrapped around the waiting room, and it was twenty minutes before closing. That’s how it always was. No one ever showed up in the middle of the day. It was invariably after four o’clock before the building would become overrun with human bodies everywhere.

Katherine made it to Chuck’s office, and he was sitting behind his twenty-year-old desk made of solid oak. A vision of her leaping over his desk and strangling him flashed through her mind. She quickly shook off the image.

“Yes, Chuck?” Katherine asked as she stood there.

“We are getting some complaints about your behavior,” Chuck said.

“By whom?” Katherine demanded then thought of the teenager earlier that had been one pout away from throwing a tantrum.

“By some of the customers. You never smile, and you seem irritated all the time,” Chuck went on.

That’s because I am, Katherine thought to herself, but remained silent.

“This is a customer service job. You need to be more welcoming.”

Chuck’s voice made Katherine cringe.

“Chuck… I stand behind a camera all day taking driver’s license photos. It’s an assembly line. There is no customer service! If I stopped every person and asked them their life story, we wouldn’t close before nine.”

“Sorry, Kathy. This is going to have to go in your review. I think you should take some time off and really think about what your future holds here at the DMV. I have scheduled for Janice to take your place for the rest of this week. You can go ahead and leave now, and we will see you back next week.”

A smile hinted across Chuck’s face, and the vision Katherine had earlier of strangling him popped back up in her mind. Katherine stared at him for a moment, knowing what was to come next.

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ENEMY LOVERS by Shelley Munro​

ENEMY LOVERS by Shelley Munro​ 

Love might be waiting in enemy territory…

Clare Chronicles, Book 2

When Dallas O’Grady’s attention is hooked by a sexy rear end bent over a flat tire, he naturally pulls over to help. Then he gets a look at her face and realizes she’s one of those Drummonds.

The Drummonds and the O’Gradys might both live in the town of Clare, but they’ve never played nice, not since a generations-old feud started over a cache of stolen gold nuggets.

Laura Drummond has fought long and hard to grip independence by the throat and avoid her mother’s bulldozing attempts to control her life. She’s always admired Dallas from afar, and she’s pleased to discover that up close, he’s gorgeous, sexy, and nothing like the monster her family has painted.

When the road home is blocked, she’s forced to accept his offer of a bed for the night. One thing leads to another, and soon burning hot-desire melts into thoughts of forging a permanent relationship—damn their families’ disapproval.

But the feud isn’t the only thing conspiring to keep the lovers apart. And the clock is ticking…

Warning: Contains lovers determined to challenge the status quo, lots of sexy times, and a feud that just might destroy all their hopes for a happy future.

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Excerpt:

Copyright © 2015 Shelley Munro
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

Whoa. Dallas O’Grady caught a glimpse of blonde hair seconds before the woman kicked her flat tire. She owned the sexiest arse he’d seen in months. Without another thought, he pulled his truck onto the shoulder and climbed out to offer assistance.

“Problem?”

“My brother is an idiot.” Her lyrical voice held the same crisp chill of the wind whistling across the Napier road. She turned, and he caught a friendly smile belying her words. “Thanks for stop— You!”

The smile skidded away.

Hard drops of rain fell on Dallas’s face, the sleeves of his brown leather jacket, as he eyeballed a very sexy, very grown-up Laura Drummond. His gaze shifted to the gray, washed out clouds, the sky building to dense black on the horizon, then to the rear tire on her late model sedan. “Fine, if you don’t want my help, I’ll be leaving.”

“No, please.” Her hand shot out to halt his retreat. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you’re hobnobbing with the enemy?” He spelled out what they were both thinking. Their parents would issue horrendous battle cries if they witnessed this scene, saw the pair inhaling the same air, let alone engaging in something civil like a conversation.

She swept a strand of blonde hair away from her pink lips. “You’re not my enemy. I don’t know you.” She stuffed her hands in her jacket pockets, hunched her shoulders against the rain and stamped her feet. “Look, I’m grouchy. I have a flat. My brother borrowed my spare last week and told me he put it back. My phone is dead, and I’m not going to make Clare in time for my cousin’s hen party. My mother will make dolls in my image and stick pins in them.”

“My brother said there’s a slip partially blocking the road leading into the town, near the Shannon Pass. If it keeps raining, they might close the roads, if they haven’t already. You wouldn’t make it even if your car was drivable.”

“Yep, I’m screwed,” she said.

No, she wasn’t—not yet, but he’d love to take that thought to its logical conclusion. While their families might harbor long-standing grudges, his dick wasn’t sticking with the program. The skinny Laura Drummond from his vague school-day memories had grown into a classy woman. Her brown eyes glinted with intelligence while her mouth…

Dallas tore his gaze off her because his inappropriate thoughts bore repercussions. For one—a painful hard-on. And two, no way could he cozy up with the enemy.

He cleared his throat. “What do you want to do? I can give you a lift to Clare and hope we’ll make it past the slip, or I can ring for a breakdown truck.”

The rain was coming down harder now, icy crystal pellets pummeling his cheeks. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, worried it then nodded a decisive agreement.

“Let me grab my purse and overnight bag,” she said. “I’ll grab a ride and chance my luck. The slip might have been cleared already.”

Dallas told himself not to look, but when she bent over to retrieve her bag, his eyes zeroed in on her arse.

Down boy.

God, he hadn’t experienced this sort of reaction to a woman for a long time.

Shaking the lust away, he accepted her bag and stowed it behind the driver’s seat. He straightened, his mind leaping straight to her and sexual desire. Man, he was weak. Giving in to his libido, he watched her lock her sedan and splash through puddles to join him.

“You don’t resemble your sisters and brother.” They were dark-haired, her sisters both shorter than Laura.

“Nope, everyone says I’m the cuckoo in the nest.” She peeled off her wet raincoat and slid her long legs into his vehicle. “Ugh, it’s bucketing down out there. I’m lucky you came along.”

She was still talking when Dallas climbed behind the wheel. Nervous? He grunted, started his truck and pulled on to the road, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of water dripping down his neck.

“I take after my great-grandmother on my mother’s side. They say I’m her twin.”

Dallas nodded while his mind trotted back to the more pleasant occupation of imagining this woman naked and engaged with him in things carnal. A whoosh of heat replaced the chill of wet clothes.

“What are you going to do if the road is closed?” she asked.

“My cabin is on this side.”

“Oh.”

“Are you wondering what I’m going to do with you if the road is closed?”

“Please.” A strangled laugh emerged from her, tinged with a healthy dose of uncertainty. “I doubt you’d do away with me.”

“But you’re not too sure?” He set the window wipers to a faster speed and eased up on the accelerator, not taking his attention off the road. “I am one of those O’Gradys.”

“Positive.” She slanted him an ice-princess look, lifted that elegant nose just so. “I’m pretty sure you’re not hiding horns under your hair, although you might be concealing a tail. Even so, I’m confident I’ll get through this ordeal unscathed. I’ll grab a ride back to Napier. There’s bound to be someone heading to the city.”

Dallas barked out a laugh, amused at her sly humor lurking beneath the hauteur. She didn’t act like any Drummond he’d come into contact with in the past. He’d thought he might have consigned himself to an hour of chilly silence—more than an hour in these driving conditions. But she’d tossed his assumptions on their butt, and he found himself wanting to explore her mentally. Ditto the physical.

“What do you do for a job?” He shot her a quick glance, caught the wrinkling of her nose.

“My mother organized a place for me at a charity. I’m working for them at present, but I’d prefer a position with more challenge.”

“What sort of employment are you looking for?” Hearsay said Laura’s older sisters had never worked in their lives. They’d done the socialite thing, found rich husbands and married. They were now popping out a new generation of Drummonds to heap down hate on the O’Grady family.

“I enjoy organizing things, which makes me a natural in the administration field.”

“Are you good with computers?”

“Not bad. Any program I don’t know, I can learn. I’m a quick study.” Her chin lifted a fraction as if she expected him to challenge her statement.

Again, he found a smile pushing his lips for escape. He enjoyed a woman who surprised him. “If you weren’t a Drummond, I’d offer you a job.”

“What sort? What do you do?”

Again, not the reaction he’d expected. “My brothers and I own a couple of Irish bars in Napier, and I have several rental properties. It’s getting too much for me to handle the paperwork along with the day-to-day things.” The pub where he had his office wasn’t in the best part of town. Nah, he couldn’t see Laura slumming it at O’Grady’s. “We’re thinking of buying the old pub in Clare.”

