Denied
-- EXCERPT: Leaning against the bar, I’m lost in my own world when there’s a bump from behind me, the last of my lemonade spilling out down my silver satin top and making me jump back, hitting a hard body. “Oh, I’m sor—” My words break off as textured hands gently grasp the top of my arms. A warm huff of breath lands on my head. A choked sound follows. My feet root to the floor even as I lean into the heat of a total stranger. What is wrong with me tonight? I can’t help but take deep, gulping breaths of his scent. Whoever this is, he’s clearly an alpha. An alpha who smells freaking amazing, like the earth after rainfall. Petrichor. I suck it down like oxygen, even as my breathing speeds up and I feel lightheaded. The hands resting on my arms rub up and down, gently soothing me, the alpha curving himself over me as whispered words brush my ear. “Turn around, sweetheart. I need to see your face.” There’s a familiar rasping undertone to his words, but I’m still lost in his scent. Spinning, I press myself into a broad chest, my nose seeking the touch of bare skin left open at the top of his dark shirt. My hands slide up, gripping the collar of his shirt as I breathe deeply, and his head drops to the crook of my neck as he breathes in. “Fuck.” His growl reverberates through my bones, settling deep in my chest with a harsh tug. It’s want, it’s longing, it’s straight-up lust like I’ve never felt before in my life. And as he moves back, for the first time in my life I let out a long, needy whine. Holy shit. Is this—no. It can’t be. But as my head clears and I yank myself back to stare into impossibly familiar, widened violet eyes, I know there’s no mistake. Jax Cohen isn’t just my future alpha. He’s my damn Soul Bonded.
GIVEAWAY! Above the Fold
-- EXCERPT: TRISHA STAGGERED to her motorcycle just as hangover dizziness hit full force. She dropped to one knee on the slimy blacktop of the narrow alley, clutching the soft leather of the bike’s seat for balance. A deep breath brought a whiff of urine and wet rats into her nostrils. The rising sun peeked over the far corner of the four-story brick monstrosity that held the punk club where she’d spent the night. Best time to see the sunrise, when I’m ready for bed. But the beeper in her jacket pocket vibrated. Her fingers fumbled over a wad of tissues, breath mints, quarters, and subway tokens before she finally clutched the beeper. Her editor’s number stared at her from the display. Chief, making the bike’s Indian head logo seem like it was mocking her. Her sunglasses cut the morning glare enough for her to stumble past the dumpster to the back door of the club from which she’d come. She slapped her hand against the bricks for balance, inadvertently placing her palm right in the middle of the “beware” in the “Beware Out-of-Towners” message spray-painted on the wall. “Dick!’ she called. “Jesus, Red, you don’t have to shout,” Dick answered from his post behind the bar. “Thought you’d gone. I’m just about to clear out the refuse.” Trisha’s eyes adjusted to the light, seeing several people passed out on stage. They’d be in for a rude awakening. Dick wasn’t gentle, she knew by experience. She made the universal gesture for a phone. “Need to make a call. Now.” She held up her beeper. “Aren’t we important this morning.” But Dick slammed the club’s phone on top of the bar. “Hell, yeah, I’m important. The paper can’t run without me,” she shot back, sliding onto the stool. She could ask for water, but who knew what was swimming in it. “How about a Coke?” Dick rolled up his shirtsleeves, dug into the ice, and tossed her the can he’d found. She caught it with one hand. Jolt. Perfect. “Nice reflexes after all that tequila,” Dick said. “Thanks.” She searched her back pants pocket and dropped a five on the bar. It stuck to something. Not her problem. Let Dick peel it off. She cursed as it took forever to dial the old rotary phone. least bit sorry. An alcohol-induced migraine, centered just above her left eye, made it hard to focus on his words. “—but I need you to get to City Hall in the next hour, to cover a press conference about the new zoning regulations.” “Zoning regulations?” It sounded worse when she repeated it. “Joe, I’m a crime reporter. Why am I covering zoning regulations? Put a stringer on it.” “Cardoza wants it covered, which means a stringer won’t do, and Tony’s in court all day. We need someone who can write something catchy, not boring, about this.” “Hell.” Cardoza, the publisher of the New York Herald. Joe’s boss. Trisha cradled the phone in her ear and pulled out the little notebook and pencil she kept in the inside pocket of the black leather jacket. “Exact time. Which room at City Hall. Anything else you got.” Joe rattled off the information, adding the names of the deputy mayor holding the press conference. Behind her, she heard Dick hauling the remnants of his customers to their feet. “Got it,” she said. “Anything else?” “Be aware of any undercurrents. Word