​With NO STRANGER TO LOVE, USA Today Bestselling Author Pamela Aares delivers another page-turning contemporary romance in the Tavonesi Series featuring love, suspense and adventure!
Juliet Cabot is no stranger to trouble, but she never imagined that her work defending endangered sea turtles on a beautiful Greek island would turn deadly. Threats to her life force her to call for help from the man who's haunted her dreams for years—wine country landowner and international polo star Parker Tavonesi.

Parker owes Juliet big time for getting him out of a fix in the past. Handsome, resourceful and fearless, she trusts him with her life but she vowed she would never trust him with her heart. When danger enshrouds them and warm island nights cause their bottled-up passions to flare, Juliet's every fantasy could become reality . . . unless the dark secrets of a sultry paradise prove fatal, not just for the struggling sea turtles but for Parker and Juliet as well.


Link to Follow Blast: http://www.tastybooktours.com/2016/05/no-stranger-to-love-tavonesi-series-9.html
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27835929-no-stranger-to-love

Goodreads Series Link: https://www.goodreads.com/series/120562-tavonesi


Buy Links:      Amazon | B & N | iTunes | Kobo
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​After lunch, Juliet changed into the sleek silk evening dress and headed down into the wine cellar with the stylist and hairdresser. It felt weird to be in such a fancy dress at two in the afternoon. Heck, it felt odd to be in such a fancy dress at any time. The dress and the shoes probably cost more than an entire month’s pay.
When she reached the wine cellar, Athena tugged at her dress and Brandy fussed with her hair. Barb had arranged a bank of lights in front of a wine barrel. A silver tray set holding two crystal glasses sat in its center.
But Juliet’s mind was captured by the scent of the cellar—cinnamon and berries and a deeper aroma she couldn’t identify. But she recognized the mélange of scents as Parker’s. She’d caught whiffs of the heady aroma in the guest room the previous morning and then again when he’d leaned in close for the shots in the redwood grove. But Parker wasn’t in the cellar.
Dimmed ceiling lights curved down the tunnel that led deeper into the wine cave. She shook off the hairdresser and peered into the darkness. When footsteps sounded behind her, she turned.
And sucked in a breath.
If she had thought Parker handsome in his riding clothes, a perfectly tailored tuxedo made him devastating.
His eyes landed on Juliet. He ran a hand through his hair as he looked first down and then up. “My God, you are a vision.”
Juliet couldn’t tear her gaze from Parker’s. She managed a smile and a nod, but didn’t trust her voice. For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was their collective breathing, as if the cellar had lungs of its own.
“Well,” Athena said, breaking the spell. “That’s the whole idea, after all.”
“I’ll need to angle this light,” Barb said.
Brandy moved toward Parker, pulling a brush from the belt of implements at her waist.
Parker held up a hand. “I do have limits,” he said in a gentle but firm tone, his eyes never leaving Juliet’s. He shook his head as if he were shaking off a troublesome thought. “And before we do this shot, I’d like for all of you to taste the wine I’m launching.”
He strode to a cabinet at the far side of the arched room and began to pull out glasses. Juliet let out the breath she’d been holding and moved to help him.
“No.” Athena put a hand to Juliet’s wrist. “You might muss your dress.”
God, she’d forgotten about the dress.
“Though we’ll have our wine critic taste all of these, I’d love to taste your wine here in its home setting,” Mark said.
Parker pulled a bottle from the cabinet. “This pinot is only three years in the bottle, but it’s ready.”
“I feel like we should have a drum roll or something,” Barb said from behind the light she was adjusting.
The thrumming of Juliet’s pulse was all the drum roll she could stand.
“As much as I’d like to, we won’t have to come back tomorrow,” Mark said. “After this session, Barb will have what she needs, and I have more than enough for the article.”
Juliet sighed, relieved.
Parker poured wine and handed out the glasses.
Juliet reached for hers.
Athena took the glass from Parker’s hand. “Best to wait until after Barb gets her shots.”
“You must think I’m clumsy.”
“No one could ever accuse you of that.”
Parker’s sultry tone rolled through her. No one had ever called her graceful. And though he hadn’t, she heard the message in his words. The compliment pleased her more than it should have.
“Just a precaution,” Athena added. “I’ve learned from experience.” She eyed Juliet. “We’d have a hard time coming up with another gown that looked like this one does on you.”
Parker leaned close to Juliet’s ear. “I’ll make it up to you after. You can have your own private bottle.”
“I might need it by then.” She shook off the shiver threatening to take up long-term residence in her body. “Maybe a case.”
“Upping the ante?” he whispered, his teasing tone warming her belly.
He’d already paid far more than he should have. “No. But I will be glad when we’re done here. I’m sure you will be too.”
He held her gaze. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
Everyone except Juliet sipped the wine, admired it in the light and murmured kudos to Parker. There was talk between Mark and Parker about the aroma of the pinot varietals. Juliet concentrated on the words, the facts, anything to keep from looking Parker in the eye.
“I think at five years this wine will be at its peak,” he said, as proud as any artist would be over the fruits of his work.
“Black cherry and...” Mark paused. “I was going to say ripe tomato or mushroom. Smooth. Balanced.”
Parker beamed.
“Delicious,” Barb said as she set her glass down on the cabinet. “And now, time for work, gang. The sooner we wrap, the sooner Juliet can imbibe.”
At first Parker stood on one side of the barrel and Juliet on the other. Barb instructed them to raise their glasses and touch the rims together as if in a toast. Her camera whirred as she ran off a few shots. She looked at her preview screen and frowned.
“I think they should kiss,” Mark said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I think you’ve had too much wine,” Parker said.
“No, he’s right. Romance. That’s what’s missing from this piece,” Barb said. “You two aren’t shy, so let’s try it. I’d like to shoot it from this angle. Mark, give me a hand with these two lights.”
Barb tugged Juliet close to Parker and then took up her camera a few steps away.
The new light positions threw a golden glow across Parker’s face. The soft light played over the sculpted planes of his jaw and cast the shadows of his long lashes onto his cheeks.
Juliet leaned close. “Now you really need my help,” she whispered. And without further comment, and before she could chicken out and blow their cover, she raised her hands and pulled his head down so that her lips touched his.
Her body quivered at the contact. She closed her eyes and brushed a light kiss along his lips. Trembling, she pulled away. She opened her eyes and, not trusting her ability to school her features, looked down at her hands.
Barb moved to their right. “Can we try that again from this angle?”
Neither Juliet nor Parker moved.
“And keep your eyes open for this one. I want to capture you gazing into each other’s eyes,” Barb said.
“One more,” Juliet said, trying to keep the waver out of her voice.
Parker moved first. His hand slid up her bare back and shot shivers along her spine. Juliet’s gaze locked with his. He looked as stunned as she felt. Or maybe she was projecting. But as he leaned down and kissed her, the lights, the room and the people in it melted away, and she was locked in the throbbing energy of his kiss.
Shocked at her response, she broke off their kiss and stepped back from him. Leaning her palms on the wine barrel to steady herself, she turned to the camera and pasted a false smile on her face that would’ve had her drama coaches applauding.
Then she turned to Parker. His lips were pressed together in a tight line.
“Smile,” she whispered so that only he could hear. “Mission accomplished,” she added, widening her own smile.
He flashed a quick grin that only she knew wasn’t real. Athena, Brandy and Mark applauded. But Barb stared at them, head nodding, her lips quirked into a smile as if they’d pleased her. Juliet could only hope that the camera had captured what Barb had wanted it to. The way Juliet’s legs were trembling beneath her gown, she couldn’t pull off a repeat performance.
“That’s a wrap,” Barb said as she flashed through the shots on the preview screen. “We definitely have our cover shot.”
Parker handed Juliet her glass of wine. “I’m thinking you might need this. God knows I do.” He turned from her and filled everyone’s glasses.
Barb flashed the shot for the cover to the group. Still stunned by Parker’s kiss, Juliet barely registered the good news. Her heart stuttered when she saw the photo. Anyone viewing it would think she and Parker were truly in love.
“To First Flight wines,” Mark said as he clinked his glass against Barb’s. “And to your always amazing work.”
“He says that to all the ladies.” Barb set her glass down and began to wrap the light cords into their cases. She looked up at Juliet. “Have you set a date?”
“April twentieth,” Parker answered.
“I’m sure you already have your dress,” Barb said. “But if you don’t, my friend Vera has the most delicious wedding designs. They’d be gorgeous on you.”
Juliet couldn’t look her in the eye.
Parker topped off the glass that Barb had set aside. “That’s the date we’re launching First Flight.”
Barb smiled and picked up her glass. “Ah, yes.” Her eyes slid to Juliet. “First things first.”
Thankfully, the sound of raised voices coming down the passageway had everyone turning.
“You really are a rat,” Zuri said, aiming her comment at her brother as she and Coco burst into the room. “Did we miss all the action?”
“You could say that,” Parker said. “But I saved you a taste.”
Coco sidled over to Barb. Juliet heard her asking for tips about lighting and camera angles.
Parker poured wine into a glass and handed it to Zuri. He turned to Juliet and raised the bottle. She shook her head. Her head was spinning well enough without alcohol. Zuri knit her brows as she looked from her to Parker and back again to her.
Mark took out his notebook and began peppering Parker with questions about the launch.
Before Zuri could corner her with questions, Juliet slipped out of the room. The stiletto heels made it hard to navigate the brick flooring of the dim passageway, but it wasn’t the shoes that made her feel unsteady. What had happened back there? Flaring passion she didn’t want to admit to feeling flooded her as she finally exited the tunnel and stepped out into the daylight.
She didn’t stop walking until she reached the barn. Just past the entrance, she sank down onto a bale of hay, ignoring the prickle of the straw through the silk of her dress.
Lowering her head to her hands, she pressed her palms to her eyes. She hadn’t planned on her heart having to pay the price of her deception.
“Yo!” Zuri’s voice startled her. “Hope you don’t mind that I followed you.” Zuri sat on the bale next to her. “Hey, you okay?”
“Just tired.”
“We could spend the night here. Unwind. Have a girls’ night. You can drive home in the morning.”
“I should get back. We wrapped the shoot.”
“I heard. Parker seems pleased.”
When Juliet didn’t respond, she added, “This was really, really good of you. Parker said you played your part perfectly. He even admitted I was right—pulling this off was so much easier without all the stickiness of attraction.”
But she hadn’t played her part perfectly. Her heart had pulled up stakes and crossed the line and now... Now she had to corral it back to reality.
But at hearing Parker’s words via Zuri, her anger fired and she couldn’t stuff it down.
No stickiness of attraction.
Well, wasn’t that a kicker?
When had her feelings begun to run away with her? To obliterate her good sense?
She shouldn’t feel anger toward him. He’d donated to the foundation. He’d done everything he said he would.
Zuri tapped Juliet on the knee. “He owes you, you know. He told me so this morning.”
“He doesn’t owe me. He wrote the check.”
Zuri narrowed her eyes. “Did he do something he shouldn’t have? I’ll have his—”
“Zuri, he was a perfect gentleman.”
“Well, he has many talents, my brother. If you ever need help, just ask.” She laughed. “I doubt you’ll need a polo player, but he’s really good at throwing parties.”
Juliet stood and brushed the hay from her gown. “I need to change. And I should get going. Mom will be thrilled that I can have dinner with her tonight. Especially since she couldn’t make it for the shoot.”
And maybe, after a good night’s sleep in familiar surroundings, she’d wake up and be able to remember the past two days for what they were—a caper. Wasn’t that what Zuri had called it?
She’d fly back to Kona early, wrap up her work there and make her reservations to fly to Greece.
And try to forget the chasm that Parker had unwittingly opened in her heart. Try to forget a caper gone wrong.