“The one that closed down due to fire damage?”

“Yeah.” Dallas peered through the windshield, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Can I interview for the job?”

Dallas slowed even further until his truck crawled. Closer to the Shannon Pass, the rain slapped the windows, obliterated the scenery. What he could see of the sky was a sullen gray and lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a rumble of thunder. “You want to work in a pub? Maybe I should check you for horns and a tail. You have an impish sense of humor.”

“I’m not joking,” she said, and he felt the weight of her gaze. “But if you want to check me for devilish signs you go right ahead. I might enjoy it.”

Dallas opened his mouth, shut it again, risked a swift glance in her direction. A tiny grin played around her luscious lips. Oh yeah. She was pleased with herself. “I’m an O’Grady, sweetheart. I don’t possess the right bloodlines for you.”

“My parents want me to marry James Summerville.”

Another glance away from the road. Her big brown eyes held silent messages, and it took him an extended second to grasp the stray snippets of gossip and knit them together. His lips pursed in a silent whistle. “Isn’t he gay?”

“Yup, but James wants marriage. A… Sorry, you don’t want to hear about me.” Laura wiped a round circle on the passenger side window. A polite dismissal of the subject. “I don’t like the look of this rain. If anything it’s getting worse.”

“It’s not looking promising,” he agreed, deciding to let her get away with the change of topic. “Not wedding weather.”

“My cousin was set on an early spring wedding. Heck, I picture her stamping her foot and having a full-blown tantrum about the weather. She should’ve listened to the wedding planner. This time of year is always unpredictable.” Wily amusement colored her voice, and Dallas found his lips quirking. He fought the need to fall into a full-out smile of delight. If she’d been anyone else, he’d proposition her, offer her a cozy weekend of hot sex at his cabin.

But that wasn’t gonna happen.

She was a Drummond.

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ALL THAT MATTERS by Erin Nicholas

ALL THAT MATTERS by Erin Nicholas

The Billionaire Bargains, Book 3

Will Weston knows Emily Steele is too good for him. She's too good for any of the guys he knows-even if he does know an astonishing number of suave, handsome millionaires. But Emily's special. And he thought so even before he realized he had a little crush on his boss's niece.

Emily Steele would definitely consider herself intelligent and worldly. Born into privilege, she's been exposed to travel, culture and the best education. A billionaire's daughter, Emily is used to having everything she could ever need or want-cars, clothes, trips. But she isn't used to being single. When she decides she needs a break from her eight year relationship with the only boy she's ever even dated, Emily realizes she has a lot to learn. About the world and herself. And men. Definitely about men.

A friend's bachelorette party in New Orleans is the perfect place to get in touch with her inner vixen. Some drinking, dancing, flirting and fun seems like a great plan. Too bad she knows nothing about flirting. And has never actually met her inner vixen.

When Emily's uncle insists that his assistant, Will, accompany Emily to New Orleans, he knows it's not a good idea. The minute she was single, he suddenly became all too aware of how beautiful, charming and interesting she is. And that can only mean trouble. But when Emily offers Will's best friend a million dollars to be her date for the weekend instead, there is no way Will is staying behind.

Warning: Contains a woman with enough money to buy a date for a weekend in New Orleans, a guy who's never going to let that happen, a bachelorette party on Bourbon Street, hot sex to slow jazz and beignets... because there has to be beignets.

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Excerpt:

Copyright © 2015 Erin Nicholas
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ve been eating strawberry ice cream for eight years, and now I want to try something new, but I don’t think I should go straight for the double-fudge-brownie sundae with whipped cream and nuts. I need to start smaller—maybe a double scoop of white chocolate with some colored sprinkles or something.”

Will leaned on the counter top with one elbow and tried to be cool. He wanted to be patient, make her feel comfortable opening up to him, but there was a tension coiling in his gut, pushing him to figure this out. “Sorry, you’re going to have to spell it out more for me here.”

She looked annoyed. “Chad is the life preserver,” she said. “Now I’m swimming without him there to make me feel safe. I need to start swimming on my own, take some lessons, figure out what I can do and what I’m comfortable with, but I need to start in the shallow end. That’s Gus.”

Will studied her face, thinking back over her analogy. “Who are the big waves?”

She blushed.

“Me?” he asked, hoping it was him.

She nodded and the tension let go slightly.

Will felt his mouth stretch into a grin. “I’m the big waves, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

He really liked that. Except… “Wait, you’re scared of the big waves?”

She focused on the water bottle again, pressing her lips together.

He reached out and picked the bottle up, bringing it up next to his face so she had to look at him.

“You’re scared of me, Emily?” He tried to say it gently, but he had to resist the urge to growl the question. He hated that idea. And he didn’t understand it. He’d never done anything to make her feel she couldn’t trust him.

Her blush deepened. She shook her head. “Not scared.”

He breathed.

“Intimidated maybe,” she said. “I’m just not sure I’m quite…ready for you.”

Ready for him. His imagination took that in all kinds of directions. Directions that, yeah, would probably intimidate her.

Okay, intimidation. He didn’t like that any better though. What had he done to make her feel anything less than comfortable around him?

But then he recalled something she’d said. “And who’s the double-fudge-brownie sundae?”

Double-fudge brownies weren’t scary. They were tempting. Maybe bad for you in some ways, but also very good in many ways. His heart started thumping. He was really hoping there wasn’t someone else that she was tempted by but not ready for. But it was him. He knew it was him.

She sighed, not looking intimidated at all. “You know it’s you. And Gus is the double scoop with colored sprinkles.”

Will started to reply, thought better of what he was going to say but then said it anyway. “Are we talking about sex here?”

Her gaze dropped to the counter top. “Kind of.”

Damn, they were talking about sex. And her being tempted but not ready for him. And her wanting Gus instead.

Will’s eyebrows slammed together. “So you’re asking Gus to be your date in New Orleans because you’re trying to start slow on the sex thing?”

There was no way in hell that Gus was having sex with Emily. No. Way.

She shook her head quickly. “Not sex. That’s why Gus is a good choice. I can relax with him, we can dance and flirt and stuff, but it won’t be more than that.” Suddenly, she straightened and frowned at Will. “You think I would pay Gus to have sex with me?”

He held his hands up. “I’m just trying to get on the same page here.”

“Not sex,” she said firmly. “That’s just it. I’m not ready for that.”

And a huge, tempting, horrible realization hit Will directly in the gut. She wasn’t ready for him.That meant she’d been thinking of him sexually. She wasn’t ready but that meant she’d considered it. That meant she’d been tempted by it. She was turning down the brownie sundae but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it.

Will pulled in a slow breath, trying to cool off.

“This will be the first guy I dance with or flirt with or even spend a lot of time with since Chad.”

“But you and I couldn’t dance and flirt and spend time together?” And in that moment, Will wanted all of that.

Her cheeks were still pink when she nodded.

“Because…” he prompted.

“I don’t think it would be just that.”

Heat hit him hard. She was attracted to him, tempted, had given it enough thought to decide that he was too much for her. Just the idea that Emily had contemplated what it would be like to be with him made him hot and bothered.

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MIDNIGHT HEAT by Sarah Grimm

MIDNIGHT HEAT by Sarah Grimm

Black Phoenix Book 2

The unconscious man wheeled into Dr. Rebecca Dahlman’s ER is sexy—devilishly sexy—and injured. This isn’t just any patient in need of medical help. He is the only man she’s ever loved—the one who still haunts her dreams.

Black Phoenix bassist Dominic Price made a mistake three years ago when he walked out on Rebecca. A mistake he plans to rectify. But first he has to convince her to open her heart to him again.

One touch of his calloused hands reignites their passion. Can they rekindle their trust as easily, or will her fears cause her to lose him again…this time to a man bent on revenge?

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Chapter One

“Forty-year-old male MVC victim,” the medic shouted as he and his partner pushed the stretcher through the doors and into the emergency department. “SUV versus semi. SUV rolled multiple times before stopping to land on its passenger side.”

Adrenaline surged through Dr. Rebecca Dahlman’s system, revving her pulse, pushing away the fatigue of an overly long shift. It worked better than the half pot of coffee she’d already consumed.

“Upon arrival at the scene, patient was unresponsive. We were able to get the c-collar on him right away, but had to wait for the Jaws of Life to extricate.”

Gown and gloves in place, Rebecca ran her gaze over the unconscious man strapped to the backboard with orange belts as they swung into room one and transferred him to the ER’s gurney. Her team, already assembled in the trauma room, moved efficiently around the patient, cutting off his clothes with trauma shears, starting large bore IVs and getting vital signs.