is that this is just a money grab by developer friend of the deputy mayor. The rest of the reporters will ask polite questions. You won’t.” A chance to harass a deputy mayor at City Hall? The assignment was looking up. Some water and aspirin, and she’d be able to focus. “Oh, and be presentable, Trish. Cardoza is watching this story. He’ll hear if you roll up to the press conference looking like a punk.” “He wants me to wear a dress, he can buy me a damn car. He wants me to get there on time, I need to use the Indian.” “Look half-businesslike, at least. Don’t show up looking like one of the Ramones.” “The Slits are the female punk band.” Trisha took inventory of her clothes. The blue jeans, faded T-shirt, leather jacket, and motorcycle boots weren’t even half-businesslike. Not to mention the smell from the whiskey someone had spilled on her. Dammit, this was supposed to be her day off. A long pause followed, broken by one of Joe’s familiar long-suffering ‘what-the-hell-are-you-doing-with-your-life’ sighs. “Trisha, have you even been to bed?” “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” tough spot, “I know,” she said. “I’ll be there and get what you need.” She chugged the rest of the Jolt and dialed another number. grabbed the phone out of her hand, but the kid stumbling out the front door threw up, drawing his attention. David, be home, she thought. She was only five blocks from David’s place near the Village. He answered. Score. must have been forwarded to his car phone. one. Now there’s some minor deal about the alarm and Grayson’s being fussy about it, so I got dragged out of bed to check it out.” “You sure everything’s okay?” Dick slopped a mop at the mess on the floor. She figured she had sixty seconds before he cut off her call. “It’s fine. Like I said, it’s probably Grayson overreacting.” David shouted again at the other drivers, this time in English. “Look, Trish, what did you want, anyway?” “I need to get a change of clothes from your place. Is the coast clear?” David’s fiancée wasn’t her biggest fan. The sound of squealing tires echoed in the background. “Yep, Darlene’s at her mother’s place this week, studying. Take whatever you need,” he said. “Thanks. Be careful out there, okay?” “Always am, unlike you,” he said. “Wait, Trish, you’re not in trouble, are you?” “Not yet. But it’s early.” and slipped out the back door again. This could work. If her memory served, David had a blazer she could borrow that would be suitable over one of his T-shirts. Not strictly businesslike but, hey, Miami Vice style jackets with T-shirts were all the rage now. She might even have time for a shower there. Waitaminute. She hadn’t concentrated on what David said because she’d been worried about her own problems. But he’d said his boss rousted him out of bed to answer a possible alarm at the museum. David’s security firm had installed a sophisticated system to protect a high-profile art exhibit at the Museum of Historic Arts. Several anonymous threats had been made against that exhibit, which contained artwork once lost in World War II. (Presumably, the museum had bought the art from Nazis or their heirs.) An alarm might mean a break-in and that would equal a big story, espe- cially given the Nazi connection. A story that would beat the hell out of some press conference about mind-numbing zoning regulations, even if the developers were paying off the deputy mayor. Political corruption equaled business as usual. Nazis and a museum art theft on the other hand? That was a juicy story. An above-the-fold headline story. Option one: take the sure thing, file the required story, and get in good with Cardoza. Option Two: Disobey a direct order on a hunch that, if it fizzled, would get her fired. Her hand hovered over the scars carved into her midsection. Following the rules had never gained her a damn thing. She jerked the gloves out of her jacket and shoved her hands into them, using her boot heel to push the kickstand up. A bald guy dressed in skinny black jeans and the remains of a T-shirt stumbled into the alley. His eyes widened. “Well, hey, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You are a damn fine sight this morning.” Skinhead. Thrash metal dude. The club had been full of them last night, even though the band had been pure three-cord punk. But hardcore fought to replace it. Gah. Another great scene lost. “Buzz off,” she said. He stumbled closer, aiming to cut her off. “Aw, c’mon, I saw you in there, redhead, fooling around. Give us a kiss to celebrate the morning.” With a flick of her wrist, the switchblade appeared in her hand. Another flick, and the blade opened. “Get the fuck out of my way.” “Shit.” He scrambled backwards. “Jesus, bitch,” he said as he vanished around the corner. Bitch is right, she thought, as she closed the switchblade and dumped it back into a pocket. The Indian roared to life, echoing in the alley. Trisha burned rubber as she turned and accelerated onto the street.
