Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Excerpt: ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND SCANDAL by Caroline Linden

Nothing wagered…
Douglas Bennet can't resist a good wager, especially not one that involves a beautiful woman. When a friend proposes an audacious plan to expose the most notorious woman in England, Douglas agrees at once. After all, it would be quite a coup to discover the true identity of Lady Constance, author of the infamous erotic serial scandalizing the ton, 50 Ways to Sin.

Nothing won…
Madeline Wilde is used to being pursued. For years she's cultivated a reputation for being unattainable and mysterious, and for good reason: her livelihood depends on discretion. When Douglas turns his legendary charm on her, she dismisses him as just another rake. But he surprises her—instead of merely trying to seduce her, he becomes her friend…her confidant…and her lover. But can it really lead to happily-ever-after…or are they about to become the biggest scandal London has ever seen?

Author Bio:
Caroline Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer software before turning to writing fiction. Ten years, twelve books, three Red Sox championships, and one dog later, she has never been happier with her decision. Her books have won the NEC Reader’s Choice Beanpot Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWA’s RITA Award. Since she never won any prizes in math, she takes this as a sign that her decision was also a smart one. Visit her online at www.carolinelinden.com

Buy Links:


Excerpt:

Quite a crush, isn’t it?” He gave Mrs. Wilde his winning smile, the easy, friendly one that soothed anxious nerves and made women of every age and rank like him.
She turned at his voice behind her. Something like mirth glimmered in her eyes. “Indeed.”
I hardly know a soul here tonight.” He lowered his voice but without leaning toward her. Leaning put women on guard. A low voice made them lean toward him, which he much preferred. “It’s rather intimidating, to tell the truth.”
You?” She arched one golden brow. “You don’t seem the sort to be easily intimidated.”
Douglas grinned. He knew he was a big fellow. Women tended to like it once they got to know him. “Rubbish. I’m petrified just looking at the elegance of this assembly.”
Her lovely lips curved. Her head tipped toward him, just a little. Her dark eyes gleamed. “I don’t believe you.”
It’s true,” he protested. “My heart is racing, my knees are unsteady. Look—see how my hand trembles.” He caught her hand in his, tensing his muscle to produce the tiniest tremor in his hand, and then relaxing it. “Ah. Your touch has healing power, I see.”
She left her hand in his, but that slight smile tugging at her mouth grew a bit wider. “It’s not flattering to a woman, to say her touch calms a man’s heart and body. Usually she wishes it were the other way around.”
His heart did skip a beat at that. She was a flirt; excellent. He adored flirts. Douglas stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “It only stilled the terror, my dear. I suspect you could elicit an entirely different sort of tremor.” He lifted her hand and brushed the faintest kiss over her knuckles. “We must be introduced.”
I fear there’s no one here in this quiet corner who will do it.” Her eyes seemed to grow darker as he drew one finger across her palm.
Then I will risk being appallingly rude and present myself.” He bowed over her hand, his eyes never leaving her face. “Douglas Bennet, at your service.”
Yes, I know.”
You do?” He smiled in delight. “Then we should become acquainted…”
Mr. Douglas Bennet,” she repeated, her voice changing just enough to freeze him in place. “Son and heir of Sir George Bennet, baronet. A very handsome title, an even handsomer fortune. An unrepentant rake, gambler, brawler, and sometime rogue. Your mother wants you to marry; you couldn’t be less interested. Your taste runs to tavern maids and opera dancers, preferably French. Your sister wed your bosom friend Lord Burke, much to your disgust, although no one quite knows if you pity your sister or your one-time friend more.” She tilted her head and smiled as he stared at her, blank-faced with shock that was rapidly turning to indignation. “What have I forgotten? Oh, yes—you love a good wager. What was the one that sent you over here: a wager to get me into your bed?” She slipped her fingers from his slackened grip. “If it was…you’ve already lost. I hope you didn’t stake a large amount.”
It was merely for the pleasure of a dance,” he said, hiding his temper behind a flat tone.
She laughed. By God, she had a beautiful laugh, throaty and soft, the sort that made a man want to amuse her so he could hear it again. “I doubt it. But then, you’re also accustomed to losing, aren’t you?” She sank into a graceful curtsey, giving him one last view of her matchless bosom. “Good evening, sir.” She turned and walked away, unhurried, unaffected.
He was still standing there, pulsing with unexpected desire and insulted pride, when Spence slung an arm around his neck. “Rough luck,” he said, his voice brimming with amusement. “She’s a cold one.” He grinned and slapped Douglas’s shoulder. “Five quid, gone in a blink.”
Douglas turned a black look on the man. “You didn’t say when.”
Spence raised his eyebrows, still grinning like a cardsharp. Come to think of it, he usually looked like that, right before he took someone’s money. Douglas had won and lost to Spence with equanimity—for the most part—but tonight he wanted to punch his friend. Spence had deliberately dared him to an impossible task, sending him over to be humiliated and rejected. And now he wanted five pounds. “What do you mean?”
You didn’t say when.” Douglas bit off each word. “She rejected me tonight, but there’s always tomorrow night, and the next, and the next after that.”
A scowl darkened Spence’s face for a split second before he threw up his hand. “You’re right! I didn’t. Let’s say…within a fortnight. That ought to be enough time to work up some charm and get between the fair widow’s legs.”