​Pamela Aares is a USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author of contemporary and historical romance novels. Her contemporary series, The Tavonesi Series, explores the lives, loves, friendships and sizzling romances of the Tavonesi family.

Her popularity as a romance writer continues to grow with each new book release, so much so, that the Bay area author has drawn comparisons by reviewers to Nora Roberts. 

Pamela Aares writes romance books that she loves reading, particularly those that entertain, transport and inspire dreams while captivating and tugging at the heart. She takes her readers on a journey with complex characters in both contemporary and historical settings who are thrown in situations that tempt love, adventure and self-discovery. 

Before becoming a romance author, Aares wrote and produced award-winning films including Your Water, Your Life, featuring actress Susan Sarandon and NPR series New Voices, The Powers of the Universe and The Earth’s Imagination. 

If not behind her computer, you can probably find her reading a romance novel, hiking the beach or savoring life with friends. You can visit Pamela on the web at http://www.PamelaAares.com.

Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads
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It’s her turn to drive.
Men take from Jana. Her dad and brother: money. Stage-side gawkers: her dignity. Still, she finished nursing school, won a spot in Manhattan’s top ER—thanks to no man. But when her dad’s business and heart fails, ever-loyal Jana Park must return to the stripper’s pole. Now even her boss’s chauffeur ogles her in the rearview. Faux-kindness—and irrefutable heat—aside, she glares back.
Because screw ’em all.
Chauffeur Antonio Ruiz is done with his cheating wife, the city, the almighty buck. His seaside home in Mexico calls. One last gig for his biggest client, the city’s strip club king, then he’s out. Except that the sharp, exotic, petite powerhouse of a woman he’s been hired to drive—day in-day out, glaring at him with those deep, solemn eyes—takes him over. If he could pierce her shield of doubt, he’d bring her home, far from this hell.
But, no. Jana’s got to take the wheel and drive. Away from her family’s abuse, her boss’s clutches…and toward Antonio’s true brand of love.
The road’s rocky. Will they make it to paradise? Or will it all go south… in the city.  