GIVEAWAY! Still Sky
-- EXCERPT: I was walking along a peaceful path in the woods when a branch snapped beneath my barefoot. Birds flew away, shrieking in the distance. For some strange reason, I was not wearing any shoes. I wiggled my toes and continued my peaceful journey. But I came to a screeching halt when I noticed splotches of blood on the ground. My heart raced, and I thought about turning back. But my feet continued to carry me forward. The splotches were getting larger and becoming more frequent as I walked. And then I saw it. I saw him lying there on the ground in a pool of blood. Mateo. He was lying motionless with his eyes closed. Squealing louder than I’ve ever squealed in my life, I sprinted over to him. “No. No. Teo,” I screamed, rocking his body back and forth with force. I lifted his shirt to see where the blood was coming from. But there was no indication of where it was escaping. His body was intact. I checked his neck for a pulse. Pulse, pulse, where the heck was his pulse? I checked his inner wrist. I couldn’t feel it. “Where is it?” I sobbed, clasping his shirt. “Teo. Please. Please. Come back to me.”
GIVEAWAY! #Book Blitz #Lucky Shot by Shanna Hatfield #Contemporary Romance #Western @Xpresso book Tours20/6/2023
Lucky Shot
-- EXCERPT: She straightened in time to see Levi sprinting through the rain with a vase of flowers. His cowboy hat had kept his head dry, but Grace was sure she could wring water out of his shirt when he stepped inside. A vision of him shirtless made warmth sear her cheeks as he walked over to her and held out the vase. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her. She stared at the vase brimming with fragrant lilacs, white tulips, and pink peonies. The arrangement was stunning, but she had no idea why he’d bring it to her. Hesitantly, she reached out for the vase. “What’s this?” “An apology,” he said, removing his hat as she took the vase from him. She held the vase against her mid-section, longing to bury her nose in the divine lilacs. She’d always loved the scent of them when they bloomed in the spring. On their dairy farm, they had several old bushes that bloomed along the back fence. She’d missed them since she’d moved to Boise. The only chance she got to smell flowers now was while walking in the park, or when one of her fellow nurses received them as a gift. “An apology?” she asked, giving the cute cowboy a curious glance. “For Friday. I was rude, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t anything you did,” he admitted, appearing both nervous and repentant. She ignored the way he’d shoved his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans to hide his injury. His right hand clenched his hat, as though he was anxious. Uncertain. “Do you really think I’m too young, incompetent, and impertinent to be a nurse?” she asked, keeping her expression unreadable, but she shifted her posture, cocking one hip defiantly. A slow grin spread across his face as he watched her, appearing to keenly observe her every move. His head shook from side to side. “No, ma’am. I think you are more than qualified to do your job, and you were not impertinent. I’m truly sorry for the way I behaved when I was here. The way I acted was unnecessary and unkind, and it bugged me all weekend that I’d been that way with you. Truly, I’m sorry.” “You’re forgiven,” Grace said, grinning at him and surrendering to her need to sniff the blooms. She closed her eyes to better savor the fragrance, then opened them to find Levi watching her. “I love lilacs.” His grin broadened. “We have a bunch of them at the farm just starting to bloom. The tulips were on the north side of the house, or they’d likely be gone for the season.” “It’s a magnificent bouquet. Do you need the vase back?” she asked. “No. Ma has dozens of them. She gets the credit for arranging the flowers, though. She said to tell you that she did a better job of raising me than you might have previously considered and to please not hold my behavior against her.” “I did have a few thoughts about that this weekend.” Grace smiled and hugged the vase a little tighter. “I do thank you, Sergeant Gibson, for these lovely blooms, but I should get to work.” “I didn’t mean to keep you. I just wanted to apologize and ask for your forgiveness.” “You are forgiven.” “Thank you,” he said, taking a step back toward the door. Grace had never, not once in her life, considered asking a guy on a date, but a sense of panic welled in her at the thought of not seeing Levi again soon. The words spilled out of her, leaving her unable to stuff them back into her mouth. “Are you busy next Saturday?” she heard herself ask. Levi appeared as shocked by the question as Grace felt. “No. Not really. Did you have something in mind?”