The medic continued feeding her pertinent information as she began her assessment. “Blood pressure is one-twenty over seventy-five, pulse ninety-five. Pulse ox is one hundred percent on room air. Pupils—dilated, equal, and reactive.”

The guy was a mess. Blood covered his face, soaked the left side of his head and shoulder of his shirt. He had a laceration on his left upper arm; deep enough to require sutures, and some bruises were already beginning to form at his left shoulder and right hip from the seatbelt doing its job of holding him in place. Even more troubling was the bruise forming on his right side, a sign of rib trauma. Ribs weren’t the only common injuries from impact with the center console. The ones she couldn’t see were what caused her the most concern.

“I want an ultrasound of the abdomen,” Rebecca stated automatically as she shifted closer and listened to her patient’s chest. Lungs clear, respirations even and non-labored, heart tones audible not muffled and no abnormal rhythm. Good, no internal chest trauma. She looped her stethoscope around her neck and leaned in, searching the man’s scalp for head trauma. “Get me a cross-table C-spine, chest and pelvis x-ray. Draw a full trauma panel, type and cross, and a urine tox screen.”

Karmen Williams, Rebecca’s best friend and charge nurse for the night, pulled the man’s wallet from the pile of clothes on the floor. “Rebecca.”

Directly above his left ear Rebecca uncovered the source of all the blood. Pushing her fingers into his hair, she palpated the injury site. The wound immediately began to bleed again. “No skull fracture that I can detect.”

“Rebecca.”

“I’ll want a CT scan of the head and neck.”

“Rebecca.” Karmen’s voice was tight and pulled her attention. “It’s Dominic.”

For a moment, a heartbeat really, the words didn’t make sense. Then, she looked closer at the lifeless man on the gurney. As if in slow motion, Rebecca dragged her gaze up the torso, locked it onto the face partially hidden behind long, blood-soaked black hair. Her breath snagged in her throat and she froze, the echo of her pulse beating in her ears. It was a struggle to keep her hand steady as she pushed his wavy hair away from his face and focused on his mouth, those lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, the thin, straight nose.

“Stud,” she whispered, her voice torn.

His eyes were closed, ringed in thick black lashes. Were they open they would be the color of the sky just after a cleansing rain.

Her world tilted.

No. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t him. Dominic didn’t have a goatee or a scar across his right clavicle. Dominic wasn’t in California, he was in London. Safe in London.

Not unconscious and bleeding in the middle of her ER.

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AFTER MIDNIGHT by Sarah Grimm

AFTER MIDNIGHT by Sarah Grimm

Black Phoenix Book 1

Thirteen years — that's how long Isabeau Montgomery has been living a lie. After an automobile accident took her mother's life, Izzy hid herself away, surviving the only way she knew how. Now she is happy in her carefully reconstructed life. That is until he walks through the door of her bar...

Black Phoenix singer/front man Noah Clark came to Long Island City with a goal — one that doesn't include an instant, electric attraction to the dark-haired beauty behind the bar. Coaxing her into his bed won't be easy, but he can't get her pale, haunted eyes nor her skill on the piano out of his head.

Can Noah help Isabeau overcome the past? Or will her need to protect her secret force her back into hiding and destroy their chance at happiness?

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Chapter One

Isabeau Montgomery sat in the dimly lit bar and shook like an amateur before her first recital. Her gaze, blurred by the sudden threat of tears, settled on the keys before her. Her stomach cramped painfully, yet the need was too great to ignore.

With ability as natural to her as the color of her skin, she began to play. The waterfall of music filled the air, washed over her, completed her in a way nothing or no one else ever had. Against the razor sharp sting of memories, she fought…

She was young, vibrant, and born with a raw talent rarely seen. Classical, jazz, or rock and roll, she played it all. Loved all the genres—loved to create. All that mattered was her joy, her love for the instrument beneath her fingers and the music she was so skilled at creating.

For a good ninety seconds, joy returned, the rush of adrenaline and, conversely, the sense of belonging. In those seconds, time slowed, the lines between the past and the present blurred, and she was a child again. There was no longer pressure to be something she couldn’t be, no fear of what her future would hold.

And with the innocence of youth, no idea that everything she held dear could be lost in the blink of an eye.

The song built to a crescendo then quickly faded as pain, her old friend, returned with enough force to quash her joy. Her stomach roiled. Her breath caught.

Tears gathered in her eyes, and she dashed them away. Isabeau ran her hands up and over her face, pushing her long mass of ebony hair away from her forehead. She struggled to pull herself back together. Her fingers were chilled, cooler than normal, yet perspiration pooled at the small of her back. She closed her eyes, took a deep, slow breath.

“I didn’t expect that old thing to be in tune.”

Sweet Jesus.

She jumped at the deep baritone voice, slamming her knees into the piano. The key cover abruptly closed, and she startled again. Heart racing, she rose and faced the double doors she’d obviously forgotten to lock.

She swept her gaze around the bar’s dim interior until she spotted a dark, male frame. “The bar is closed.”

Her tone was sharp, curt, and left no room for argument. Under different circumstances, she wouldn’t inflict such rudeness on a customer, but he intruded on her privacy, her pain. Her emotions were too close to the surface for niceties.

His voice rang with a clipped British accent and the tone of someone unaccustomed to being questioned. “I was here earlier.”

She remembered the voice and didn’t need him to step out of the shadows to recognize him, which he did anyway. She’d served him a few hours ago—dark lager, no glass—and shared with him a smile as powerful as it was sexy. “We were open earlier. Now, we’re closed.”

His eyebrow shot up. His mouth shaped itself into an ironic curve. “So you have said.”

“Then perhaps you should leave.” Hands unsteady, she bussed the table closest to her and carried the glasses to the bar. His words stopped her cold.

“You’re very talented. How long have you played the piano?”

No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. She closed her eyes on a wave of emotion, doing her best to will him away. But even then she knew. The man at her back was not going away.

She focused her gaze on his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the bar. He was tall and lean, with eyes that shone with intelligence, even in the dim light. His hair was a mix of medium and dark blonde, worn long enough it fell across his forehead, nearly into his eyes, and brushed the collar of his shirt. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw.

The fine hairs on her arm stood on end as he crossed to her. She edged to the side and turned to face him. “I don’t play.”

“Of course you do. You were playing when I entered.”

“You’re mistaken.” She countered his step forward with one in retreat, ensuring that she remained out of arm’s reach.

With a frown, he stopped. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

It never occurred to her to fear for her safety, even though the bar was empty but for the two of them, the lights dimmed in deference to the late hour.

“Let me start again by introducing myself.”

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

Of course she did. He was the person who brought back her desire to create, whose presence in the room made something inside her sing out. He was the reason she’d been driven to play tonight, after years of resistance. The reason the siren song continued to play in her head, louder than ever before. “Yes, I do.”

“And I frighten you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you tremble? You’ve gone pale and look as if you’re ready to bolt.”

She dodged his hand when he reached out as if to touch her. Her breathing grew shallow. She waited for him to comment. Instead, he casually tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels.

His gaze moved around the room before settling on the piano. “What is the name of the song you were playing?”

The walls were closing in on her. Her body trembled so violently she was surprised her teeth didn’t chatter. “I don’t play,” she reminded him acridly.

She desperately needed to put some space between them. However, so far he’d countered every move she made. He moved again, stepped close enough she could make out the intense green of his eyes. It was difficult to hold her ground and not flinch as he took his time studying her features, his gaze lingering on her eyes.

She was not a beautiful woman. Taken separately, her features held the potential for beauty, but together, with her mix of cultures, she had a face like a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces didn’t fit together. Her cheeks were too sharp, her lips too large, and her eyes, pale enough they all but disappeared beneath the dark tones of her father’s heritage. Neither blue nor gray, her eyes brought her the most displeasure. Most people spoke of her eyes as “peculiar” and “haunted.”

Isabeau couldn’t handle such a reference from him. “What do you want from me?” she inquired before he could comment.

“That’s a good question,” he replied, more to himself than in answer to her. “How about your name?”

The way he looked at her made it very, very hard for her to look away. “Isabeau.”

“Isabeau.” His voice brushed across her senses like a lover’s caress. His hand settled upon her arm. His very large, very warm hand.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Trapped by the contrast of his pale skin against her darker, golden tones, her mind blanked. He dwarfed her, which at five foot three wasn’t all that difficult to do. Her heart raced. His scent snaked into her lungs with each breath she took.