You wagered for a dance, not a tupping.”
Well.” Spence’s eyes glittered. “I thought I wagered for tonight. Allowances must be made.” When Douglas said nothing, Spence leaned closer. “You’re not afraid, are you? Not going soft in the head like Burke? The woman gutted you and denied you in front of all society, man. Look around.” He swept one arm toward the rest of the room. “Don’t you think half the people here guessed why you sought her out? And now they see her leaving alone, and you looking like she took your ballocks with her.”
Against his will, Douglas’s eyes caught on Madeline Wilde as she made her way toward the doors. Damn, she was beautiful. He had wanted to dance with her, and probably get her into bed as well, even though she was not, as she had so baldly pointed out, his usual type of woman. She was…something more.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she paused at the top of the short flight of stairs leading out of the ballroom. She glanced back over her shoulder, and her eyes met his. For a moment he felt again a bolt of lust—unwanted this time—and her lips curved, as if she knew. She lowered her chin and smiled in a coy, entrancing way, as if they shared secrets—or as if she dared him to uncover hers. With breathtaking nerve, she pursed up her lips as if in a kiss, and touched one finger to them.
He took a harsh breath as she turned and continued on her way, her emerald skirts swaying bewitchingly. “Why her?”
Why not her?”
Douglas set his jaw. “You had her marked from the moment we stepped into this room. I saw you watching her, Spence. A former lover? Was I supposed to exact some revenge or retribution by asking the lady to dance?”
The courtesan’s daughter?” The other man’s lip curled. “Hardly a former lover of mine. I have higher standards than that.”
Not really, in Douglas’s opinion. Spence liked married women who couldn’t impose on his freedom, and who often wished to keep their liaisons secret. That was hardly what one could call a refined requirement. Still, Douglas hadn’t known she was a courtesan’s daughter. He made a mental note to find out more about that.
She appeared respectable enough to me,” he said.
To you,” repeated Spence with an edge of condescension. “Compared to a tavern wench with rounded heels, she might be. To the rest of us…” He snapped his fingers at a passing footman and took a glass of wine from the man’s tray. “You really ought to improve your taste, Bennet.”
Douglas let that go. He did like tavern wenches. They were friendly and earthy, nothing delicate or prim about them. They were more willing to be adventurous in bed, and they demanded so much less of him—financially and emotionally—than any other woman would.
But why her?” he asked again, circling back to his main question. “Just for the sport of it? Or did you simply want the pleasure of seeing me turned down flat?”
Spence didn’t reply for a moment. His eyes were sharp and calculating. “How plump are your pockets at the moment?” he finally asked.
Reasonably,” said Douglas. He’d been gone from town for a month overseeing repairs at one of his father’s estates, to the great benefit of his purse. Still, it was a few weeks to quarter day, when his father paid out his allowance. He could always find a use for more money.
Spence lowered his voice. “I suspect our lovely Mrs. Wilde of being more than she appears. And if I’m right, there’s two thousand quid to be had.”
Douglas’s eyebrows shot up. “What is she, a spy?”
Of some sort,” muttered Spence. “You aren’t acquainted with a little piece of rubbish called 50 Ways to Sin, are you?”
No.”
Get a copy. It’s a pamphlet of a most…intriguing nature.” A cunning smile split his face. “I suspect you’ll enjoy it.”
That smile put him on guard. Douglas might not be the most discerning fellow, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew Spence too well. “If you insist—not that it answers my question about why you wanted me to charm my way into Mrs. Wilde’s good graces.”
The authoress is unknown. I daresay even you’ll guess why when you read it. But she’s piqued more than one man’s pride with her scandalous pen, and there’s a bounty out for her name. Mrs. Wilde seems a very likely candidate.” He shrugged. “If you can unmask her, I’ll split the bounty with you.”
Douglas folded his arms and looked at Spence through narrowed eyes. “I should seduce the woman, gain her confidence, presumably enough to be admitted to her boudoir, where I would have to search for some proof that she writes this pamphlet. And for that, you’ll take half the money? Not so, Spence, not so.”
His friend’s hooded eyes flashed. “Very well. Forget I said anything.”
Douglas shrugged. “Hard to do that. Who staked the bounty?”
Spence hesitated.
If the bloke’s serious about finding the author, he can’t be too secretive about it.”
Lord Chesterton,” said Spence with obvious reluctance. “He felt she identified him too clearly in one story and he’s livid.”
Identified? She didn’t use his name?”
Spence looked impatient. “No, she uses obviously false names.”
Then how did he recognize himself?”
His friend smirked again. “Find a copy and see if you can deduce that yourself.”
Douglas wondered what on earth this story was, that would drive Lord Chesterton to such an action. The man was as correct and polite as anyone could be, distantly connected to the King and as stiff as a piece of kindling. Now he’d placed a public bounty on a woman’s head? What could Mrs. Wilde—if she was in fact the author—have written about him? Two thousand pounds was a small fortune, and certain to attract a fair amount of attention.
Of course, that also made it a much more interesting contest.
Three to one,” he said after a moment’s thought.
Eh?”
Three to one split, if we take the bounty.” He glanced at Spence. “You’re the one, obviously.”
Two to three,” countered the other man.
Do it yourself, then.”
Spence muttered a few curses under his breath, but stuck out his hand. “Done.”
Douglas shook on it, already anticipating his next meeting with the wily widow. “Done.”

