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The Matchmaker’s Royal Mess
-- EXCERPT: Deals with the devil… “Natalie, do us a solid and make notes. We’re creating a new contract.” I snag the file from him and use it to poke him in the chest with each new condition without even looking inside it. He said dates. “First, I’ll lead you to the location you believe has your stash, but only to that spot. You will obey my every order. You will not, under any circumstance, go anywhere besides exactly where I tell you. I won’t have you falling down a mineshaft and causing someone else to lay their life on the line because you acted like a moron.” Natalie is now groaning with her head between her knees. “We’re all going to prison.” Xander opens his mouth, but I shake my head and poke him again. “Not done yet. Second, I’ll pretend to be your coach or whatever, but we keep things completely business. These aren’t dates where somebody gets kissed at the front door at the end of the night. Zero physical contact. None. Nada. Zipskies on the kisskies.” Xander cocks his head. Bright interest lights up his eyes again. “Kisskies?” “Shut up.” I clear my throat and fight the urge to stare at the floor. “Third, and finally, you say you run a business, an international one. For something like that, I imagine you know loads of people. I imagine some of them might even be bored and, say, in need of an adventure.” That danged left corner of his mouth twitches. “You might say that. Why?” I clear my throat again and lift my chin. “You apparently already know about my back country business somehow. It’s going to offer themed adventures, like solving a mystery and stuff on the trip. Haunted Hattie’s Adventures. You can send lonely people to Zoe and bored people my way. That’s the deal. Oh, and whatever you’re paying, I’ll need you to double it.” It’s audacious and I don’t remotely think he’ll accept my terms; I kinda just wanna freak him out. “That’s quite the marketing pitch.” He narrows his eyes a bit. “What about your makeover, prince, and revenge?” I shrug. “We’ll keep the revenge part. However, I’m not wearing dresses; there will be no dancing, and lay off the fairy-tale prince crap.” With that, Natalie rolls out of her chair, throws the contract in the air, and belly flops onto the couch in Zoe’s office. All I hear from her is, “Maybe my tower will have a window, like at least one of those slits for arrows.” Xander, in the meantime, appears to have made extensive notes on the pad on Natalie’s desk. He runs down the list again. “Follow Hattie’s every command. No physical contact, specifically kisskies. Send clients to Haunted Hattie’s Adventures. Double the fee. Let’s also not forget: no dresses, zero dancing, and cancel all fairy tales. Care to read it before we sign? After all, you should never agree to a legally binding document without reading it first.” Patronizing punk. I stomp over and try to grab it from him. He holds on. I glance down and watch our hands in static battle on opposite ends of the notepad. We’re not even touching, yet why does it feel as if we are? I look up and catch my breath. His eyes dip to the base of my throat, where I can feel my heartbeat pounding. His voice drops to a low rumble. “Careful, Hattie. If you cross this threshold, you must see it through. New adventures can be dangerous.” My heart starts pounding about three gears faster at that. Finally, he lets go. I tip backwards, but quickly regain my balance. Inside? Not so much.
GIVEAWAY! --
One Bossy Date
-- EXCERPT: I push my face to that crack of light, trembling. There’s definitely a low hissing sound like water. The shower, I think, thousands of little rainfall droplets splashing against a hard surface. Could it really be a maintenance guy who skipped on giving notice? Could it be that easy? But at three o’clock in the flipping morning without any notice? It could be a burst pipe or a malfunction, though. My toes scrunch. I place my hand on the door, ready to throw it open and accept my fate. I wind up cracking it another couple inches. The shower roars louder. At first, I can’t see through the glassy part of the stall. But when the silhouette moves in the steaming fog-- Holy shit. Okay. Deep breath. So, the staff wouldn’t be showering in my bathroom. We can rule out innocent mistakes. A minute ago, I was determined to be Miss Danger incarnate, but all the adrenaline that moved me this close to certain death evaporates. The lamp in my clammy hand feels like it weighs a ton. I really, really don’t want to do this. But what’s the other option? Just up and wait for Mr. Shower Psycho to come slaughter me in bed? Or run for the front door screaming and pray he doesn’t catch up while I wait for the private elevator to this floor? Yeah, no. I’m out of time and options. It’s go time. So I throw the door open, clasping the lamp like a bat. I played softball years ago. I’ve got this. If only anything on Earth