The scent of him broke her from the spell and filled in the gaps. She shifted away from his touch, understanding what brought him back after closing. She’d found it, tossed carelessly into the corner of a booth—his black leather jacket. Soft as butter, it held his scent. Subtle, masculine, and just enough to stir her blood as she’d carried the garment into the kitchen for safekeeping.

Where, with no one to witness the act, she’d pressed her nose to the lapel and inhaled him.

Her cheeks grew warm. She shot him a look from under her lashes. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

She felt his eyes on her as she returned from the kitchen, and crossed to stand before him, his coat in hand. Felt them still as, without asking how she’d figured out what he needed, he removed the garment from her grasp and slid his arms into it. Finally, she lifted her gaze to his.

“I like your place, Isabeau.” His tone hinted he liked more than her place. And even though everything inside her screamed to get him out of there, it was impossible not to get a little bit lost. He was so inherently sexual that any woman would have to be blind not to be affected by his virile good looks and confidence. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

She watched him go, pressing her fingers against her pounding temples. As the door shut behind him, the pain eased, the noise in her skull dropped to a more tolerable level. Five minutes passed before she dared draw a deep breath for fear his scent lingered. She didn’t need further reminders of his visit. The music that pulsed through her system was reminder enough.

He thought he would see her again, but she knew he wouldn’t. Not because the chances of him returning were too slender, or even because a man like him could never truly be interested in a woman like her.

Because she’d been waiting thirteen years for someone to truly see her.

So far, no one had.

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NOBODY'S PERFECT by Kallypso Master

NOBODY'S PERFECT by Kallypso Masters


Rescue Me Book 3

Savannah Gentry, now Savi Baker, escaped the abuse, torture, and degradation forced upon her by a sadistic father for eleven years and has made a safe life for herself and her daughter. When her father threatens her peace of mind--and her daughter's safety--Savi runs to Damian Orlando for protection. Eight years earlier, young Savannah shared one perfect day with Damian that changed both their young lives and resulted in a secret she can no longer hide. But being with Damian reawakens repressed memories and feelings she does want to keep hidden--buried. At Damian's private Masters at Arms Club, she discovers that sexual healing might be achieved through BDSM (Bondage, Dominance/submission, sadomasochism)—specifically SM administered by a loving Service Top named Damian.

Damian, a wounded warrior, has had his own dragons to fight in life, but has never forgotten Savannah. He will lay down his life to protect Savi and her daughter, but doesn't believe he can offer more than that. She deserves a whole man, something he can never be after a firefight in Iraq. Damian also has turned to SM to regain control of his life and emotions and fulfills the role of Service Top to "bottoms" in the club in need of catharsis by whipping or other SM practices he is skilled at delivering. But he could never deliver that level of pain to Savi, who needs someone gentle and loving, not the man he has become. But when Savi witnesses a cathartic whipping scene on her first night at the club--delivered by Damian--she begins to wonder if this Damian could also help her regain control of her life and reclaim her sexuality and identity.

CONTENT WARNING: Readers who have a history of past abuse (sexual, physical, and emotional) may be triggered by scenes in this story. Before reading this book, please be aware that it is primarily about an incest survivor dealing with the sexual aftermath of years of abuse. She has dealt with non-sexual issues in years of therapy, but has tamped down anything related to sex. In this story, she struggles to find healing through a trusting, consensual BDSM relationship. If you believe that reading about PTSD flashbacks of incest, whipping for catharsis, mindf**ks, and related topics might be triggering for you, but you still choose to read it, please make sure you only read this book in a safe environment with supportive people available to you.

The BDSM scenes in this book (some of them beginning and advanced sadomasochism techniques) are the result of many conversations with submissives and Dominants who have worked through similar abuse issues using activities in the BDSM community and lifestyle. Therefore, the BDSM is portrayed as healing rather than titillating. If you are looking for the latter only, this might not be an enjoyable read.

But if you want to delve into the roller-coaster journey of a young couple trying to work through intense issues in a compelling story that pulls you into the characters' world and doesn't let you go, then you might find healing and entertainment in this story. The author, also a child-sexual abuse survivor, has found that writing the story has provided catharsis for her, and hopes other survivors who read it will see that they are survivors, too, and no one is ever so wounded she or he can't find love.

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Excerpt:

[NOTE: Italics for internal thoughts and foreign language will not appear in this excerpt]

Prologue

Savi Baker opened her mini laptop to update her résumé and write a cover letter for the "office clerk" position circled in the newspaper classifieds beside her. She'd need to hurry. Marisol's practice for the church children's pageant would be over in an hour or so.

Her years of college and clinicals were irrelevant now. She just needed to find something fast to pay her student loans and keep up the house and car payments. She and Mari had never lived extravagantly, but losing her job last week—three weeks before Christmas—just added to her anxiety.

She'd bought and wrapped some special gifts for Mari and tucked them away on the upper shelf in her closet. At least Christmas would have some special moments, but Savi would be lucky to be able to pay for groceries, much less the expensive ingredients needed for the holiday gifts she liked to bake for her friends.

After working so hard to achieve her goal of being a social worker and helping young abuse victims cope much more easily than she had following her own years of abuse, the loss of her job hit her harder than ever. Another dream lost.

Don't think about Damián Orlando.

She still didn't know why she'd been fired. Her supervisor seemed equally confused, so it couldn't have been because her daughter, Marisol, had been sick with the flu a couple of weeks before that. Everyone at the clinic was supportive of her being a working single mother. Her friend Anita, the woman who worked as the clinic's receptionist and had been the only mother figure Savi had known most of her life, had even stayed home with Mari so that Savi had only missed two days of work.

Her supervisor had encouraged Savi to submit an appeal to the state agency responsible for her termination, which she'd done immediately. Was she fired because of the complaint the clinic had received from the mother of one of her new clients? Mrs. Reynolds accused Savi of being indifferent to her daughter's needs, but Savi and her supervisor had explained to the mother that wasn't the case at all. With the highly charged emotions in situations involving domestic and child abuse, all case workers had to remain professional, objective, and somewhat emotionally distanced. This was especially true for Savi. She couldn't let her own demons from the past come to the surface.

In the end, Mrs. Reynolds had hugged her, sobbing. The mother had claimed she understood, and Savi had thought that was the end of it. Maybe not. Had she gone to the licensing agency to complain?

Oh, what difference did the reason make? She'd been fired. It could take months, or even years, to get reinstated; unraveling bureaucracy took time. She didn't have a huge savings—or time. Her immediate concern was finding a way to support her daughter and herself until she got another job in the mental-health field—if that was even possible.

Absorbed in typing, she jumped when the doorbell chimed. She looked at the time on her screen's desktop. Too early for Mari to be dropped off—unless something had happened. Barely able to breathe, Savi nearly ran to the front door and opened it, expecting to see one of the youth leaders from the church group.

Lyle.

She gasped, nearly choking as bile rose in her throat. Stupid! Why hadn't she glanced through the peephole first? She tried to reverse the movement by slamming the door in his face, but it stopped abruptly against his Italian leather wingtip. Her muscles in her arms quivered as she pushed harder.

"What kind of greeting is that for an old friend, Savannah?"

Enemy. Not a friend. Savi wedged the side of her bare heel against the door to keep him from opening it any further. Her lungs burned as she tried to fill them with much-needed air. Dangerous. He couldn't stay here. He would hurt Mari. She had to get rid of him.

She pulled the door slightly toward her without moving her foot and then tried to slam it with all her strength. He didn't even flinch. "What do you want?"

He smiled at her and relaxed. "Let me inside. We'll talk."

Savi suppressed a shudder. "You're not coming in. Leave before I call the police!"

His eyes narrowed into slits. Fear crawled up Savi's spine for the first time since she escaped this man and her father eight years ago. Vile man. Could she fight him off?

"Open this door, you dirty slut, or you and Marisol will regret this pathetic show of bravery."

Marisol. He knew her name. Did he know where she was? Oh, God, she prayed. Don't let Mari come home early. Where was her father? Had he gone after Mari while Lyle was here with her?

"I'm not letting you inside my—"

Without warning, Lyle rammed his body full force into the door, sending the edge of the wood into Savi's cheek. She hurtled backward until she lay sprawled on the floor, looking up at him. His navy-blue dress pants and wingtip shoes made her shudder as a distant memory tried to smother her efforts to regain her breath, but she tamped it back down. The angry man towered over her.