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​But there she sat, centered on the plush leather bench seat, with too much room to know what to do with. She looked straight ahead through the center partition so that the road ahead was within her field of vision, ready to keep her motion sickness in check. She’d just die if she got sick all over the fine leather interior. She’d absolutely die.
Tony, the driver, glanced up at her repeatedly through the small rectangular rearview mirror. Maybe he thought she sat there, smack in the middle of his back seat, on purpose, ready to chat. He looked nice enough, a clean-cut, seemingly professional and undeniably handsome man––a welcome change from the recent line of cab drivers she’d experienced over the last day and a half. But chatting with him or anyone for that matter was the last thing on her mind.
To keep her nausea at bay and her nerves from completely short-circuiting, she really only wanted, rather needed, to zero-in on the view ahead, his reflection not included, in silence. Not to be rude, but she was too tired. Too drained. Hopefully, he would intuit her exhaustion and understand.
Or maybe he didn’t care about her etiquette at all. Maybe he was a gawker, catching a glimpse at a semi-pretty face? Oh, and there they are again, those eyes. Takin’ a peek, then back to the road.
His eyes were gentle, kind.
God, she almost wished he was an asshole like her recent cabbies, offering no words, no smiles, no nothing. That might be way easier.
But he seemed nice. Mellow. Not an asshole, at least not on the surface. Maybe deserving a word or two, at minimum. But she couldn’t. She really was too beat to even utter a syllable. Because that would lead to words, then sentences, then potential backstory and explanation. And she couldn’t muster the strength to explain anything to anyone, including to herself.

​

Contemporary romance writer Rissa Brahm grew up in New York and has since lived in all four corners of the United States, and beyond. The beautiful paradise of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico—the core setting of her hot & heartfelt debut series, Paradise South—is Rissa’s most recent and beloved home.
After two decades of working in the rigid—and sometimes blurry—world of finance, she's taken hold of her truest dream, writing hot and heartfelt stories full time.
When not chained-by-choice to her MacBook, she is embarking on outdoor adventures with her husband and little girl, laughing to tears with a good rom com, eating amazing Indian food with something chocolate for dessert; reading good, hot scorchers in bed; biking, long walks, and yoga; zoning out to killer music from across the decades and the globe; and getting lost only to discover a new exciting route home again. You can connect with Rissa on Facebook, Twitter or by email anytime by heading to www.RissaBrahm.com.

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​In 18th century Ireland, drought forces Edward and Henry McConnell to assume false names and escape to America with the one valuable thing they still own–their ancestor’s gold torc.

Edward must leave love behind. Henry finds it in the foul belly of The Charming Hannah, only to lose it when an elusive trader purchases his sweetheart’s indenture.

With nothing but their broken hearts, a lame ox, and a torc they cannot sell without invoking a centuries-old curse, they head for the backcountry, where all hope rests upon getting their seed in the ground. Under constant threat of Indian attack, they endure crushing toil and hardship. By summer, they have wheat for their reward, and unexpected news of Henry’s lost love. They emerge from the wilderness and follow her trail to Philadelphia, unaware her cruel new master awaits them there, his heart set on obtaining the priceless torc they protect.


Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/bNzrVFnl9Ts


Amazon
​

​CHAPTER 1

County Donegal, Ireland
1755

Henry stood next to his father surveying their largest field. He longed to say that the seeds might yet sprout, that there was still time to yield a return, but the undeniable truth lay right before them: drought had come to Ireland. Their investment in imported flaxseed was lost.
“A hundred days, Henry.” Father’s face bore the pained expression of a man whose hope was as withered as his crops. “A hundred days was all we needed, all that stood between us and prosperity.” He kicked a clod of dirt, and it turned to dust. “It’s all gone, gone along wi’ the horse that harrowed the ground.”
A lump rose in Henry’s throat. He ached for his father, and he missed their horse. Paddy was a fine animal purchased ten years ago after a bumper crop of rye, when Edward McConnell’s luck was good and Henry’s only chore was to stay out of his mother’s hair. Elizabeth McConnell moldered in the ground now, and Paddy plowed another man’s fields.
“We will pray, Father. God will help us.”
“God?” Father kneaded his forehead with calloused fingers. “God’s groping in our pockets right along wi’ your Uncle Sorley. Praying did nae pay our tithes or the hearth tax, did it?”
Surely he didn’t mean that. Everyone knew Edward McConnell to be a godly man.
“We’ll get more seed, Father. It’ll grow next year.” He squared his shoulders and tried to look confident.
“Will nae do us any good. Your Uncle Sorley plans to decrease our tillage in favor of pasture.”
“Wi’ no cut in rent, I’ll wager, and early payment again this year.”
Father spat on the parched ground. “He stopped by yesterday looking for it. Said he’ll call in after services on the Sabbath.” He ground his teeth together. “I’d gi’ anything to see the look on his face when he finds our empty hoose.”
Henry’s chest tightened. Were they moving again? He rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the rolling patchwork of fields to the northeast, where their last home rose above a copse of ash, and where his mother’s daffodils still swayed in the Ulster wind. Four years ago, the cattle plague put them out of that house and into the windowless shack they now shared with Phoebe, their only remaining sow. The hut contained a hearth, a curse necessitating the payment of tax despite the fact that it never contained a fire.
With no peat left and no horse to haul more from the bog, the McConnells relied on a moth-eaten blanket and Phoebe’s body heat for warmth.
They had room to fall; many Catholics lived in the open, bleeding cattle and boiling the gore with sorrel for sustenance. Perhaps his father intended to join them.
“Are we moving again?” he asked.
Father slipped two fingers under his brown tie wig and rubbed his temple, something he often did when puzzled.
Henry followed his gaze to the ruins of Burt Castle, which sat atop a knoll, just above Uncle Sorley’s grand plantation house.
“Nine years we’ve suffered bad luck, Henry. E’er since I buried . . .”
Buried what? Maw? She died five years ago, not nine.
Father sunk his head into his hands, muffling his speech. “I . . . I guess it’s time to . . .”
Henry stepped into the hard, hot field, directly in front of his father. “Father, what in the name of heaven is it?”
Father tilted back his head and whispered to the sky, “Forgive me, Elizabeth.” He looked at Henry. “I buried something. Your maw insisted on it, said it was pagan and she did nae want it in her hoose. I did as she asked. A woman can talk ye into cutting off your own hand, Henry, remember that if ye can.”
Henry nodded, not comprehending, wondering what pagan thing lay buried. He’d never heard it mentioned before, and he was a skilled eavesdropper. “What was it? What did ye bury?”
Father inhaled deeply, removed the worn tricorn from his head, and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll tell ye the whole tale, but first, we have to dig it up. We canny do that until after dark.” He turned without warning and headed for home.
Henry followed him, volleying questions against his back.
Father said nothing until they reached their hut. There, he stormed past Phoebe, flung open the door, and nodded toward a worm-ravaged chest sitting next to a heap of rushes that served as their bed.
“Gather up our claithes and shoes. Use my good cloak for a sack. Bring the dried nettles.” He grabbed the peat spade, the only tool left from his once abundant array of implements, and used it to prop open the door.
“Why bring the nettles?” Henry hated the bitter leaves. “There are more nettles than rocks in Ulster.”
When his father offered no reply, he lobbed another question, desperate for clues as to their destination. “Will ye not wear your good cloak, if we are traveling far?”
“My auld cloak will draw less attention.”
So, they were going to some populous place where good cloaks were bad.
Henry spread the cloak across the dirt floor, careful to avoid Phoebe’s manure. The cloak was long out of fashion, but still a quality garment that Edward McConnell could not afford to replace. He threw their scant belongings into the middle of it, brought the cloak’s corners together, then tied them together to form a sack. Excepting Phoebe and the clothes they wore, the sack contained everything worth saving.
He sat on the rickety chest to watch his father pace.
When Burt Castle became a silhouette against an amber horizon, Father donned his hat and cloak and ducked outside.
Henry followed him to the stone wall separating their field from Uncle Archibald’s.
Father began to tumble a section of wall.
With his perplexity and fear mounting, Henry assisted until there was enough of a breach to push Phoebe through the wall.
She trotted away, grunting and wagging her curly tail, while he helped restack the stones to prevent her from returning.
He could no longer hold his tongue.
“What are we doing? Why are we putting Phoebe in Uncle Archibald and Aunt Martha’s field? Are we going somewhere? Where are we going? Why are we taking nettles?”
In his frustration, he grabbed his father’s arm.
Father whirled around and gave Henry’s shoulders a fierce shake. “Get hold of yoursel’, lad, or I’ll cloot ye upside the noggin. No more questions. Just do as ye’re told.”
Henry stared at his father, who had never once laid a hand on him, nor threatened to.
“I’m sorry, lad. Go on in the hoose and get the bundle.”
When Henry returned with their belongings, his father was holding the peat spade.
“Get a good look around ye, son. It’s the last time ye’ll clap eyes on your hame.”