could prepare me for what I find. …are hot serial killers a thing? Because this guy is a certified GQ model. A six-foot-plus wall of muscle surrounded by steam. He must like his showers scorching hot. It takes a few seconds to peer through the haze, and I can’t make out much more until he moves. Believe me, I see enough. His whole body is toned and tight and chiseled by a mad sculptor dead set on crafting the perfect man. His large hands lather foam over biceps bigger than my head. I have to unglue my eyes as he stands beneath the spraying water with his eyes closed, smiling like he enjoys his own touch a little too much. With a body like that, I’m sure the narcissism comes naturally. My gaze slides down his broad chest, diamond-cut abs, and sculpted pelvic bone to-- Oh, no. Heat throbs under my cheeks. I hate that I bite my lip, but I’ve never seen a man who’s part stallion before. Moby Dick has nothing on this well-endowed freak. For a second, my brain rabbits, wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands around something that enormous—if I could even close them. Let alone do anything else. Every part of this man is made to punish. All rough strength and hard edges and a literal battering ram jutting out between his legs, half-hard from the steam, I guess. But back to that whole serial killer thing…is he a convict? Did Hawaii have a supermax jailbreak recently I didn’t hear about? My body squirms at the thought, still hideously stuck on Goliath and his stupid scary, stupid hot good looks that are making me—what else?--stupid. There’s no other word for it when my arm turns to mush and the crystal lamp slips out of my sweaty hands. It shatters against the floor a second later like someone throwing a box of ornaments. “Oh, crap,” I whisper, totally paralyzed. Everything happens in slow motion. Goliath’s eyes pop open and his head whips around. He glares at me like a tiger rudely awakened from a nap. Uh-oh. With my one and only weapon in pieces on the floor, there’s no hoping he doesn’t see me now. Raw instinct takes over. I scream before I even realize I’m doing it. I scream so loud my throat hurts, but my voice has no off switch. I scream for dear life for ten solid seconds until my own ears ring and I’m winded. Then I stumble backward, doubled over and breathless. Maybe screaming bloody murder was good. Maybe, by some miracle, someone will hear me up here and send help. Except the presidential suite is the only room on this floor, and you have to use a card in the elevator to get up here. So unless there’s an employee diligently working graveyard shift one floor down… I’m so screwed. Amazingly, Goliath isn’t out of the shower yet. That means I still have time. I need to run like hell for the elevator while I have a head start. Sucking in a deep breath, I straighten up, willing my legs to move. I’m about to turn and run but the shower door swings open so fast it’s dizzying. My lethal Adonis steps out, snapping a towel from the shower rack. He whips it around his waist faster than I can blink. My gaze follows his movement. Again, I hate that he’s so hot. I hate that I’m losing time as I spin around for the door, practically leaping for it. “Stay or it’s going to be much worse!” he bellows, his voice rolling thunder. 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #For the Love of Brigid by Nanette Littlestone #Contemporary Romance @Xpresso Book Tours15/12/2022
For the Love of Brigid
-- EXCERPT: Chelton, New York
Walking up the path to my house, I think about Annemarie’s love and encouragement. The best of friends, she’s always buoyed my spirit and helped me through crisis after crisis. Setting up the library after Gran’s death was a major undertaking, one I’d felt incapable of handling. There were thousands of books. Whole rooms to remodel. Furniture and lighting and wallpaper to choose. So many times I thought I’d go insane. But with Annemarie’s help, we met every obstacle with determined positivity. And now here I am with a gorgeous mansion that feels more like a home with enormous playrooms. Smiling, I climb the stone steps to my door and reach into my pocket for the key. “Excuse me, are you Brigid Cleary?” My heart stutters and I whirl with a gasp. A pleasant looking man stands by the steps, slightly hunched in his winter coat. “By all the gods!” I yell. “Ye startled the crap out of me.” I wince at the hint of Irish in my voice. “Beautiful and Irish.” “Of course I’m Irish.” He steps closer. “They said you were, but—” “They? They who?” “My publisher. Well, his assistant. So you are Brigid Cleary.” I lean against the door to my house, my heartbeat beginning to slow. He doesn’t look like he’s going to attack. “Who wants to know?” “Andrew. Andrew Connally.” Not the Andrew Connally. No, it can’t be. I shiver as a gust of wind bites through my clothes. “Well, Mr. Connally, why are you here?” “Do you suppose we can continue the Inquisition inside? It’s freezing.” So he’s not immune to the cold. “I’m not in the habit of inviting strangers into my home.” “That’s understandable, and certainly fair, but . . .” “But it’s freezing.” And five more seconds might turn us both into icebergs. “Go around to the library entrance.” I point to the right. “I’ll meet you there.” When he leaves, I unlock the door and walk inside, my toes stiff and painful. What I really want is a hot drink and a warm fire, but somehow I’ve picked up a stray man. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he were the famous mystery writer? What a story I’d have for Annemarie. With that, I hang up my coat and scarf and make my way through the library, turning on lights as I go. Cold gusts of air follow when I let him in. He stamps his feet loudly, the heels of his shoes thudding against the thick carpet. “This is the last time I’m coming here in the winter.” “I’ve been imagining the tropics all day. Care to go with me?” I can’t believe I’ve issued an invitation. To a complete stranger. “I just might do that,” he says with a smile that looks so honest, so pure, and so familiar. I stare and he matches my stare. Open. Inquisitive. And a little mischievous. I have to ask. “Are you the Andrew Connally?” “The Andrew Connally? Well, now, I’m not sure.” He’s playing with me. “You know, the mystery writer.” “Ah, that Andrew Connally.” “Yes, that one. Because you look like him. I mean, I’ve never seen him up close, just on the back of book jackets. And his smile is so . . . well, professional yet engaging. As if he’s inviting you to come closer, to get to know him better, to have a conversation. And your smile just then, it was . . .” I’m rambling. To a stranger. I never ramble. I never talk to strangers either. But now, with Andrew, my mouth is literally a fountain of words. I shake my head to clear whatever unfortunate clutter has collected and realize we’re still standing by the entrance. Where are my manners? “I’m so sorry. Would you like to sit down?” I move through the lobby and into Hush Hush, the cozy area for adults with long couches and a wide fireplace just perfect on this frosty night. Crouching before the fake logs, I turn on the gas and watch the flames come to life. For long moments my guest gazes into the fire. He seems softer in person than on his back cover photos, if he even is the Andrew Connally. He still hasn’t answered that question. And his wavy hair, chestnut brown with flecks of gold, hangs longer, brushing his shirt collar. Much more youthful than that stern, suit jacket look he projects. And more dashing. But does his personality match his profile? Is he staid and somber or casual and easy-going? And, more importantly, what is he doing here? 
GIVEAWAY! --
Dear Holden
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GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #Wrapped Around My Heart by Kelly Collins #Holiday Romance @Xpresso Book Tours14/12/2022
Wrapped Around My Heart
-- EXCERPT: He lifted his head for the briefest of moments and gave me a slip of a smile. I loved this little power exchange we had going. He’d demand, and I’d push back. Not a lot, just enough to get him to smile. “Is this a hostile takeover?” It was a valid question since the man gobbled up companies like I did chocolate candies. Mark laughed. “No, it’s something new.” He brought a pen to his mouth and chewed on the end, then laid it on the desk‐ top. “It’s a partnership.” I was tempted to snatch the pen he’d been chewing on but let that thought go. Instead, I leaned in like I would if I were to tell him a secret. “Can I be candid with you?” He leaned in like every word I uttered was important. “I always want you to be honest with me, Jess.” I lifted my head so we were eye to eye. “Forgive me for saying, but you don’t come across as the kind of man who plays nicely with others.” He looked up at me with eyes the same color as a smog-free California sky. “Oh, I’m really quite good at playing, Ms. Stone.” He only used my last name when he was making a point he didn’t want me to forget, but what was his point? His words seemed naughty in nature. Combined with his sly smile, and I was certain he was teasing me. “I’d love to see that, Mr. Cantwell.” I made a note to get him the report within the hour. “But in all honesty, you don’t seem the type of man who likes to share, and a partnership implies sharing.” He sat back and folded his arms across his broad chest. The smooth fabric of his custom suit gripped his muscles. “We’re talking about two different things. I can play all day and never have to share.” He took the last bite of his muffin and watched me for a second. “I never share. Once something is mine, it’s mine forever.” A shiver ran down my spine. He was probably talking about money or possessions, but when he looked at me and said those words, my heart beat wildly. What would it be like to be Mark Cantwell’s woman for a minute—a day—forever?