"Ah, just where a slut like you belongs, Savannah—at my feet." He reached for her. "Let me hear you scream, for old-time's sake, you filthy whore."

No! Memories of the night he'd placed her father's brand on her could never be erased, no matter how many times she'd tried. Neither could any of the degrading things Lyle had subjected her to at her father's orders.

She rolled onto all fours and scrambled to get away, sliding on the waxed floor. Lyle's savage kick slammed into her ribs as his wingtip impacted her left side. The air whooshed from her lungs, and she fought to catch her next breath.

"Your father asked me to bring you and your brat to him. But we're going to enjoy a little playtime first. What your father doesn't know…"

Another blow from his shoe struck her side near the same place. Panic set in as her breathing became more labored. Two more kicks followed in rapid succession. The pain!

Breathe!

Maman, help me. Give me the strength to fight him off. Help me protect Mari.

Savi pulled herself up using the hallway table and tried to inhale again. She turned to find Lyle smirking at her. Bastard. She picked up a wrought-iron candlestick from the table. In one swift motion, she swung it at his head, gouging his forehead. She hoped she'd more than stunned him, but didn't wait for him to recover. She followed up by kneeing him in the groin. He doubled over and fell to the floor moaning as he held his privates. His blood trickled onto her floor.

Not unconscious yet. Cut off the blood flow to the brain.

She'd learned a number of self-defense techniques from a female Marine veteran in a study group at college. Savi cringed as her finger touched his neck, hating to place her hands anywhere on him, but finally she found the point she sought and pressed—hard. She counted. By thirty seconds, Lyle's body grew even more limp.

Escape! Now!

Running to the kitchen, she grabbed her purse and keys and stumbled out the back door. A black BMW sat parked behind her little blue Nissan. She glanced back at her bungalow. Her home, but no longer her safe place.

No sign of Lyle yet, but he wouldn't be unconscious forever. Breathing had become a struggle, but she refused to escape inside her head to that numb place where she could dull the pain. Mari needed her to stay in the moment.

Mari needed her. Period.

She filled her lungs with as much air as she could stand and held her breath. Oh dear lord. Why couldn't she breathe? She pressed her hand to her chest and tucked her elbow against her left side, near where Lyle had kicked her repeatedly. Was something broken?

How had her father and his partner found her after all these years? She'd changed her name, her looks, everything, to keep from being found. No way would she ever let them anywhere near her daughter; they'd never do to Mari any of the things they'd done to her. In some ways, while Lyle had only been her handler, he was more sadistic than her father. Lyle had been the one to place her father's shameful mark on her. He'd enjoyed hearing her scream and often inflicted even more pain than what her father had ordered.

She opened the car door, got behind the steering wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. She couldn't zone out now. She needed to get to San Miguel's…to Mari.

Then what?

The images of Damián in her office comforting Teresa, his niece and her former client, and of him later last month standing over the inert body of the girl's rapist father alternated before her eyes.

No. She couldn't get close to him again. He was dangerous in a totally different way from Lyle and her father—but still, oh, so dangerous.

What other option did she have, though? She could protect herself or die trying, but what if something happened to her and they got their evil hands on Mari? She couldn't risk that.

Mari needed Damián.

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GETTING OUT OF HAND by Erin Nicholas

GETTING OUT OF HAND by Erin Nicholas

Sapphire Falls Book One

Genius scientist Mason Riley can cure world hunger, impress the media and piss off the Vice President of the United States all before breakfast. But he’s not sure he can get through his high school class reunion.

Then he meets the new girl in town.

Adrianne Scott loves Sapphire Falls. The sleepy little town has been the perfect place to escape her fast-paced, high stress lifestyle. Her only plans now include opening her candy shop and living a quiet, drama-free life.

Until Mason Riley bids four hundred dollars just to dance with her.

Mason sure doesn’t look—or kiss—like a genius scientist geek. In fact, he makes Adrianne’s heart pound like nothing she’s ever experienced. Passion like this with a guy who travels the world and parties at the White House should probably be a red flag for a girl who wants a simple boring life.

Good thing no one falls in love in a weekend.

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~Excerpt~

© copyright Erin Nicholas, 2014

“’Kay all, Adrianne’s next.”

A hand shot up in front before Jack even asked for a bid.

Jack chuckled and started the action at thirty dollars. It quickly climbed to two dances and fifty dollars.

Adrianne. Mason had no idea who she was, but it was obvious she was damned popular. She was no Hailey Conner, and in Sapphire Falls she never would be, but at least the guys around here hadn’t missed the silkiness of the blond waves that fell to her shoulder blades, or the sweetness of her smile, or the perfect curve of her ass—

Mason straightened. What the hell was that? His type was about four years younger than Adrianne, twenty pounds lighter and not from Sapphire Falls.

“What’s her story?” he asked Drew.

“Adrianne Scott,” Drew said with an appreciative sigh. “She’s new.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“Been here a couple of years. She’s friends with Hailey. Everyone wants her.”

He’d noticed that too. And it bugged him.

“She’s not dating anyone?”

Drew chuckled and shook his head. “Nope. Not for lack of trying. She never dates. The first guy to kiss her gets a hundred bucks.”

Mason raised an eyebrow. He didn’t necessarily approve of guys kissing a woman to win money, but then again, he was quite sure that no man would want to kiss Adrianne just for money.

“Everyone wants her.”

The guys in Sapphire Falls might have more taste than he’d given them credit for.

He drained the beer he didn’t want and disliked immensely and decided to place a food order to go. This was all of no interest to him.

“Okay, sixty-five dollars and three dances with Miss Adrianne Scott. Going once—”

Then she laughed at something the woman next to her said.

And Mason was in trouble.

Well, hell.

“Three hundred dollars,” he called out.

Every single pair of eyes in the room turned to look at Mason at the same time.

He’d never been the center of attention without a microphone in front of him and a conference logo behind him before.

Certainly never in Sapphire Falls.

He stepped forward. He’d opened his big mouth, couldn’t really go back now. He should probably be more surprised that he’d bid like that, but he wasn’t. He was a genius after all, and while his brain and mouth almost never disconnected, paying a few measly bucks for a chance to dance all night with Adrianne Scott and hear that laugh again was a genius move.

“Did you say three hundred?” Jack demanded, pointing a wooden gavel at him as if challenging him to take it back.

“Yes, sir,” Mason replied, looking at Adrianne when he added, “For the rest of the dances tonight.”

Adrianne’s cheeks were pink and her eyes wide. She wore no makeup to enhance the features that were completely captivating him. Her hair was loose and she wore a simple white cotton tank under a denim shirt with blue jeans. Simple, unadorned, and yet he had never been more drawn to a woman.

Jack looked around the room. Obviously, it was unprecedented for a man to monopolize a woman for the entire evening.

“But it’s only—” Jack started.

“Four hundred,” Mason answered, still watching Adrianne.

“I don’t—”

“Maybe we should let the lady decide,” Mason interrupted, walking toward Adrianne.

“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head as he advanced. She was breathing a little fast and she darted her tongue out and wet her bottom lip.

He took another step toward her. “Then what are you worth?”

She swallowed and glanced around. “There’s only three dances left,” she said. “I can’t let you pay three hundred dollars for that.”

“I offered four,” he reminded her, moving in closer still.

She smiled and he couldn’t stop staring at her mouth.

“I meant that even three was too much.”

He was directly in front of her now, and only those within about ten feet of them could hear the conversation. “I didn’t tell you what I expected those dances to be like for four hundred dollars.”

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WHEN OPPOSITES ATTRACT by Jules Bennett

WHEN OPPOSITES ATTRACT by Jules Bennett

The Barrington Trilogy

"When I want something, I find a way to make it mine."

After a near-fatal accident, Hollywood hotshot Grant Carter never imagined returning to the equestrian world. But producing a movie about a racing dynasty means he has no choice. Luckily Tessa Barrington, star jockey, provides the distraction he needs—feisty attitude, stunning looks…and a surprising innocence he can't resist.

Tessa won't give herself to just any man, especially a smooth-talking player like Grant. Once filming wraps, how can she trust he'll stick around? He's already keeping secrets.

Besides, Tessa has her eye on bigger prizes…unless falling in love is the biggest prize of all, for both of them.

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~Excerpt~

With a nice, round backside greeting him as he stepped over the threshold of the fancy stables, Grant Carter was more certain than ever that accepting this film project was not only a chance of a lifetime, it was a gift from God.