Monday, April 13, 2015

Stephanie Evanovich's THE SWEET SPOT Blog Tour

 Don't for get to enter the Giveaway
The Story Behind The Sweet Spot

Dorothea Benton Frank, bestselling author of The Hurricane Sisters, interviews Stephanie Evanovich

Dottie: I just want to congratulate you on the success of your debut, Big Girl Panties. And you’re following that up a year later with a new novel that I’m sure will keep people talking.

Stephanie: Thanks, Dottie! It’s been a really fun year. I’m looking forward to the July eighth release of The Sweet Spot. I can’t wait to get back out there and talk to readers about it. And congrats on your new release—The Hurricane Sisters. It’s the book I think I’ll be taking with me when I travel, if I can wait that long to read it.

Dottie: The romantic duo in The Sweet Spot, Chase and Amanda Walker, were sidekicks in Big Girl Panties—did fans specifically ask for you to bring them back for a star turn?

Stephanie: After Big Girl Panties hit the streets and I started getting feedback, it was pretty clear that some readers really took to them. They nearly stole the show! And I’m positively thrilled by that. They may be my favorite couple.

Dottie: Chase Walker is a superstar baseball player and a lot of the tension in the novel comes from Amanda trying to decide if she wants to be a superstar’s girlfriend. I know you’re a sports fan. Were you excited to have a pro athlete as your hero?