GIVEAWAY! --
Mayatte’s Catharsis: A Feathered Serpent Reborn
-- EXCERPT: Zeke squinted his eyes in reaction to her reddish glow. He took a deep breath, filling the top of his lungs. “But I can help! I have knowledge of their weaponry, their tactics, and their mindset.” “You have helped enough…believe me. It’s best you hide until the intruders are ridden. Just like on Murminilia.” “But—” He reached for her arm, and winced. “Ouch! Your skin. It’s burning.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you seek to touch me?” He broke eye contact. “I don’t know,” he said, shifting his gaze to the Whispering Trees. He rubbed his elbow and tucked his chin. “I…I, I think I love you.” She remained stoic. “Has Mayatte taught you nothing? Even when we are in peril, you still can’t see past yourself—past your desires. You have put an entire ecosystem in danger, all the while lust and power fill your heart.” His lip trembled. “But—” “There is no but. There is no love, only Mayatte. What you feel is a desire to control and conquer. You want to be a part of me so you can understand me. That is not love. There is no love here. There is only Mayatte. She sought to embrace you, and you betrayed her for your own gain. You do not love me, you are not Mayatte, you love yourself.” Zeke’s knees weakened as he was struck with blow after blow of veracity. Small blotches hindered Naña’s vision, yet she revealed no weakness. She closed her eyes and inhaled high and deep. “And despite all of this, Mayatte always offers forgiveness and extends a means of absolution.” Zeke quivered from the thunder of a booming hollow drum. He turned his head, seeking out the source of the loud rhythmic beating. As he scanned the island, he couldn’t help but notice that the entire skyline was flooded with military-grade helicopters. He sunk even further within himself, refusing to even look in Naña’s direction. Without hesitating or looking back, he burst into a full sprint towards the helicopters. “Where are you going? Do not be foolish!” Naña crumbled, groveling in pain. What’s happening to me? She leaned against the base of a whispering tree, propping herself to her feet. She attempted to give pursuit to Zeke, but both femurs fractured with her initial step, crumbling her body to the island floor. She hollered out in agony. I can’t just lay here. Get up, Naña! All this has happened because of me. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Bystander: Seven Stories from the New Espionage Collection
-- EXCERPT: Several of us were gathered in the television room, waiting for the third and final cigarette break — the last activity of the day. We were all watching NBC Nightly News with Lester Holt, a preferred television program of the infirm, it seemed. I was reflecting on how bad the astigmatism in my right eye had gotten since my admittance to the Hampton Behavioral Health Facility, and I was thinking about what I would say to Lester Holt in a live television interview as I watched NBC Nightly News with my left eye closed. Lester Holt: Are you the spokesperson for your generation? Me: Yes. Then I reach out. And I throttle that poor, trustworthy news anchor. I’ll make a great famous person. This particular Nightly News segment was a follow-up to a story they had done earlier in the year about the instances of encephalitis in frozen broccoli, the subsequent cover-up by the agricultural conglomerates, and, ultimately, the manufacture of synthetic broccoli. This Nightly News segment included an interview with The Executive Agricultural Secretary of the United States. The interview illuminated several things, important to me personally:
Slowly, I put one, two, and three together, but I only arrived at a sum total of five. I blamed the medication for this. Meanwhile, The Man Who Ate the Letter H, my roommate at the Hampton Behavioral Health Facility, had leapt upon The Co-Executive Agricultural Secretary, I mean, like right up onto his knees, screaming and shaking him by the sweater vest. I marveled at his balance and tried to ignore the one-sided fighting. The Co-Executive Agricultural Secretary was still just babbling and shaking his head. Even now, I was adding things up and I still didn’t know what was happening. Later on that night, The Man Who Ate The Letter H told me everything.