​Julie Doherty expected to follow in her artist-father’s footsteps, but words, not oils, became her medium. Her novels have been called “romance with teeth” and “a sublime mix of history and suspense.”

Her marriage to a Glasgow-born Irishman means frequent visits to the Celtic countries, where she studies the culture that liberally flavors her stories. When not writing, she enjoys cooking over an open fire at her cabin, gardening, and hiking the ridges and valleys of rural Pennsylvania, where she lives just a short distance from the farm carved out of the wilderness by her 18th century “Scotch-Irish” ancestors.

She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Pennsylvania Romance Writers, Perry County Council of the Arts, and Clan Donald USA.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/juliedohertywrites/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SquareSails
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Web: http://juliedoherty.com/
Blog: http://juliedoherty.com/blog
​

​Poppy Reagan is a Type A personality who runs her professional life with the precision of a Swiss watch. After catching her latest boyfriend cheating, she decides it’s time to take her dating life as seriously as she does her business. She swears off the bad boys and strategically maps out a plan to find an honest, attractive man to become her life partner. 

As she works her way through a summer of dates ranging from crazy to plain boring, she begins to wonder if her soulmate’s even on the same coast. Her foolish emotional spirit secretly yearns for the sexy Ohio dermatologist she met on a trip to Hawaii last year. The one who she insists is “just a friend,” because she refused to engage in a long-distance relationship. 

Will her heart overrule her head and move this California girl to the Midwest?


Planning for Love is a 2016 InD'tale RONE Finalist in the Chick Lit Category


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_Planning_for_Love?id=DcfkBQAAQBAJ

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​“You’re behind the times.”
“Probably so. I’m not much on technology. My phone is four years old and I’m told it’s considered a dinosaur. So, how have the computer dates been going?”
I stared at the green lip on the coffee cup. “I’ve just started.”
He snorted, “That well?”
I allowed the silence to speak for me.
“Sorry. I’m not usually such a jerk. I’m out of my element.”
“What is your element?”
His eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles worked. “You like adventure?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Sure. Who doesn’t like an adventure?”
“You have anywhere you need to be in the next, say…” he studied his watch, “three hours?”
My curiosity piqued. “Three hours? Not in particular.”
He ducked under the table to glance at my crossed legs. “You wouldn’t happen to carry a pair of boots or tennis shoes in your car?”
“I have a gym bag. Yoga pants, T-shirt, sweatshirt, shoes, socks.” I rattled off, listing each one by finger.
“A well prepared woman, I love it.” He rose and held out his hand. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff.”
“I need gym gear for a three hour breakfast?”
“That’s right, I promised you breakfast. Wait here.”
Campbell sauntered over to the counter and perused the glass case of pastries. He exchanged conversation with the barista behind the counter and pointed to different confections, and I turned back to the table to gather my materials.
“All set.” He held the bag aloft.
I rose, shouldering my tote and grasping my coffee like a lifeline.
What the hell am I doing?
It’s an adventure; you said you were up for an adventure.
Yes, but I hardly know this guy.
Just go with it.
As my subconscious argued with itself, Cambell held the door for me. “Where’s your car?”
“I lucked out. Street parking, around the corner.”
“That’s me, right there.” He indicated a black four door jeep with a hard top, big knobby wheels and splashes of dirt fanned along the sides.
“Okay, why don’t you stay here, I’ll drive round the block and follow you.”
“No need. Let’s get your stuff, I’ll drive.”
My head moved from side to side. “I don’t think so. I’d feel more comfortable if I followed you.”
“It’s about forty-five minutes away.”
“So.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “We’ll take your car.”
“Hold up,” I placed a hand on his chest. “I’m not getting in a car alone with a stranger.”
A light bulb went on. “Ah. I see. Did you read this in a dating handbook? You’re right. You shouldn’t get into a car with a stranger, except, I’m not a stranger. We were introduced through mutual friends.”
“First, Erika and Neil, though very nice people, are not my friends. They’re clients, and I’ve only known them a few days. Second, you’re much larger and stronger than me. It wouldn’t take much to overpower me, steal my car, and leave me stranded along the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.”
“Hey, I offered to drive.” He ran his hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ears.
I frowned.
“Okay, okay. I get it. Here’s what we’re gonna to do. Who’s on speed dial on your phone?”
“Why does that matter.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed, “Work with me. Who’s on speed dial?”
“Office co-workers, best friends, my mom…”
“Who’s expecting to see you soon?”
“That would be either Sierra my assistant, or Cody an account manager.”
“Call one of them, and tell her you’re going to Malibu for an adventure. Then take a photo of me and text it to her. Tell her if she doesn’t hear from you in three hours to call the police and turn me in.”
“Hmm…it’s a thought.”
“Here,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, deftly flicking it open.
I sucked in a breath.
He laid the sharp end in his palm and offered the handle to me. “You can hold onto this for security. If I make any false moves you have my permission to gut me with it.”
A passerby eyed the knife and scuttled quickly through a neighboring shop door.
“Oh, for the love of Pete. Put that thing away,” I hissed. “We’ll do the photo thing. Say cheese.” I held up my phone and clicked a photo. 

Ellen Butler is an award winning novelist living in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC. She holds a Master’s Degree in Public Administration and Policy, and her history includes a long list of writing and editing for dry but illuminating professional newsletters, and windy papers on public policy. The leap to novel writing was simply a creative outlet for Ellen’s over active and romantic imagination to run wild. She is an admitted chocoholic and confesses to a penchant for shoe shopping
Planning for Love won The Romance Reviews Readers’ Choice Award for Romantic Comedy and you can find the entire Love, California Style trilogy on Amazon and other major eBook retailers. Book club questions for Ellen’s novels can be found on her website.


Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodReads
Website: http://www.ellenbutler.net/
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​

Heiress On The Run
Lady Arabella Lucia Fairborne has no need of a husband. She has a fine inheritance for the taking, a perfectly capable mind, and a resolve as tough as nails. But what she doesn't have is the freedom to defy her cousin's will--and his will is to see her married immediately to the husband of his choosing. So is it any wonder that she dresses herself as a scullery maid and bolts into the night?

Colin Somerville's current mission for the home office is going poorly. Who would have expected otherwise for a rakish spy tasked with transporting a baby to the care of the royal palace. But when, injured and out of ideas, Colin stumbles upon a beautiful maid who knows her way around a sickroom, it seems salvation has arrived. Until he realizes that though Lucy may be able to help him survive his expedition, he may not escape this ordeal with his heart intact…


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_Chasing_the_Heiress?id=6oOCCgAAQBAJ

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​It had taken Colin two days to travel to Holywell, two days in which he had steeled himself to smile and be charming. But ultimately the princess had charmed him. Heiress to a mining magnate, Marietta had caught the eye of a visiting (and impoverished) member of the Habsburg royal family. Though she had been impeccably trained at the best finishing school in Paris, when Colin arrived, he found her teaching the housekeeper’s parrot to curse in five European languages. “Don’t call me Princess,” she whispered, casting a grim eye to the housekeeper, hovering at the edge of the terrace. “Or she will raise my rate.”
It had taken three more days to separate Marietta’s pos-sessions into two groups: those which the carriage could carry and those which would have to be shipped from Liver-pool around the coast to London. Most difficult had been determining exactly which clothes she could (and could not) do without for her first week at court. Then, just when he had thought that they might set out, she had insisted that his coachman, Fletcher, accompany her trunks across the inlet to ensure they were well stowed for their London journey. All told, he had been gone from London for more than a week before he bundled Marietta, her paints, her embroidery, her knitting, her books, and a handful of magazines into the carriage and set off on their trip. But somehow he had not minded. Marietta was sweet, resilient, and companionable, anticipating the birth of her child with real joy.
He shifted in his seat, but his legs—outstretched on the backward-facing seat to give Marietta more room—felt like leaden weights, long past numb from a lack of circulation. He moved one foot down into the small space remaining between Marietta’s feet and the carriage door. The blood began to move agonizingly into one set of toes.
He unfolded his map and began to recalculate their trip. Holywell to London was two hundred and eight miles. Even a mail coach, traveling at seven miles an hour, could travel the distance in thirty-two hours, and his brother’s third-best carriage was able to clip along at ten. But the princess needed substantive food, frequent stops, a real bed at night, and opportunities to shop at any tempting village store they passed. Their first day, they travelled only to Wrexham. Twenty-six miles in six hours. Their second day would measure little more. He had already promised she could spend the night—and morning—in Shrewsbury. Using his fore-finger as a measure, he counted off the miles from Shrews-bury to London. The return would take a sennight, if he were lucky.
Marietta moaned and tried to shift her weight. Why— he berated himself for the fiftieth time—hadn’t he borrowed a better carriage? One with ample seats, thick comfortable bolsters, and better springs. If he were to play escort to a pregnant princess, why hadn’t the Home Office informed him? Had they intentionally withheld the information? Or had they not known?
He forced his attention back to the map. If Marietta gave birth on the road with only him and Fletcher for midwives, he would kill someone in the Home Office. He wasn’t yet sure who. Perhaps the lot of them, but he would begin by strangling Harrison Walgrave.
The carriage began to slow, the springs creaking into a new rhythm. Colin waited for Fletcher to offer the usual signals: two slow taps for an inn, a fast double-tap for a crossroads, and a heavy heel-kick for danger. But no taps, kicks, yells, or pistol shots alarmed him, except perhaps the nagging absence of any warnings.
Colin tapped on the roof and waited. No response. His senses grew more alert, listening, but he heard nothing beyond the normal sounds of a country road.
Even so, he shifted his second foot—still numb—from the opposite seat to the floor and slid several inches towards the middle of the bench. There, Colin moved a cushion aside to reveal a built-in pistol cabinet that had been added by his brother, the Duke of Forster.
His movement wakened Marietta, and she began to speak, but he held up his finger before his lips, then touched his ear. Be quiet: I’m listening. Her green eyes, always expressive, widened, and she nodded understanding. She pulled the thick feather comforter up over her belly, as if to hide.
The door handle moved slightly as someone tried to open the door. Luckily Colin had bolted it from the inside. Their highwayman grew frustrated, pulling against the door handle several times.
Reacting viscerally, Colin wrenched the pistol cabinet door open. But before he could withdraw the pistols, the window glass shattered inward. Marietta recoiled and tried to push herself up as the curtains were torn away, wrenched outward. Colin moved to protect Marietta, trying to place himself between the princess and the broken window. But his feet found no solid purchase, just a river of down shifting beneath his weight. Losing his balance, he fell back hard onto the seat.
Two hands in long leather gloves, each holding a pistol, reached through the window frame into the carriage.
As in battle, everything slowed. Both pistols pointed at a spot in the middle of his chest. At this range, he had no hope of surviving. And he felt more relief than fear.
Colin held out his hands to show he was unarmed. He could see nothing of the highwayman. Only a dark duster and a mask.
The guns didn’t fire.
One pistol shifted to the opposite seat. But Marietta wasn’t there. Seeing her on the floor, the highwayman repositioned his sights.
Realizing in an instant this was no robbery, Colin flung himself between Marietta and the barrel. He heard the cock of the trigger, saw the flash of fire, and felt the hit of the ball in his side. Black powder burned his flesh.
Dark smoke filled the cabin, and he choked, coughing.
His ears rung from the boom of the gunshot, but he saw the flash of the second pistol firing along with a shower of sparks from the side and barrel of the gun. He felt Marietta’s scream. He pulled himself up, half standing, one hand against the carriage roof to steady himself. His side stabbed with pain at each expansion of his lungs.
Marietta tried to rise behind him, choking as well. She pulled against the clothes on his back, but he brushed her hands away. When the smoke cleared, his body would stand between Marietta and their assailant. He would die. But after Belgium, he felt dead already—what would be the difference?
Marietta beat the backs of his legs. Small burning embers burned on Marietta’s pallet. Some of the lit sparks from the pistols had fallen onto the down-filled bed. He assessed the dangers automatically. Once the embers ate past the woolen cover and fire caught the feathers, the danger would spread quickly.
Still on the floor, Marietta pushed herself backwards toward the opposite door, kicking the smoldering bolsters and pallet away from her. With each kick, she further entangled his feet. He couldn’t reach her, at least not easily. And he couldn’t reach and load a gun without stepping from his defensive position in front of her. Thick smoke burned his eyes.
With neither sound nor sight to help him, he had to choose: the dangers of the fire, growing with each second, or those of the highwaymen who could be waiting outside. Tensing, he unbolted the door, pushed it open, and leapt out. His leg hitting wrong, he fell and rolled into the ditch beside the road. He raised himself cautiously. The highwaymen were gone, having attacked, then left. Not robbers then.
He pulled himself to standing. He should worry about Fletcher and the postboy, Bobby, but there was no time. Smoke from the feather-stuffed pallet billowed from the coach. He could see Marietta’s legs, vigorously kicking the smoldering bed away from her. She was alive, but trapped against the locked door on the opposite side of the carriage.
Ignoring the pain below his ribs, he pulled hard on the pallet, dragging a portion through the coach door. Already, the smoldering feathers were breaking through the wool in patches of open flame. He heaved again, releasing all but a third from the coach. Flames began to dance across the pallet.
If the pallet broke apart before he could remove it, he’d have to sacrifice the carriage, and then he could offer little protection to Marietta. He pulled hard once more, and the pallet fell onto the green verge next to the road. Then, to protect neighboring crops and livestock, he dragged the pallet, flames licking at his hands, into the middle of the road, where it could burn without harm. Once carriage and countryside were out of danger, he hunched over, hands on his knees, and tried to breathe without expanding his lower rib cage.
After a few minutes to recover his breath, Colin looked up at the carriage. Fletcher remained at his post, his body slumped forward.
Colin climbed the side of the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain. Blood oozed through the hair at the back of the coachman’s head. Pressing his fingers to the older man’s neck, Colin felt the beat of the artery. Alive.
Listening and watching for trouble, Colin weighed his options.
They needed to move, to get off the open road. But for that, he needed Fletcher conscious. At least he wouldn’t have to explain to Cook how her man had been killed on a quiet English road after surviving a dozen campaigns against Boney.
Still unable to hear, Colin retrieved a water flask from under the coachman’s seat. Tenderly cradling the older man’s head, Colin washed the blood away. The wound was a long gash, slantways from the back of Fletcher’s ear toward the back of his head. He pressed his fingers against the gash. Long but not deep and worst at the curve of Fletcher’s head where the weapon bit hardest through the skin.
Fletcher moaned.
Colin lifted Fletcher’s chin. “Pistol shot. Can’t hear.” Colin picked up the fallen reins and held them out. “Can you drive?”
Fletcher took the reins in one hand. Then, raising his eyes to Colin’s, Fletcher held out his other hand, palm down, as one does when indicating a person’s height.
“Bobby?” Colin looked around for the postilion. Fletcher’s nephew had grown up on the ducal estate. The loss of Fletcher or Bobby would devastate the household.
Fletcher nodded yes, then scowled. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and supported his head with his hands.
“I’ll find him. Stay with Marietta.” Colin took the rifle and the cartridge bag from beneath the coachman’s seat, loaded the gun, then placed both on the bench. Fletcher put his hand on the gun.
Colin leapt from the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain as his feet hit the ground. Then, walking back along the road, Colin began looking for the boy, searching through the overgrown verges and dreading what he might find. A child’s body bleeding and broken after a fall from the carriage. Let him be alive . . . and, if wounded, with wounds that can heal.
Colin turned at the curve.
About a tenth of a mile beyond, he saw the boy’s body at the verge of the road. Colin ran to the boy and knelt beside him, checking his wounds. No gunshots. Colin felt his relief like cool water on a parched tongue. Bobby’s arm was twisted before his chest, as if he had been flung from the coach-top or dragged down from it. But Bobby was alive. Fletcher, Bobby, Marietta, all alive. At least their deaths wouldn’t weigh heavy on his conscience.
The boy struggled to lift himself up and began to speak.
But Colin shook his head, pointing to his ears. “Can’t hear.”
Bobby pointed to his ankle. Colin felt it. No obvious broken bones. “Can you stand?”
The boy shrugged and held out his uninjured arm for help. Ignoring the arm, Colin lifted the boy to his feet. Luckily Bobby was still small and lithe, not the strapping youth he would be in another year. Colin supported Bobby’s weight gently as the boy tested his ankle, gingerly at first, then with more pressure. When Bobby tried to step fully on the ankle, he recoiled in pain.
“Let me help.” Colin wrapped his arm around Bobby’s waist, avoiding his injured arm. The two walked slowly back to the carriage. There, Fletcher and Colin helped the boy to the seat next to Fletcher, and Bobby took up the pistols.
When Bobby was settled, Colin motioned for Fletcher’s attention. “Where’s the other one? The one the stable master insisted would care for the horses?”
Hit me, Fletcher mouthed, demonstrating a blow to the back of his head.
Colin’s strength suddenly faded. “How far to the next inn?”
Fletcher held up two fingers, then three. Two to three miles.
Colin moved slowly to the open carriage door, calling out in case Marietta’s ears had recovered from the pistol shots. “Marietta, there’s an inn within the hour.”
He stepped in front of the open door. Marietta was seated on the floor, leaning against the backward-facing seat riser, her legs bent at odd angles. Her eyes closed, she held one hand to her chest, the other cradled her belly. At her shoulder, blood seeped through her fingers, covering her hand and staining the front of her chemise. Blood pooled on the floor below her.
Colin’s chest clenched. He swung himself into the carriage, yelling “Fletcher! Drive!” as he pulled the door shut behind him.
He pulled off his cravat and tore it into strips to make a bandage, then crawled beside her.
To stage an attack and steal nothing . . . not robbery. Murder. He needed to think. But first he needed to slow Marietta’s bleeding.
The carriage began to move, first slowly, then faster, and faster still.