Stephanie: Excited is a bit of an understatement. It was more like crazy-over-the-moon psyched. There’s just something about athletes . . . yum.

Dottie: There’s some genuinely fun, spicy scenes in this book. How do readers react when you turn up the heat?

Stephanie: When I went out on the road with Big Girl Panties and met readers, fun seemed to be the order of the day. Throw some spice in there and it’s a recipe for delicious hotness—at least I’m hoping that’s the case.

 Chapter One

It was a top down kind of day.  The sky was blue, with a few passing clouds and just a hint of breeze indicating that winter was waving its final good-bye.  It hinted at summer just around the corner.  The sun was bright and warm, encouraging buds to blossom into fragrant glorious flowers.  The very atmosphere spoke of all the things possible as the earth renewed itself after a cold east coast hibernation.  It was just too tempting.  Amanda never put the top down anymore, not since the first summer she had the Chrysler Sebring anyway.  She’d always wanted a convertible.  At least fate had been kind enough to wait until August two years ago to sport around before a wasp tangled itself in her hair at 40 miles an hour on her way to opening day at the Cold Creek.  It ended up stinging her hand, her neck and inadvertently, her front bumper and an unsuspecting fire hydrant.  She spent the night she had meticulously been planning for months moping in an ER room with a slight concussion and a burn from the airbag.  It had been air conditioning whenever she was in the car from then on.  But when she walked out the front door that late April afternoon and was greeted with that first you-know-you-don’t-need-a-jacket day, she was willing to take the risk.  Today felt different.  And wasps would still be drowsy.  Amanda watched ducks and geese and squirrels roaming in pairs as she drove past Maxwell Place Park, looking actually love struck, ready to extend their respective species.   People on the streets were smiling as they hustled about their day, others were acting flirty.  It was nothing short of spring fever, and she couldn’t help but catch it.  At a stop light, she titled her face up towards the sun to let it shine on her for a moment as she offered up a quick prayer of thankfulness for this beautiful day, her wonderful life and all the possibilities that came with it.  Maybe she’d do some flirting herself.  She turned up the radio and began to bounce to the music.  Yeah, it was a top down kind of day.     
And then there was the seagull that flew overhead.
Amanda watched it all go down from the rearview mirror as she checked her make-up after pulling into The Cold Creek Grill’s small parking lot.  The white and green gloppy goo fell perfectly onto the right side of her head, a stark contrast to her long black waves.  She stared at it for a few moments as the reality and the poop sunk in.
“That didn’t just happen.”  
But it did happen, and once again, Amanda Cole had been reminded.  Never get too cocky.  Avoid using words like perfect or wonderful.  Never attach your own name.  They were invitations to comeuppance. She wouldn’t go as far as to say she considered herself particularly unlucky, she just knew her boundaries.  She couldn’t pinpoint when she’d learned it for sure, but it was probably somewhere in between not making cheerleading and being as her mother called it, “twenty pounds away from prom queen.”
Her mother wasn’t cruel, but she was blunt.  Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference and every now and then, someone you love says something thoughtless, and it sticks.
Catherine Cole didn’t really want her to be a prom queen, anyway.  As Essex County DA, Amanda’s mother wanted her to be smart and shrewd and strong.
Amanda was beautiful and sensitive in spite of herself, her retired family court judge father never failed to remind her.