GIVEAWAY! The Ro Bro
-- EXCERPT: “Holy shit.” Britney, the assistant, looks up at me with an incredulous expression of ‘what the fuck.’ “She’s a… a…” I volunteer a noun. “A bitch?” “Yeah!” Britney laughs this word out with gusto. And I’m laughing too, but then I look over at Cordy, and she’s… not. “What did she mean by that?” That question is directed to Britney, not me. And immediately I feel cut out of the conversation. What did she mean by that? Translation--Did Raylen Star just caution me, Cordy, about handing over my ARC to SS’s brother, Steve, because she was insinuating they, she, he might steal my words? That is exactly what Leslie fuckin’ Munch just did. I had a good thing going with this girl. She and I were having a moment. And even though Britney kinda busted in on us, Britney wasn’t obtrusive. I was winning her over. Which is important. As the number one romance writer in the world, I wholly and completely understand that the new love interest must befriend the BFF. And fine. Maybe ‘new love interest’ is a premature title for me? We were still on introductions. We hadn’t made any concrete declarations of intent or anything, but we were on our way. We were getting there. Would’ve gotten there if fuckin’ Leslie hadn’t showed up. And now, as I watch Cordy and Britney exchange a look and in the next moment watch, in real time, as Cordy’s eyes drop down to the book gripped firmly in my hands, I have to tuck down a moment of rage. Two minutes. Two. Minutes. That’s all it took for Leslie to ruin the good thing I was building with this lovely creature who might be the only person in the room who can write a run-on sentence with such skill, and emotion, and… and… and moxie that one does not even understand that she, lovely Cordy, just wrote the world’s longest run-on sentence because they have been captivated—imprisoned, even—by her brilliant author voice. Cordy Serendipitous’s ability to string words together for the longest of sequences is what drew me to her in the first place. I love it. I love that she breaks all the rules. It’s so… so… fuckin’ courageous—especially in a world filled with people who want nothing more than the expected to jump out at them in a totally expected way, lest they have to stretch their minds a bit to find the hidden messages hiding just below the surface—that I, for once, did not feel like a completely isolated freak among those who fit in. At least as far as writing goes. And Leslie Munch has fucked that up with two words of caution. Be careful.