​Rachael Miles has always loved a good romance, especially one with a bit of suspense and preferably a ghost. She is also a professor of book history and nineteenth-century literature whose students frequently find themselves reading the novels of Ann Radcliffe and other gothic tales. Rachael lives in her home state of Texas with her indulgent husband, three rescued dogs, and an ancient cat.

Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | GoodReads
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​Hey! Yeah, you! Want in on a juicy secret? Geleon Thaice sure does. Why is the mysterious female of his dreams, wet or otherwise, constantly slipping through his hands? All he craves is to shower her with love and make her his own. Is that so bad? Is it just the fingers of fate doling out yet another allotment of misery upon his head? Or has destiny slyly laid a precise path that’s been waiting patiently for centuries?

Jaelyn Areeda just wants to peacefully survive another day, but the cosmos have her violently colliding with forces out of her control, falling into the capable, muscle-packed arms of a sinfully sexy alpha alien hell bent on inserting himself into her life… as well as her heart, mind, and soul. Will she run—or stay?

Book 9 in the Fueled By Lust Series doesn’t fail in delivering up another scrumptiously hunky male to whet your appetite, make you drool, and dare to love.

​Buy Links for Book Series:

Releasing 5/24/2016 exclusively at www.bookstrand.com/celeste-prater and 6-8 weeks later at major retailers.

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​Geleon’s head immediately turned and captured her lips again the second she’d uttered his name. He kissed her so passionately that Jaelyn unleashed a cry of discontent as he dared to lift away from her. Growly, strained words had her squirming in his arms.

“Your key … where is it?”

“Back pocket,” she croaked out.