Amanda stomped in through the Cold Creek’s front door and slammed her purse on the bar with a loud thud.  Eric and Nicole were going through the beer cooler’s inventory in preparation to stock up from the basement whatever they would need for the evening.  Eric was a lanky blonde blue eyed surfer boy who had been accepted to Harvard, but opted for Bartending School instead when he realized how late he liked to sleep.  All his savings and vacation time were spent in search of the perfect curl.  In between budgeting, he felt New Jersey waves were as good as anyplace else, and he could be close to his family.  Nicki was a free spirited Seaton Hall drop that Amanda had known since high school out who was trying to break into acting.  She was a petite, vivacious brunette who had a great horror movie victim scream, but her booking to audition ratio was often disappointing.  She did her best to stay optimistic, paying her dues, as they all called it.  Eric was a few years younger but that didn’t prevent him and Nicki from becoming fast friends as well as roommates. Although nobody got involved, it was common knowledge that the two were known to hook up now and again, usually the result of her not getting the call and his ability to make the best commiserating cocktail.  Amanda didn’t care if they shined the bar with their butts, as long as they could work together, did it after closing and cleaned up afterwards.        
Eric looked up briefly from his clipboard and then took a double take as Amanda approached their end of the bar.   
“Yikes,” he said, his face scrunching up in distaste, “Hope that’s not a fashion statement.”
“Bird,” was Amanda’s one word reply as she proceeded past them.
“Geez, what was that thing eating?” He said, casting a quick look to his counter-part.
“It’s supposed to be good luck!” Nicki called out while Amanda began disappearing within the ladies room.
“Not feeling it,” Amanda could be heard snapping as the door closed behind her.  She walked up to the mirror over the sink to best assess how to clean the mess up.  It had begun to drip further down, appeared to be soaking into the thick black hair she spent a half hour blowing dry.   She took a deep breath.  This was nothing more than a problem that needed solving.  She had this.  First she took some toilet paper and tried to scoop as much as she could with one grab.  It got the bulk of it, but the parts left behind were now successfully smeared deeper into her hair and beginning to clump together.  She wet some more tissue and tried to wash the remainder out, but it started to decompose in her hand and her hair, leaving bits of it behind and adding to the mix.  She took one more handful of tissue and wet it again but this time left it too soaked.  When she tried to gently squeeze it over the affected hair, the overflow dripped down her hand and onto the front of her blue silk Jones of New York blouse, leaving a wet spot directly over the center of her ample right breast.
“Really?” she shook her head in disgust at her reflection in the mirror.  Not only did she have bird shit and toilet paper remnants in her hair, now she looked like she was lactating.
She had only managed to make things worse.  Giving the shirt priority, she tried the hand dryer for it.  After a minute, it dried up the moisture but left a rather large off color stain where the water had been.  It no longer looked like she was lactating, but merely that she had lactated.  The right side of her head was now crunchy.  
Strike two.  
Amanda stormed out of the bathroom, back to the bar where Eric and Nicki were now waiting.
“You can barely notice it,” Nicki said after staring for a minute.
“Are you kidding?” Eric took the more direct approach.  “It looks like a pterodactyl flew over her after a chili cook-off.”
Amanda closed her eyes, bit her lip and began counting.  When she reached eight the phone rang.  She quickly fired off nine and ten out loud and went back near the front door.
“Cold Creek Grill.  How may I help you?”  She answered the phone as if her day was right as rain.  She was a business woman, first and foremost.
“I need a reservation for tonight,” a gravelly voice barked into the phone.  The caller was either on a cell phone with a bad connection or had a mouth full of marbles.   
“Of course sir, what time are you looking for?”
“Seven,” he said impatiently and Amanda pictured him running to catch a subway.  
“Let me make sure I have that available,” she told him, trying to buy time while she booted up the computer at the podium a few feet away.  She moved the phone to the other side of her head, forgetting it was a war zone and her hair crackled near her ear.
“Trust me, sweetheart, you have a table available.”