in Bystander: Seven Stories from the New Espionage Collection 
GIVEAWAY! --
Natural Disaster
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: A shadow stands up from the sand. One shadow. Theo. Alone. He’s standing in sand that has been thoroughly fucked up by a plane landing on it, and that motherfucker, that green-eyed innocent who needed encouragement to fuck June, is alone. What happened to her? He looks rough, but not particularly beaten. Not shot. The relief is threaded through with stark cold fear. Where the hell is June? I’m running before I realize it. Before I’ve had time to catch my breath and assess the situation. Doesn’t matter at all that I’ve just run through the jungle. I could run forever, but I don’t have to. It’s against mission protocol to drop my entire backpack on the ground, but I shrug it off and let it fall. Theo turns at the sound. I have two strides to notice his black eye--he has a black eye, someone hit him--and then I’m on top of him. “Where is she? Where the fuck is she?” He’s just strong enough to stay upright when my fists collide with his chest. His shirt pulls tight in my fists. The crash of the ocean is loud in my ears, or maybe it’s my pulse. “Don’t.” I want him to tell me she went for a swim. That she’s hiding behind the goddamn jungle leaves. That she’s building a fucking sandcastle. Anything to disprove the desolation in his beautiful dark eyes. Don’t. That one word is my worst nightmare. “What did you do with her?” I shout into his face. His cheeks are red with the fight and the bruise under his eye is going a deep purple already. It speaks to the force of the hit. I want to brush it with my fingertips, want to demand to know who did it so I can kill them, and that would be the wrong fucking thing, because he’s here and June’s not and her absence strikes me as offensively wrong. I’ve gone wrong. I’ve gone so fucking wrong. I shouldn’t want her here at all, but I do. I shouldn’t be relieved that he’s here, but I am. I shouldn’t want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. A heartbeat passes, maybe two, and I back him up toward nothing, toward more sand, and drag him in closer. I make my voice dangerously soft. “Sorry about what, Theo?” He doesn’t make any move to touch me. He doesn’t lift his hands to shove me off. He just…looks away. “I didn’t want to ruin her, Carter. We were touching her. Kissing her.” “We fucked her six ways to Sunday. I know that. What did you do?” “I saved her the only way I could. By sending her away.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Trapping His Queen
-- EXCERPT: I would not shoot my fucking little malishka. She just needed to get her act together before I took her back to my bedroom and taught her some fucking manners. “Sign it.” I glared at the marriage license on my desk. Honestly, I was just as happy to forge her signature, but I had a point to prove. The priest stood by the door and watched this all play out in patient silence. I could almost guarantee that this was not his first shotgun wedding. Plus, I was paying him handsomely for his trouble. As for Roman, his eyes bounced between me and Sloane like this was a tennis match. But even he knew this situation was too volatile for him to intervene. My malishka would find no allies in this room. The hate in her eyes would haunt my dreams for the rest of our lives, but I had to do this. I needed to stake my claim on her. Mind, body, and soul. We were the darkest of soul mates. I knew I was forever seared into her mind since the day I kidnapped her. Her body was mine from the moment I’d impregnated her. Her soul would never forget mine now that we were bound together in the eyes of our deity. Now I just had to make it legal in the eyes of American law. “Malishka,” I growled. “You are either with me or against me, and if you are against me, you will not like what I will do.” Sloane pressed her forehead to the barrel with flashing eyes. “Go on! Do it. If you’re going to kill me, stop being a fucking pussy about it and get it over with.” She was trembling, her beautiful body shaking despite her bravado. She was scared. And she should be. But she was also smart enough to know I wouldn’t kill her… Yet. Not while she was carrying my child. My cock hardened in my slacks. Fuck she was beautiful. Even defiant and afraid, I wanted to bend her over and rail her. Her fear was like an aphrodisiac to me. I shifted into Russian to thank the priest for his time, reminded him of the very generous sum I had donated to the church earlier that day, and promised to drop off the signed paperwork. I then told Roman to see him out. Once we were alone, I glared at Sloane. “Are you going to sign it or not?” Stunned, I saw that she was nibbling on her lip like she was contemplating her options. There weren’t any fucking options. In order to keep her focused, I pulled back the hammer. Eyes widening in alarm, Sloane wrapped her arms around her belly as if to protect the baby and screamed, “Fine! I’ll fucking sign it!” Tears poured down her face as she snatched up the pen, scrawled a half signature on the line, then threw the writing device down. She then stared blankly at me, as if to ask, “Are you fucking happy now, asshole?” I took in her radiance, her heaving chest that showed my name etched into her skin, the way the light sparked in her watery eyes, her quivering lips so full and kissable. I had broken her yet again. But I also knew how to put her back together with two words. “Good girl,” I whispered. She covered her face and slowly crumpled to the floor, as if the weight of my words were too much to bear. She sobbed uncontrollably, pouring out all her frustration, anxiety, and grief into the rug. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She tried my patience, true, and I let her get away with shit I would never allow another, but love was nothing if not complicated and dramatic. “You don’t love me. You’ve forced me to marry you, and you don’t even love me.” Her words hurt my heart, as did her tantrum. This stress wasn’t good for her either. It wasn’t good for her or the baby. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Faeted Mates: A Paranormal Romance Boxset
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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