He palmed both ass cheeks and squeezed before she felt his fingers digging into her pockets. They both looked over to watch his frantic attempt to shove the card into the little slot. He had no clue that his rumbling curses, repeated up-and-down bounces on his thick thigh notched between her legs, a broad palm steadily squeezing her ass, and his rich musky scent were sending her into a teeth grinding orgasm. He caught on quickly as his name shot from her throat, piercing the air. Their eyes locked.

Hands slammed down onto her hips, and he ground her against his leg, sensual heated words catapulting her into a mind-numbing level of pure ecstasy.

“Come on. Come on. That’s it,” he growled. “Show it to me. No. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Fuck. So beautiful. Roll your hips. Yes. Yes. Aw, I can feel the heat of your pussy on my leg.”

He began nibbling along her neck, hot breath sending a sheet of pebbles to race across her flesh.

“Ah, gods, you’re coming for me,” he rumbled. “That’s so fucking sexy. Feel how hard I am for you, Jaelyn.”

Her feet touched the ground, legs immediately buckling—only to be caught around the waist and held tightly to his side. She gripped his shirt, valiantly trying to kick-start her lungs. His body went perfectly still, and she felt him inhale deeply and slowly release. She vaguely registered the flash of green as he pulled the card and slammed his hand down on the door latch.

​I was born and raised in a small town between Dallas/Fort Worth and Austin. Wanting to see more than her small Texas town, I joined the Marines, which satisfied my craving to see more of the U.S. and my drive to see if I could be one of the few and the proud.

A firm believer in educating the mind, I’ve achieved several advanced degrees, the latest being a master’s of science.

My true love is writing erotic romance, especially about alien hunks that know how to treat their females. Drusus, Severus, Cato, Lucien, Caelius, Maxim and many more have swirled in my dreams until I had to bring them to life and allow them to find love within the pages of the Fueled by Lust book series.

Book 1 DRUSUS was nominated as Top 5 Finalist and placed 3rd in the 2014 RWA Passionate Ink’s 9th Annual Passionate Plume Book Contest in Erotic SciFi/Fantasy Category, Book 2 SEVERUS achieved BEST BOOK review rating and won April 2014 BOOK OF THE MONTH Reader Poll at LONG AND SHORT REVIEWS, Book 3 CATO won the May/June 2014 BOOK OF THE MONTH, LUCIEN won the September 2014 BOOK OF THE MONTH, and MAKAR AND BARUCH the SEPTEMBER 2015 BOOK OF THE MONTH Reader Poll at LONG AND SHORT REVIEWS. All currently released books in the series have made it into the Top 5 Bestseller Lists at Bookstrand.com within days of release as well as making it into the Top 10 Hottest New Releases in Erotic Science Fiction on Amazon.

I would like to give a big shout out to my gorgeous model, Anthony Zuniga, and the awesome cover photographer, David Erickson. You can catch Anthony on Instagram @anthonyzuniga1_ and David at @david_erickson8.

You can find Celeste at:

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​Chrys has been in the Underworld for thousands of years, hidden away by her father, Hades, from all of the other gods. He's afraid that if someone finds out about her, they will destroy her because of the dichotomous power that she holds, the power of life and death. So she has remained in the Palace of Hades all her life, making very few friends and always bored out of her mind.

Huntley would have never guessed that after he died he would wake up with a beautiful girl standing over him. And that she would be the Dark Lord of the Underworld's daughter. Yet, for some reason, she keeps him around as her tutor, as if he knows anything about the world. But Huntley knows that all she really wants is a friend; being trapped in the Underworld can get pretty lonely. 

That is, until Chrys decides she wants to run away to the human world after a big fight with her mother Persephone. Chrys claims her father is just over reacting and that nothing bad will come of it. There's no way that the gods will notice she's there for only a couple of days...right?


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​CHAPTER 7
Chrys


The River Styx is really intimidating. Like, seriously.
I honestly never really realized it until now, being without someone who knew how to guide the boat for me. I had only taken a boat out a couple of times, but never this far, and never with this much risk. Now that I stood there, waiting for the others, I found myself questioning my decision a little bit. Not enough to turn back, but enough to realize that Father was going to be really pissed if he found out I had hijacked a boat and left the Underworld with two of my friends. I guess I knew that already but it was hitting me hard now.
I had left a note for him, telling him we were going to visit Maka and not to worry, that we would be back in a few days. He knew I needed to let off a little steam and that leaving me alone was the best choice. At least, I hoped.
I was already wearing my ring and waiting to give A.J. and Huntley theirs. I was almost past the point of no return, making a decision that could get me in the worst of trouble.
And it felt exhilarating.
I was surprised that Huntley wasn’t fully on board with this, but more cautious than A.J. and I were. He was only coming because he wanted to make sure I was safe. But if A.J. thought it would be fine, I really doubted it was going to end badly.
At least I hoped that it wouldn’t.
A.J. was the cautious one out of the three of us, so if Huntley thought it was fine, it was probably going to be fine. I trusted him, especially after all this time. He cared enough to stay in the Palace for me, so he had to be speaking the truth.
A.J. and Huntley showed up, checking behind them to make sure there wasn’t anyone following them. I nodded to both of them and handed them the rings. They slipped them on their fingers, and we quickly climbed in the boat to travel around the River Styx into the sky that was Oceanus.
The boat was like an old gondola that might simply crumble if we were going over actual water. It was beyond old, probably the same age as the Underworld itself. It creaked and cracked as we stood on it, rocking slightly back and forth. The three of us each grabbed a stick and pushed off the peer of the palace and into the river we went.
“How does this actually work?” Huntley asked. “I mean, it looks like we are traveling on clouds.”
“You really going to ask questions of how things work in the Underworld? Not just accept that things work differently here?” A.J. replied. We had barely been gone for a couple of moments and they were already arguing.
“The rivers here are more like air currents, trapping things that have been lost in the mortal realm,” I explained. “The river we are on now is the River Styx, the River of Hatred. It is but one of five rivers. Most of the dead come to this world via Acheron, the River of Pain. It is where Charon runs his service. The other rivers flow through the Underworld and serve as transportation to places throughout. But without a boat, all of the rivers will curse those who try to escape, so make sure the water doesn’t touch you.”
Huntley glanced over the water, his eyes wide. I probably should have mentioned that earlier, but it had completely slipped my mind. When you knew something for such a long time, it was hard to remember to tell others who might not know.
“Don’t worry, you’re fine. But because of this, no god from the other realms can get through Oceanus, which is why Father has hidden me away for so long. That is, except Hermes, he can travel between realms. Why that is, no one really knows. He kinda just appears some days and Father can’t figure out how he’s doing it. As for my mother, well, it’s really rare for anyone to come to the Underworld and be able to go back to Earth. In some legends the hero can, or antagonist, depending on your point of view. The River Styx was their greatest obstacle.”
“But she sneaks men in here,” Huntley countered.
I nodded. “Yeah, but they don’t come by themselves. She pays Charon to escort them. He will escort anything as long as he gets paid.”
“Oh. So which one is the River Styx?” Huntley asked.
I gestured in front of us. “This one. We will be going around the Underworld seven times and then be dumped into Oceanus.”
“Seven times? Won’t that take forever?”
I shrugged. “Space is weird here. Doesn’t take too long actually and the farther we get, the faster it starts to go.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” Huntley said. “Then where is Oceanus?”
I nodded up. “You see the blue clouds that covers the entire realm? That’s Oceanus.”
He looked up at the sky. The molten blue shimmered in the light of the morning. Where the morning light really came from, I still wasn’t sure. This world was weird, I had to agree.
“Shit. How are we supposed to get through that?” he asked.
“Hence the boat, moron,” A.J. commented.
Huntley pointed up. “Yeah, but that doesn’t have a surface that we can travel on.”
I shook my head. “That’s because we don’t travel on it. We travel through it. Oceanus is like a shell between this world and Earth.”
“Oh yeah, that’s going to be fun. Do you even know where we are going to end up?”
I was silent. I actually didn’t. I figured, probably wherever my mother was last, but I couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t like I had a preference. Anywhere was better than here. Finally, I shrugged.
“We don’t even know where we are going?” Huntley exclaimed. “Chrys, seriously, get some sense in your head. This is a bad idea.”
He was right, I really didn’t know what I was doing. I should turn back now, I had let my emotions get the better of me. I was turning into my mother.
And I didn’t want that.