He might be looking to settle down and calm his ways, but to ignore the perfection displayed before him would be a sin. Besides, Grant knew his place, and he hadn't worked this hard in Hollywood to blow it just because temptation seemed to be glaring right in his face. Literally.

Temptation would have to wait, because producing a film revolving around horse-racing icon Damon Barrington was an opportunity he couldn't pass up…no matter the nightmares that followed him here.

The shapely woman in front of him might be a slight distraction, but that's all she could be. The new clause typed up in his contract had been reinforced before his arrival at Stony Ridge. Apparently, fraternizing with anyone involved in this film was a no-no. Shame, that.

Besides, even without the clause, nothing could cripple him more than being thrust back into the world of horses. But he could compartmentalize and he could be a professional on set. He simply couldn't let personal conflicts pass the barrier he'd built around his heart.

Grant eyed the round bottom hugged by tight black riding pants. Damn clause and personal demons.

The familiar smells of the straw, the feed, the leather saddles; the sight of beautiful Thoroughbreds… The combination brought back memories—memories that had no place in his life. Especially now.

Concentrate on the backside. A body like that could surely cure all ails. Even if she was off-limits, he had already taken a mental picture to fuel fantasies.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can find Tessa Barrington?" he asked, carefully stepping farther into the stables, straw crunching beneath his new boots.

The petite, yet curvy woman stood up, turned and slid the vibrant red ponytail back over her shoulder. And he'd be a complete liar if he tried to deny the punch to the gut he felt when those sapphire eyes landed on him. In an instant, he wondered how many times she'd used those intriguing eyes to lure a man into her clutches.

Between the body and the face, she was a stunner, but he wouldn't be as cliched as to say so. No doubt she had men falling all over her, and he refused to be so predictable.

"Are you the producer?" she asked, setting aside the brush she'd been using on the horse.

"One of them. Grant Carter." He closed the gap between them and extended his hand.

"I'm Tessa."

Surprise slid through him, but he prevented himself from dropping his jaw…just barely. So, he'd been admiring the beautiful jockey. Interesting.

When she propped her hands on her slender waist, just above her flared hips, he nearly swallowed his tongue. That sweet little package all wrapped in denim and plaid? Who knew he had a thing for country girls? Of course, Tessa Barrington was hardly just a country girl. This woman put the fear of God in most male jockeys, trainers and owners, if rumor served correctly.

"My father said you'd be arriving today." She gripped his hand, her gaze sliding down to his feet. "Pretty shiny boots you got there, Slick. We'll have to scuff those up a bit."

He couldn't help but smile at her piercing glare, her judgmental words. A woman who didn't hold back and wasn't throwing herself at him? He liked her already.

When she pulled her hand from his, Grant hated how such delicate features had calluses on them, but he knew this jockey took her lifestyle seriously. She didn't get to be the number-one contender in the country by sitting on the sidelines sipping mint juleps and wearing oversize hats.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he told her, offering a smile. "I have to say, you're quite impressive."

A perfectly sculpted brow lifted as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

Grant laughed. "That didn't come out right."

Seriously? Was he in high school and suddenly unable to form an intelligent sentence?

"What I meant to say was I'm impressed with your talents."

Damn it. Nothing was working for him right now.

"I'm assuming you mean because of my racing," she replied, her brow still raised.

Relieved that she'd let him off the hook, he tilted his head. "I know you have a busy schedule—"

"It's beyond busy, Mr. Carter."

"Call me Grant," he told her, cutting off that curt tone. "We'll be spending a great deal of time together over the next couple of weeks."

Tessa turned, picked up the brush and stepped back into the stall with the stud. "Mr. Carter—"

"Grant," he reminded her with a grin.

Her eyes darted to his, then back to the horse she'd been brushing. "Mr. Carter, my schedule is pretty tight. I came up with a spreadsheet so you can see when I'm practicing, when I'm working in the stables and when I have time blocked off for you. Your area on the sheet is green. I would like to stick to this spreadsheet, but if you have other engagements during our time, I can attempt to rework it."

Grant tried his hardest not to burst out laughing. She was starting to sound like his oh-soorganized twin sister…or at least how he remembered his sister before her accident.

Seeing as how Tessa still hadn't shown a hint of a smile, he assumed she was dead serious. Wow, this woman would be tough to crack. He loved a challenge, but something told him she wanted nothing to do with this movie. Most people would be thrilled to know Hollywood wanted to make a film around their life and on their property. The majority of the women he knew would give their entire shoe collection to be associated with a Bronson Dane movie with Max Ford as lead actor.

Grant watched as Tessa stroked the horse's mane with precision and care. This woman was obviously not impressed with him or this film. She seemed to be in her own world of details and structure, from the spreadsheet to her perfectly placed low ponytail. He had a feeling the beautiful Tessa Barrington rarely had her feathers ruffled.

And he'd so love to ruffle her. But beyond coproducing this film, he couldn't get swept back into the world that had ruined his family's life. He had to keep any personal emotions off this set. His next goal, of starting his own production company, was within reach, and he'd be damned if he'd let his guilt and fear hold him back.

"When is my first time slot, Tessa?" he asked, propping his hands on his hips as he took a step back from the open stall. "My team will be arriving in a month, and I plan on outlining the sites for the order of filming after I visit all the locations. But I'm flexible. I'll work around you."

With perfect ease, she turned, tapped the brush against her palm and tipped her head. "I know my father agreed to have me help you, but my racing has and always will come first. I should make it clear I'm not happy about this film and I don't endorse any part of it."

Grant couldn't help but grin. Apparently Tessa wasn't a fan of having her work disrupted. Actually, she was a refreshing change from the women who stumbled over themselves to get his attention because of his celebrity status and his bank account. Tessa was obviously impressed with neither, which only made her even more intriguing.

"I understand you're a busy woman," he repeated, hoping to use a little charm to get on her good side. "I'll try not to take up too much of your time."

"I only agreed to let you shadow me because I refuse for this film to be anything but accurate. I don't want my father's life spun into something ugly or devious."

Interesting. Clearly, Tessa had had an unpleasant experience somewhere along the way, and now Grant was in her path of anger. Lovely. Nothing like spending the next month working closely with a bitter woman.

"I will make sure this movie is done to everyone's satisfaction and is the best film we can produce," he promised.

"Looks like we'll both be getting our way, then," she said with a tight smile.

Both get their way? His eyes roamed over her delicate frame. Oh, the possibilities. Slipping that tight ponytail down would be the first. Unbuttoning her stiff shirt would be next.

And making use of that empty stall would be another.

Yeah, this would definitely be a long month.

Tessa knew when a man was attracted; she wasn't stupid. And in all honesty, she found this hotshot producer pretty sexy, but she'd built up an immunity to sexy, smooth talkers.

Besides, the last guy who'd captured her attention was a city boy through and through. His polished shoes, designer suits and perfectly coiffed hair hadn't bothered her. What bothered her was when he'd decided to use her name and finances to further his small-business venture.

There was no way Tessa would let herself get sidelined by some captivating, powerful stranger from Hollywood just because he made her heart beat a bit quicker with that one-sided smile and those heavy-lidded eyes.

Most twenty-five-year-old women were getting married and having babies. Tessa opted to chase her own set of dreams—the Triple Crown.

There was no time for serious relationships when she lived in a stable, training most hours of the day. And she most definitely thought more of herself than to let go of her innocence for a quickie.

Besides, she'd learned the hard way how cruel relationships could be and how the word trust meant different things to different people.

"I need to take Oliver out for a ride," she told Grant, hoping he'd take those sultry eyes and be on his way for now. "I assumed when Dad said you'd arrive today, it would be later, so I had blocked out a two hour window for you after lunch."

He checked his watch. "I can come back, but it may help if I have that spreadsheet, so I know when not to disturb you."

Tessa sighed. He was mocking her. That was fine; she was used to it. But the last guy who'd decided to make a joke of her had found himself out one girlfriend and a whole lot of pride by the time she'd finished with him. Of course, his mocking had come on a whole other, more painful level.

She moved to the next stall, where Oliver, her beautiful Thoroughbred, waited for his warm-up. Oliver wasn't her racing horse. No, he was her baby, and she loved him as dearly as she would her own child. He was a bit finicky, a bit hyper some might say, but Tessa and he understood each other. And they pretty much both loathed outsiders.