“Sir?” She didn’t know what to be more offended by, his use of the word sweetheart or the underlying threat that she better be able to seat him.  And she determined he was just some arrogant blowhard who was sitting with his feet up on his desk overlooking the water and a fat stogy in his mouth.
“A superstar is having dinner at your restaurant; you don’t want to make him wait.”
“All of our guests at the Cold Creek are VIPs Mr…?”
“Maybe I should speak to the owner?” he cut her off and she thought she heard more spit squish out of the end of his cigar.
“I am the owner.  My name is Amanda Cole.  To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Don’t seat us someplace high traffic like near the front.  He’s not there to be an advertisement.  You’ll get your photo op.”
It sounded so scathing, like she was some sort of a bistro whore looking to make a buck, as if she would be interested in taking a picture with him in the first place.  Supreme Court justices and past presidents dined at the Cold Creek without incident.  “Mr. What-ever-your-name-is, I’m not only concerned for the comfort of our guests, but the safety of my staff.  And we have had some high profile guests in the past.  Several are regulars.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard that.  That’s why I’m calling.  But lady, you never had anyone this big,” he said with an air of superiority that was nothing short of skin crawling.  At least he had upgraded her to lady.  
If he wasn’t being such a total jack-ass, she might have taken him more seriously.  “Would you like to tell me who he is, so that I might inform security?” she said with overt sarcasm.  He could either take being spoken to in kind, or he would start to ream her out and she would hang up on him and he could dine elsewhere, bad business or not.
There was a pause and she thought he may have hung up on her first.  But then he said, “No.  Better you don’t know till he gets there.  Someone tips off TMZ and the night’s a bust.  And he brings his own security”
“Will they be joining you for dinner?”
His laugh was particularly smarmy.  “They’re not paid to eat.”  
So he wasn’t only rude, he was also a tyrant.  “That’s fine, sir, they can stand guard with mine.”  Only hers were imaginary. She no longer cared if the computer was ready.  It was a Weds, they were rarely fully booked, and this man and his famous guest seemed intent on dining there.  He was probably going to be more aggravation than anything else, even if he was only half as self-important as his representative. “You’re all set, dinner for two at seven.  Would you like to leave me a name or is there a code word or what?”    
There was another pause, and once again Amanda was given the false hope that he may have hung up and saved her from a night of inconvenient distractions at the very least.  But then she heard him on the other end, it sounded like a snort.
“You’re spunky, kid,” he told her.  “Name under Alan Shaw.  I’ll be there at 6:50.  I don’t like to wait either.  And make sure there are good steaks on hand, he’s a meat-eater.”
There was no mistaking the disconnection this time.  A security conscious carnivore with pope-like status was joining her for dinner tonight.  One who had an obnoxious toady. She pulled the phone away from her ear, turned it off and wiped the watered down bird residue off it with the sleeve of her shirt before setting it down on the bar.  She noted the time on the now fully booted up computer, which opened to the day’s reservation page.  They were completely booked for seven.  She had forgotten about the art house theatre opening a few blocks away.  Strike three. Her day officially went bust at 2:02 pm.  That was fast, and on a day that started off so well.  When would she learn to keep thoughts on perfection out of her head?  
Amanda took a look over at Eric and Nicole.  When the exchange started taking a turn for the testy, they stopped what they were doing to watch, waiting to see if their usually competent boss was about to unravel.  Amanda picked her purse up off the bar.
“Can you two hold down the fort for a couple hours?” she asked, more out of courtesy than concern while fishing out her keys.
“Sure,” they said in unison. Then Nicki added, “Where you going?”
“I’m using a mulligan and starting the day over,” Amanda said over her shoulder as she headed for the door.  She wasn’t sure it was going to help.    
 