 Wow! This was one amazingly kickA book! The writing was just phenomenally excellent! The storyline was incredibly unique and had me completely enthralled from beginning to end! I'm a huge fan of mythology, so how the author interweaves classic myths into this modernized urban fantasy was flawlessly done. The characters were very well developed and complex with palpable emotions and they felt like actual real people. The details the author put into everything were just amazing and gave me wonderful visualization in my head of the story! This was a really fun, awesome book and I completely enjoyed it! I can't wait for a sequel to roll out!

​Dani Hoots is a science fiction, fantasy, romance, and young adult author who loves anything with a story. She has a B.S. in Anthropology, a Masters of Urban and Environmental Planning, and is currently in the Your Novel Year Program through Arizona State University.
Currently she is working on a YA urban fantasy series called Daughter of Hades, a historic fantasy vampire series called A World of Vampires, and a YA sci-fi series called Sanshlian Series.
Her hobbies include reading, watching anime, cooking, studying different languages, wire walking, tinkering with her violin and concertina, and volunteering at the library. She lives in Seattle with her husband and two cats.


Author Links:
Website│Twitter│Facebook│Goodreads

​Sandra Moyer’s preschool is struggling, so she reluctantly agrees to let super-famous actor Ben Capshaw research a role there. Ben’s always joking around, never serious, but there’s something about the buttoned-up, beautiful Sandra and her young daughter that makes him want to take life more seriously. But Sandra won’t trust him—what if it’s all an act, research for the role? As the lines between make-believe and reality blur, Ben will have to decide if love is worth casting aside the role of his life for a new role…that could last a lifetime.

​     From the corner of her eye, Sandra Moyer noticed a tall, bearded man leaning against the playground fence and automatically tensed. Because she was a single mom and alone, her paranoid nature already labeled him a felon, although technically he was doing nothing wrong. In fact, come to think of it, he had a pretty nice body with those real-life Hulk arms and broad chest. She didn’t know what that made her for noticing something like that about a man she assumed was on some Family Watchdog list, but the phrase “cheap and desperate” came to mind.

Since when did I start ogling the physiques of strange men?

Her shoulders wilted as she brooded over that question. She obviously needed to get out more. She needed to just get out. The problem was she didn’t see herself doing that any time soon. Her self-esteem had hit rock bottom and hadn’t been able to locate its way back up since the day she’d found Steve cheating on her with one of his costars.

An unpleasant picture of her ex-husband lip-locked with a Julianne Moore–type redhead popped into her mind, and she shuddered.

Actors. Did their profession ever mesh with reality?

The answer to that was a resounding no. Unfortunately, she’d learned that one the hard way. Steve had even thought she’d understand the main reason he had the affair was for the publicity and what it could do for his career and income. Like that was supposed to make her feel so much better about it.

“Mommy, I want to play in the sandbox.”

Her daughter’s voice pulled her from those depressing thoughts, and she gratefully looked down. “Okay, honey. Just five more minutes, though.”

Hannah squealed and dashed through the playground as fast as her little legs could run. Sandra couldn’t help but smile. Life was so simple when you were four. The little things kept you happy. And why not? Four-year-olds didn’t think about paying the rent or overdue bills. Things that were constantly on her mind ever since she’d opened the preschool with her sister. No, the only thing you worried about at that age was whether Mommy would give you ice cream if you didn’t eat your string beans.
She’d kill for that kind of stress again.

Unfortunately, the thought of homicide had her eyes traveling back to the well-built man she’d been ogling earlier. He was tossing around a football with a young boy now. Nothing illegal, but something was off. She had a sixth sense when it came to protecting her daughter, and right now it was telling her something big. Like he’d just gotten out of prison. It must have been a whopper of a sentence, too, judging from the long, scraggly hair and the kind of beard and mustache Santa Claus would envy. She never made a habit of associating with men who looked liked convicts, but there was something familiar about him…

She doubted he had a child enrolled in her preschool. Story time at the public library? She highly doubted that, too. He didn’t exactly look like the loving Father Knows Best type, considering that fire-breathing skull on his calf wasn’t designed to instill tenderness. At least he was out spending time with his son, which was a lot more than what her daughter was getting from her own father.

As if her thoughts had been telepathically sent out, the man in question cast a lingering gaze over in her direction. And he smiled.
Oh. My. Goodness.

Oh, no, don’t even think about it. Don’t you dare come over here. She fumbled to put her sunglasses back on and almost punched out a lens. Please stay where you are. He’d better be a jolly person being his usual overly friendly self and not just leering at her. But she laid odds on the latter.

What was it with her? She could attract a creep from the next state over without even trying. A talent she’d gladly relinquish.

She flopped down on a bench. Opening her purse, she yanked out a book and hid her face behind it. If she pretended to be engrossed in reading, maybe the man would reconsider trying to strike up a conversation. Yeah, that’s all she needed—some ex-con cozying up to her.

Confident her glasses hid her eyes, she lowered the book a half inch and sneaked another peek. Tall, Dark, and Scraggly had his back to her now. Relief enveloped her. Thank goodness, she thought, slowly letting out a breath.

One deadbeat per lifetime was enough.

​Jennifer Shirk has a bachelor degree in pharmacy-which has in NO WAY at all helped her with her writing career. But she likes to point it out, since it shows romantic-at-hearts come in all shapes, sizes, and mind-numbing educations.

She writes sweet (and sometimes even funny) romances for Samhain Publishing, Avalon Books/Montlake Romance and now Entangled Publishing. She won third place in the RWA 2006 NYC's Kathryn Hayes Love and Laughter Contest with her first book, THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME. Recently, her novel SUNNY DAYS FOR SAM won the 2013 Golden Quill Published Authors Contest for Best Traditional Romance.
Lately she's been on a serious exercise kick. But don't hold that against her.


Author Website: www.jennifershirk.com
Author Blog: http://jennifershirk.blogspot.com/
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