"I'll bring that spreadsheet to our meeting," she told Grant as she slid open the stall. Oliver, restless as usual, started his bucking dance, his way of letting her know he was more than ready to go. "I can meet you back here in two hours—"

One second she was talking and the next she was in Grant's arms. She hadn't seen him move, but suddenly he was pulling her away from the opening in the stall.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking up into the most impressive set of dark, near-black eyes.

Grant stood frozen, his arms wrapped around her, his eyes now wide and focused on Oliver. With his attention not directly on her, she could take a moment to appreciate the strong jawline beneath the dark stubble, the tanned skin, his firm grip on her, giving her the opportunity to learn that he had fabulous muscle tone beneath that new gray flannel shirt.

And he smelled so damn good. Perhaps she was just glad to be inhaling something other than hay and horse poop, but Grant Carter's aftershave, cologne or the combination of both was masculine, strong and sexy…just like the man.

"Grant?" she asked, sliding from his grasp.

His gaze went from the stallion to her and held, before he shook his head as if to focus.

"He jumped when you started to step in," Grant told her, taking a step back and raking a hand through his short, messy hair. "I didn't want you to get hurt."

Still confused at his overreaction, but a little touched by his instant ride to the rescue, Tessa crossed her arms. "Hurt? I won't get hurt tending to the horses, Grant. Oliver is always like this. That's why I'm the only one who handles him."

Grant shrugged. "My apologies. I'm just not used to horses."

She tilted her head, still trying to get a feel for this newcomer into her world. "Are you going to be okay on this set?"

"I'm fine." He sent her another killer, knee-weakening smile. "I didn't want you hurt, that's all."

The way those dark eyes held hers, and the soft, yet firm tone of his voice washed over her like a warm, protective blanket. She didn't want to feel anything for this man. But that protective streak, and an underlying secret vulnerability, made him even more attractive in her eyes.

"I don't think that's all," she commented, calling him out on whatever seemed to cripple him. "I don't want to be rude, but you are working on a film about horses. Shouldn't you know something about them?"

That sexy smile spread wider across his face as Grant eased forward with a slow, easy stride any cowboy would envy.

But this man was from L.A., the city of sin and silicone. If it weren't for the newly purchased clothes, which were so fresh looking they might as well have the tags dangling, Tessa would swear he lived on a farm.

But he was in the film industry. He probably always looked the part. Appearances were everything to shallow people.

Grant stopped when the tips of their boots nearly touched, and she had to either stare at the way his dark gray flannel stretched across his firm pecs, or glance up and meet that dark gaze. Either body part would tempt a nun, and Tessa was finding it hard to remember what she was saying when he towered over her and looked straight down into her eyes as if he could see her deepest secrets.

She'd been tempted before in her twenty-five years, but never this fast, this hard. Tessa feared she might be in over her head with Grant Carter because they'd been in each other's presence for mere moments, which was barely a blip on the radar in the grand scheme of things.

"Learning all about horses is why I have you. I've waited years to get a project of this caliber." His eyes roamed over her face, from her eyes to her lips and back up. "And when I want something, I find a way to make it mine."

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SHEIKH'S SCANDAL by Lucy Monroe

SHEIKH’S SCANDAL by Lucy Monroe

The Chatsfield #1 mini-series

WELCOME TO THE CHATSFIELD from Harlequin

When the Sheikh comes to town...

Sheikh Sayed of Zeena Sarha and his harem of beautiful women are staying at the exclusive, opulent Chatsfield Hotel, London, for the last stop on his worldwide tour before his wedding. But when his engagement is unceremoniously broken, Sayed sets his sights on his sexy chambermaid!

Liyah Amari only took the position as chambermaid to find the truth about her birth father. But her search ends in heartache, leaving Liyah vulnerable to this powerful sheikh’s desires. Now their one night of passion could result in a scandalous consequence for the proud Sheikh!

Welcome to The Chatsfield, London!

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~Excerpt~

Not easily impressed, Liyah Amari very nearly stopped to gawp upon entering the Chatsfield London for the first time.

Flagship of the Chatsfield family's hotel empire, the lodging preferred by Europe's elite was magnificent.

San Francisco's property where her mother had worked since before Liyah's birth was beautiful, but nothing compared to the opulence of this hotel. From the liveried doormen to the grandeur of the ballroom-size lobby, she felt as if she'd stepped into a bygone era of luxury.

A decidedly frenetic air of anticipation and preparation was at odds with the elegant surroundings, though. One maid rushed through the lobby—which Liyah was certain was anything but a normal occurrence—while another polished the walnut banisters of the grand staircase.

It looked like an impromptu but serious meeting was happening near the concierge desk. The desk reception staff were busy with the phone and computer, respectively, checking in an attractive elderly couple.

"Welcome to the Chatsfield London, Mr. and Mrs. Michaels. Here is your room key," the young man said, "and here is your complimentary hospitality pack. We very much hope that you enjoy your stay."

Both staff were too busy to pay attention to who might be entering the hotel. Behind reception, Liyah saw a row of photographs depicting the Chatsfield London's staff. Something in her chest tightened as she caught the image of Lucilla Chatsfield staring back at her from within a frame.

One of the Chatsfield siblings Liyah admired and wished she could get to know, Lucilla was too far up the hotel's ranks for that to ever be likely.

A noise from behind her dragged her attention to where maintenance was replacing a bulb in the giant chandelier that cast the saffron walls with an elegant glow. Ecru moldings and columns added a tasteful but subtly lavish touch and the faint but lingering smell of fresh paint indicated they'd had a recent tidying up.

Liyah's sensible shoes made no noise as she crossed the black-and-white marble-tiled floor, heading directly for the elevator as she'd been instructed to do.

A man stepped in front of her. "May I help you find someone?"

His tone and expression were polite, but it had to be obvious to him that Liyah in her well-fitting but conservative black gabardine suit was not a guest at the Chatsfield.

"I have an appointment with Mrs. Miller." As was her usual habit, Liyah was fifteen minutes early for her meeting with the senior housekeeper.

The man's eyes lit up. "Oh, you must be the maid from Zeena Sahra."

No. That had been her mother. "I am familiar with Zeena Sahran culture, but I was born in America."

Liyah had been hired as a floor supervising chambermaid on the presidential level with special concierge services, just below the hotel's penthouse suites. With hospitality as well as housekeeping duties, she would be working in tandem with the concierge team in a new initiative designed to increase customer satisfaction.

It would be a much more satisfying job for Liyah than the one her mother had held for almost three decades and Hena would have approved wholeheartedly.

"Yes, of course. The elevator is right this way." The man started walking. "I will have to key your access to the basement level."

"Thank you."

Liyah was still a few minutes early when she knocked on the senior housekeeper's office door. "Enter," came from within.

Mrs. Miller was a tall, thin woman who wore a more severe version of Liyah's suit with a starched white blouse buttoned all the way up.

"I'm pleased you are here, Miss Amari, but I hope you've come prepared to begin work immediately," she said after the pleasantries were out of the way.

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Your concierge floor has been booked for the sheikh's harem." Mrs. Miller gave a disdainful sniff with the word harem.

"Excuse me? A sheikh from Zeena Sahra is coming to stay?" And he needed an entire floor for his harem?

No wonder they'd wanted to transfer her mother from the Chatsfield San Francisco.

"Yes, Sheikh bin Falah will be staying with us for two weeks. His fiancée will be joining him for the second one."

Liyah schooled the shock from her features. "Sheikh al Zeena, or Sheikh bin Falah al Zeena, but he would not be referred to as Sheikh bin Falah. To do so would cause offence."

Liyah wasn't sure about correcting her boss, but she assumed this sort of knowledge was why she'd been hired.

At least now she understood the need for her expertise. Not just a tribal sheikh but the crown prince of Zeena Sahra was coming to stay at the Chatsfield London.

Probably the single most gorgeous man alive, he could easily be an international playboy with a string of supermodels hanging on his arm. However, he had a reputation for being buttoned-down and focused entirely on his duties as emir of Zeena Sahra.

"I see. I'll make a note of it. I presume addressing him as Your Highness is acceptable."

"It is, though from what I have read, since Zeena Sahra is an emirate, he prefers the title of emir!''

Mrs. Miller's mouth pursed. "Why didn't we know this?"

"It's a small thing, really.'

"No," Mrs. Miller said sharply. "There's nothing small about this visit from the sheikh. Every detail must be seen to with absolute attention. If not, mistakes happen. Only last week someone wanted to send silk napkins to the Chatsfield Preitalle with the inscription 'Princess Mad-die.' Can you believe it? For a royal wedding? This is why each detail must be perfect."