GIVEAWAY! My Fair Thief
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: “You didn’t lie to him. You have chosen him over what you thought was your path. You’re willing to change and give up a lot for him. I see the Clarion Necklace as the final piece and kind of a closing homage to your granda. You once told me it was the piece that had eluded him again and again. Fletch will understand. Don’t get me wrong; there may be groveling and cock sucking involved but, hey, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.” “If all I have to do is grovel and suck his dick, I’m down for that,” Claire said, managing to grin at her. She wasn’t at all sure that Mia was right. She hoped she was, but she couldn’t be sure. The train was late when it arrived in Calais. They barely managed to exit the station and get a cab for the docks. Once there, they hurried to Jules’ boat. “I was worried for a minute you weren’t going to make it,” said Jules as he helped them aboard. “The train was late, but here we are. We’ll put our stuff away and stay below until you let us know we’re clear. Thanks again for your help.” “It is always my pleasure.” Once they were below, they stowed their gear and then got comfortable on the two berths. They heard Jules start the engine and untie the boat as the great rope lines hit the deck before being coiled. Slowly the boat pulled away from the dock, and they were on their way. “I always breathe easier once we clear French waters,” said Mia. “You know it never occurred to me—who has jurisdiction over the Channel?” “Depends on where you are in the Channel. Some of it belongs to the French and some to the English. But there are parts that are separated by international water.” “That must be a nightmare to tease out when there’s money to be recouped. Money always makes things trickier.” “Sometimes it isn’t money that ups the ante, so to speak,” said a decidedly male voice without a trace of a French accent. “If the person or entity being apprehended has a string of crimes that can be attributed to them, the authorities want credit for shutting them down.” “Ho… how did you find us?” stuttered Claire. “Carter has gotten very adept at hunting Mia down. Why don’t you come up on deck? It’s a lovely evening.” “I can’t believe Jules betrayed us,” said Mia. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t do it for money or for notoriety. He is, after all, French; he did it for love and romance. Once he knew Claire was mine and was just confused about her loyalties, he was only too happy to help.
GIVEAWAY! Broken Notes
-- EXCERPT: TROY “Not her,” I demanded through gritted teeth, slowly peeling my fingers away from my palm. His exasperated breath was the only sign that he’d heard me before he said, “Alexa, make it louder. A little more.” Once the music volume in the room was louder, he walked back to me. “Why, man? What’s your issue?” All my fingers finally opened, the last one painfully so. I used my left hand and scrubbed down my face. “Just trust me.” This whole situation suddenly exhausted me. Theo crossed his arms. “You know I do, but you have to trust me too. You are the last person I expected to walk in here and start insulting fucking clients, so explain or get the hell out so I can go back there and do my damnedest to get her to see me again.” A frustrated growl rose from deep in my chest, and I looked up to the ceiling, forcing myself to take a deep breath. He deserved to know. “Les is her.” I waited for a response. When none came, I forced myself to look back at him and clarified, “Les is . . . Alessa.” A second of confusion lingered before realization sparked in his eyes. His frustration dropped away and his mouth pinched as he rocked back a step. “No fucking way. What are the odds?” “Never thought there were any odds. Never thought she’d be back around here.” “I wonder why she—” “No.” My voice was sharp, my anger rising all over again. “Don’t wonder shit. Just ink her friend and get her the fuck outta here.” I stormed out the door, needing space and air and a goddamn deep breath that wasn’t tainted with any part of her. My hands touched the leather of the seat of my bike, palms flush against it, and my chin craning up, opening my airway. I inhaled the light smell of tacos from the truck a block over and watched the streetlight go from yellow to red. My fingers traced the custom stitching in the leather a bit harder as I tried to even my breaths. Even with all the time that had passed and life that had been lived—it didn’t matter. I would have known it was her if only one of my senses had been working. She smelled the same as she had all those years ago. I laughed in the least humorous way possible because, as much as I loathed it, she was every bit as beautiful as she’d been in high school too. Just like back then, she sure as hell didn’t know it now either. I leaned over and spit on the sidewalk. All I needed to do was ride away and pretend as if the last ten minutes never happened. My freedom was right in front of me, and I should climb on, gun the engine, and open the throttle. I shouldn’t go back in. With my jaw locked tight, I turned away from my bike and headed down the alley between the shop and another building. Then, as quietly as I could, I unlocked the emergency exit and let myself into the back of the shop. In the small, narrow space of the hallway, I could smell her. I inhaled deeply because my brain still wasn’t working, and I let myself think it fueled my hate, that it was only disgust punching at my skull. I refused to acknowledge that there was anything but deeply rooted loathing making my skin tight or that I didn’t care at all about what she may say or do while here. I told myself it was not because of her that I parked myself in the chair in the office, which was right next to Theo’s station, and left the door wide open while I pretended to look at his books. I had to make myself believe it all because I’d only ever been weak once before in my life. Once. For the woman named Les in room five. The girl who I knew as Alessa.