Meet Stephanie Evanovich

Hi! My name is Stephanie Evanovich and I have a confession to make.

Ever since I was five years old, I wanted to be an actor. Okay, that’s not entirely true. At first I wanted to be a singer, but in my teenage years I started smoking. It didn’t take long for me to realize I had started sounding more like Bobcat Goldthwait than Celine Dion, so I scrapped the crooning. It would be years until I finally figured out that what I should have scrapped was the smoking. Can I get a rebel yell?
For decades I studied and practiced the craft, trying to pay my dues. I took classes; I did more cheesy community theater productions than I can count. I did some low-budget films—I don’t think I even remember the titles. I was also an extra on Fletch Lives. If you look really closely at the end, you can see a blurry head in a blue choir robe peeking through a door as they wheel a body past. The look I was going for was horror; the assistant director actually told me to keep doing it for all the takes, so I’d like to think I made an impression. But my real claim to fame is that there are probably enough head shots of me in garbage cans to shut down a local landfill.
And since I’m being completely honest, there were long stretches of time when the priority was entertaining my two sons, who (coincidentally) were also my best audience. If they didn’t have to go and grow up on me, I’d still be happily doing it. But I knew that if I raised them right, eventually they would venture out into the world on their own and I would have to have something to replace that tremendous void.
    I started writing to amuse myself and my friends, but still held on to the acting dream. It was actually the release of the movie The Wrestler that finally put a pile driver to it. I found out a good deal of it was filmed in Asbury Park, New Jersey—literally a half mile from my house. It was then that it dawned on me, like waking up out of a sleeper hold: if I can’t find my way onto a set as an extra in a movie about a washed-up wrestler that is being filmed a stone’s throw from my front door, maybe I don’t have the right connections. I won’t even bother going into detail about the funk that followed.
    Luckily, I have some very supportive friends who also happen to be writers and creative types in general. They encouraged and motivated me to write the novel Big Girl Panties. I can’t help but see symmetry in it all: whether I’m singing, acting, or writing, maybe what I really want to do is entertain. I just took the scenic route to my medium.
    I consider it a privilege to have this opportunity to try to entertain you. In fact, I’ve been waiting for it most of my life.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Release Blitz: RENDEZVOUS: Part II of Tryst by Arie Lane






Title: Rendezvous
Author: Arie Lane
Cover Designed by: Christina Badder of CBB Productions
Release Date: April 8th




***WARNING*** This book is intended for 18+ due to strong language, violent scenarios, and sexual content. 

This book is the completion to the book Tryst. It is NOT a standalone, and it DOES NOT end in a cliffhanger. 

After having the love of his life walk away, Tristan is left with only one option, to find her and bring her home. He finds the help he needs in locating her from a most unexpected source. But no matter how much he wants her by his side, he knows she will never agree, so long as Darla is out there looking to destroy her. 

Bentley has made some hard decisions in her life, but none harder than walking away from the one person she's come to love more than life itself. She knows Darla will never stop until one of them is dead. Having Tristan by her side just leaves him at risk, and gives Darla an extra piece of leverage to torment her with. 

'If you love someone, set them free. If they come back they're yours; if they don't they never were.' 

Richard Bach 

What happens when you just can't let go? When you know without a doubt they belong with you, but will never come back?








Other Books in the series:

 Tryst   



***WARNING*** This book is intended for 18+ due to strong language, violent scenarios, and sexual content. 

Bentley Celeste is a witty, foul mouthed, reclusive, dark romance writer. She lives her life in solitude, hiding from her painful past and the one person hell bent on destroying her future. She doesn't have time for relationships and has no interest in allowing anyone but her best friend into her private little sanctuary. 

Tristan Reece is sultry, sexy, and jaded. He also happens to be the cover model for Bentley's long time acquaintance, Electra. He believes everyone who he loves is going to betray him, and then walk away. Though he carries the reputation of a ladies man, Tristan prefers to keep his heart and his bed empty. 

A chance meeting blind sides Bentley as she's nearly trampled by the giant wall of muscle that is Tristan. Tempers aren't the only thing to fly. Bentley may not have any interest in Tristan, but after getting his ass handed to him through a verbal assault, he can't forget the tiny Spitfire that sparks more than just his fury. 

Both are stubborn, with the will to fight against each other until the very end. Will Tristan's determination be enough to fight the demons lingering in Bentley's shadow? Or is Bentley's fear strong enough to tear them apart.


Arie Lane is an avid reader and stay at home mom to two beautiful little boys. When not writing or chasing them around she is usually catching up with other Indie authors and constantly keeping up with new blogs. 
She loves to connect with people and is proud that she finally had the courage to put some of her crazy thoughts into written words. From the time she started reading her nose was always stuck in a book and she's couldn't be happier that now she's encouraging others to get their noses stuck also. Even if her readers are of the +18 variety.