"I will do my best."

"Yes. In addition to your usual duties, for the duration of the sheikh's visit, you will also personally oversee the housekeeping staff for his suite and the adjoining rooms for his security people."

Nothing like being thrown in at the deep end, but Liyah didn't mind. She thrived on a challenge.

Nevertheless, it was a good thing Liyah had gotten her degree in hospitality management. It didn't hurt either that she'd cleaned rooms at the Chatsfield San Francisco every summer break through high school and college, not that her mother had encouraged Liyah to make her career there.

Quite the opposite, Hena had been adamant that her daughter not work for the Chatsfield. And now that she knew what she did, maybe Liyah understood that better.

After a somewhat harried orientation, during which staff members she met asked as many questions of Liyah about Zeena Sahra as she asked them about the Chatsfield London, she returned to her newly rented bedsit.

About the size of a college dorm room with an efficiency kitchen and miniscule bath tacked on, it was a far cry from the two-bedroom apartment with a balcony she'd shared with her mother in San Francisco. An apartment she'd been only too happy to move out of when she got the floor supervisory position with the Chatsfield London.

The job offer was a brilliant coincidence that Liyah's mother would have called destiny. But then Hena Amari had had a romantic streak her daughter did not share.

Although her outlook on life was decidedly more pragmatic, once Liyah had seen the contents of her mother's safety-deposit box and read Hena's final letter, she'd known she had to come to England.

The new job had allowed her to do so without dipping too deeply into what was left from the proceeds of her mother's life insurance policy. The money had been welcome if entirely unexpected. The policy had been one of the many profound shocks Liyah had found in that safety-deposit box.

Shocks that had ultimately ended with her working for the Chatsfield London.

The hotel had been looking specifically for someone with knowledge of Zeena Sahran culture and hospitality norms. Ironically, they had contacted the San Francisco property's senior housekeeper, Stephanie Carter, in hopes of transferring Hena Amari.

With Hena's sudden death, Stephanie, knowing about Liyah, had suggested her instead. Even though Liyah had not worked for the Chatsfield San Francisco since the summer before her last year of university, her education and experience had made her uniquely eligible for a newly created position.

The irony that a job with the hotel would make it possible for her daughter to fulfill Hena's final wish was not lost on Liyah.

Liyah did not resent her mother's silence on any front, but only superb emotional control had allowed her to take one stunning revelation after another without cracking.

On the outside.

The most stunning revelation of all had been that the extremely wealthy English hotelier Gene Chatsfield was Liyah's biological father.

After years of seeing the exploits of his legitimate children in the tabloid press, Liyah found it nearly impossible to believe his blood ran through her veins. What did she, a woman who had worked hard for everything she had, have in common with this notorious, spoiled family?

She had an almost morbid curiosity to discover what kind of man raised his children to be so profligate while sending the most meager of stipends to Hena on Liyah's behalf.

The answer might lie in the very fact of Liyah's existence, the result of Gene's indulgence in numerous affairs with his hotel maids. Affairs that did not make it into the press.

Hena hadn't known about the hotelier's wife, much less his propensity for seducing the chambermaids, until after he left San Francisco and a pregnant Hena behind. It had all been in the final letter Hena had left Liyah.

She'd never told another soul the identity of Liyah's father. Hena's shame in the fact he'd been a married man colored the rest of her life and yet she'd written in her letter that Liyah needed to forgive him.

Hena had claimed that Gene Chatsfield was not a villain, not a demon, not even a very bad man. But he had been a man going through a very bad time. Her final request had been for Liyah to come to London and make herself known to her father.

Liyah would respect her mother's last wishes, but she was happy to have the opportunity to observe the man incognito—as an employee, not the daughter he'd never acknowledged.

Her uniform crisp, her long black hair caught in an impeccable bun, Liyah stood tucked away in a nook near the grand staircase. She'd been in London two weeks and working at the Chatsfield ten hectic days, but had yet to catch a glimpse of her father.

Word had come down that the Honorable Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena was arriving today, though. Liyah had no doubts her father would be on hand to greet the sheikh personally.

One thing that had become patently obvious in the past ten days: the sheikh's stay was incredibly important to the hotel, and even more significant to the Chatsfield's proprietor.

Apparently, in another ironic twist of fate, Gene Chatsfield currently resided in the Chatsfield New York, leaving his new and highly acclaimed CEO, Christos Giatrakos, alone to handle operations from London. However, Gene Chatsfield's arrival in London to personally oversee the emir's visit said it all.

Knowing how key this high-profile guest's stay was to her father, Liyah was determined to do her job well. When she made herself known to Gene, there would be nothing to disappoint him in her work ethic.

Her floor was in impeccable order, each of the rooms to be occupied garnished with a crystal bowl of fruit and a vase of fragrant jasmine. She'd arranged for a screen to be placed at the elevator bank on her floor, as well, effectively blocking the harem quarters from curious looks.

She'd made sure the sheikh's suite was similarly taken care of. There was nothing to offend and a great deal to appreciate in her setup of his rooms and the floor below.

Thoughts of her work faded as an older man walked with supreme confidence across the lobby. His air that of a man who owned all he surveyed, he acknowledged the numerous greetings by his employees with a regal tip of his head. Her father.

Stopping in front of the reception desk, he was clearly prepared to welcome the sheikh upon arrival.

Gray hair shot with silver, his blue eyes were still clear, his six-foot-one frame just slightly stooped. Garbed in a perfectly tailored Pierre Cardin suit, his shoes no doubt handmade, he looked like a man who would fit right in with the fabulously wealthy people his hotel catered to.

Gene smiled and said something to the head of desk reception. And all the air expelled from Liyah's lungs in a single whoosh.

She'd seen that smile in the mirror her whole life. His lips were thinner, but the wide smile above a slightly pointed chin? That was so familiar it made her heart ache.

His eyes were blue, hers were green—but their shape was the same. That hadn't been obvious in the publicity shots she'd seen of him.

She'd gotten her mother's honey-colored skin, oval face, small nose and arched brows, not to mention Hena's black hair and five-foot-five stature. Their mother-daughter connection had been obvious to anyone who saw them together.

Liyah had never considered she might also share physical traits with her father.

The resemblance wasn't overly noticeable by any means, but that smile? Undeniably like hers.

This man was her father.

Hit with the profundity of the moment, Liyah's knees went to jelly and she had to put her hand against the wall for stability.

Unaware of her father's moderate financial support and way too aware of the Amari rejection of any connection, Liyah had spent her life knowing of only one person in her family.

Hena Amari.

Her mom was the only Amari who had ever recognized Liyah as a member of that family. A family who had cast her out for her disgrace.

And since her mom's death, Liyah had been alone. In that moment, she realized that if this man accepted her— even into the periphery of his life—she wouldn't be alone any longer.

Her father's face changed, the smile shifting to something a lot tenser than the expression he'd worn only seconds before. He stood a little straighter, his entire demeanor more alert.

Liyah's gaze followed his, and for the second time in as many minutes she went weak in the knees.

Surrounded by an impressive entourage and dressed in the traditional garb of a Zeena Sahran sheikh stood the most beautiful man Liyah had ever seen. Known for his macho pursuits and outlook, despite his supreme political diplomacy, the emir wouldn't appreciate the description, she was sure.

But regardless of. .or maybe because of his over-six-foot height, square jaw and neatly trimmed, close-cropped facial hair, the sheikh's masculine looks carried a beauty she'd never before encountered.

No picture she'd ever seen did him justice. Two-dimensional imagery could never catch the reality of Sheikh Sayed bin Falah al Zeena's presence. Not his gorgeous looks or the leashed power that crackled in the air around him like electricity.

Nothing about the unadorned black abaya worn over Armani, burgundy keffiyeh on his head and black triple-stranded egal holding it in place expressed anything but conservative control. The Zeena Sahran color of royalty of the keffiyeh and three strands of the egal, rather than the usual two, subtly indicated his status as emir.

Wearing the traditional robe over a tailored designer suit with the head scarf implied supreme civilization. And yet, to her at least, it was obvious the blood of desert warriors ran in his veins.

The first melech of Zeena Sahra had won independence for his tribe—which later became the founding people of the emirate of Zeena Sahra—through bloody battles western history books often glossed over.

Inexplicably and undeniably drawn to the powerful man, Liyah's feet carried her forward without her conscious thought or volition. It was only when she stood mere feet from the royal sheikh that Liyah came to an abrupt, embarrassed stop.

It was too late, though.

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