GIVEAWAY! #Book Blitz #Whiskey by Sybil Bartel (The Apha Elite 7) #Romance #Suspense @Xpresso Book Tours20/6/2023
Whiskey
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GIVEAWAY! Healing Cassiopeia
-- EXCERPT: Cassie sat in her room staring out the window. It had been three months since her husband died and yet the melancholy that enveloped her would not let go. But it wasn’t just her husband’s death that haunted her. She was, unfortunately, hit with a double whammy that night. She was three months into her pregnancy and she and her husband, Greg, had decided to go out and celebrate. It was the first successful pregnancy she’d had since they started trying to conceive. It had taken them nearly three years and after two miscarriages and more hormone injections than Cassie would ever want to think about, the pregnancy finally took. “If it’s a boy, we’ll have to name him Greg Jr.,” Greg said, taking her hand. “Oh, you think so, do you? And what if I want to name him something else?” she teased. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it, “I may be willing to negotiate… for the right price.” He winked at her. She laughed, “Only you would use sex as a bargaining chip.” “Hey! I never even mentioned the word sex, but if it’s on the table…” he shrugged, then grinned.
GIVEAWAY! Fighting Fate
-- EXCERPT: Searching Sean’s apartment has given me a wealth of insights into the man. Not only is he doing his own undercover work, but he’s also helping people in need…and painting. I stop by an etching of a nude figure and nearly swallow my tongue. How? He’s never seen me in anything other than this drab tunic. Still…Without touching, I run my fingers above the edges of a body he’s gotten exactly right. My body. Swallowing my rising heart, I imagine his hand holding the pencil, imagine him tracing lines, mentally stroking my body. “Sister?” “Ay!” Startled I swing around. To my horror, I find Sean squatting on the fire escape, staring at me through the window, his mouth set in a firm, disappointed line. I bring a hand to my chest, mostly to buy time. “Dios. You scared the life out of me.” “Sorry about that, Sister.” With alarming dexterity, he climbs in through the window. “Don’t usually have guests break into my flat. Not sure of the protocols.” Hard to miss his sarcasm. “I didn’t break in. The apartment was unlocked…” He’s shaking his head in outright disbelief. It’s not hard to figure out why. The apartment couldn’t have been left open if he’d gone out through the fire escape. I turn back to the door and scan until I spot it. There’s a small, nearly invisible device at the foot of the door. It must’ve registered me entering. I missed it, not only because it is so very tiny, but because it’s very high-tech. I’ve underestimated this man. I spin back around, smiling. “I need your help.” Auburn hair a windy mess, brown eyes smoldering, he swallows the distance between us with his sexy swaggering gate. “You broke into my flat because you need my help?” I’m scrambling. My brain is scrambling. My heart is scrambling. He stops feet from me. I have to crane my neck, which is rare and uncomfortable. My height has always allowed me to look men in the eyes or look down on them. Not having that advantage is supremely disconcerting. Also, he’s a lot of muscle. The heat of him rolls forward like lava, enveloping my senses. “Want to try the truth, luv?” Luv? Not even Sister or Dee. I switch tactics. What man doesn’t like to have his ego stroked? Plus, I’d be a fool if I pretended I hadn’t noticed the way he looks at me. The way he’s looking at me right now. “Help might be the wrong word.” I make a point of running my tongue along my lips. His eyes follow the movement. “I felt a strong need to be near you. With you.” Feminists everywhere are cringing at me using my sexuality to get out of the fact that I was spying on him and, internally, so am I. Well, a little. He is so very hot. “Really,” he smirks, both interested and not buying it even a little. He leans closer. “Is that how you intend to play this?” He obviously requires proof of my sincerity. Not giving myself a chance to second guess, I fist his T-shirt, tiptoe, and place my lips on his soft, firm mouth. For a breathless moment, he freezes. My tongues plays along the seam of his mouth. With a moan, he relents. Eager and hungry, I let go of all the tension of playing at being someone I’m not and let myself feel, really feel, the intense attraction I have to this man. Heat and naked desire rake painfully through every cell in my body as we grab at each other, tongues intertwining, bodies screaming for more.
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