Available Now: One Night in Tampa by Angelique Migliore

ONE NIGHT IN TAMPA
City Nights: #38
Angelique Migliore

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Blended Worlds Are Better Worlds

Mari Fuentes is running her first 5K race—dreaming about the grant she hopes to win for her next documentary—when she discovers Convivio "Viv" Ricco—former ordnance soldier, wounded warrior with deadly Italian sex appeal, and notorious smartass—is keeping up with her. Finishing the race together is just the start to her day.

Viv is new to the Tampa area, and even though he's hotter than the sand on a Florida beach in August and doesn’t need any distractions, Mari agrees to spend the day with him to show him around.

Viv thinks Mari is the most determined woman he's ever met. But even as her passion bubbles to the surface, he can’t convince her to stay with him. She has an exclusive community event to attend that he isn't allowed to attend. Nevertheless, Viv embarks on a new mission to become the most import celebrity Tampa has ever embraced.

If Viv can’t steal Mari away for one night, how will he ever steal her heart?

• • •

Mariposa del Pilar Fuentes

I smiled at myself and inhaled a deep breath of pride as I ran along with the thinning masses. Being a slow runner had its advantages as the route along Bayshore Boulevard wasn’t nearly as crowded now as in the beginning. And running my first 5K proved doable as long as I focused on something else—like something other than the sweat tickling its way down in between my tetas. I gave my modest bosom a quick, hopefully inconspicuous, shake to dislodge any other would-be travelers, and I said a quick “thank you” to Santa Maria del Pilar for my no more than B cups. My big ass required enough attention—from care to clothes. I didn’t know how the bigger-breasted girls managed boob sweat in the Tampa Bay humidity. I crossed myself on their behalf. Dios las bendiga, señoritas.

I ran to finish this race, but the excitement of finishing grad school also spurred me on. How much dinero did I need, exactly? I mentally ticked off a list in my brain of everything left to schedule for my final documentary project. Cinematographer. Sound recordist. Van, plus driver. Luckily, I would be the scriptwriter and the editor, so I still had a choice to pay myself a stipend or not. It wasn’t as if I lacked my own money, but that negated the skills required to successfully budget for a documentary.

The stipend decision could wait until after the fundraiser tonight. I already had the production management software, and I would use the university’s studio to edit. The marketing dollars and cents still required calculations, but that part of my graduate project and thesis challenged me the most. More time, however, couldn’t be bought at any price. Grad school completion hung in the cool morning air in front of my face like a fat, juicy carrot.

My first documentary on the homeless population of Tampa Bay exceeded my benchmark for success last year, and I intended to further my investigations this year with an expanded project.

A refreshingly cool early-spring breeze blew over me from the gulf. The sun barely broke the horizon and was peeking through the ‘land of the flowers.’ Foot races around here had to start super early, else the runners dropped like flies when it got too hot. My reward for all this early-morning training and running: tickets to the Strawberry Festival with unlimited strawberries and whipped cream! Also, the beautiful Spanish-tiled houses, towering waterfront palms, and skyline of downtown Tampa painted a picture-perfect running route.

If I weren’t running, I wouldn’t be breaking a sweat, but the weather would change soon. The homeless who were forced to live in the elements would get uncomfortable before long, and it would be harder for me to find them when the weather increased to sweltering. I needed the money to make the documentary sooner rather than later. I swallowed hard and swallowed my pride even harder at the idea of the ball tonight and what I had signed myself up for to make sure I had the money sooner.

I erased thoughts of my impending humiliation out of my mind and took in my surroundings. With Davis Islands and the water on my right and the convention center’s bright blue columns in sight down the boulevard, I heard the finish line nearing as the music and celebrations pounded their way to me. It was time to get my head out of the clouds and back into this race.

Even at my fastest, I still ran pretty slow compared to everyone else, so I stayed to the far-right side of the lane. I adjusted my sunglasses, glanced down at the track, and jumped as if I had been assaulted in a B-rated horror movie.

“¡Mierda!” I screamed at the sneaker as I jumped over it, and as if the sneaker didn’t scare me bad enough, something hung out of the shoe. A foot? Without a leg attached to it? “¡Dios Mio!”

I changed direction, screamed again, and flailed my hands in front of my face in the most pathetic attempt to rid my eyes of the sight. Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.

An evil laugh—no, a hysterical laugh—belted out beside me. I found the owner of said laugh, and all I could see was a neon green racing shirt which, not coincidentally, matched the one I wore. The race shirt spread taut over a chest as wide as Cuba with a thick arm on either side, and its owner leaned up against a streetlight pole with one hand and held his gut with the other, as he all but pointed and laughed at me.

• • •

While in her third year of French at high school, Angelique was forced to journal every day. Never the lover of her own personal diaries, she instead rewrote Romeo and Juliet, en Françias. Except that Romeo was a duck-billed platypus, and Juliet was a strawberry. It was a doomed, albeit deliciously sweet, relationship from the start.

Long before that, Angelique wrote and performed ridiculously caddy commercials in grade school with her best friend Shannon. Ever the optimist, she believes the best is yet to come, sharing a meal is the quickest route to peace, and love conquers all. Although she was born and raised in the paradise that is the Emerald Coast of the Florida Panhandle, not traveling has never been an option for Angelique.

Today, Angelique writes character-driven love stories of various heat levels in settings from Earth to the nearest Black Hole which range from the Cosmic past to the Inter-galactic future. She also loves rugby. And champagne. With fresh raspberries, if you please.

• • •

Find Angelique Online:

Website - http://www.angeliquemigliore.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AngeliqueJots
Twitter - https://twitter.com/AngeliqueJots
Amazon - https://amzn.to/2LQ5M79
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/71617689-angelique-migliore
Bookbub - https://www.bookbub.com/profile/3742956814
Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/angeliquemigliore
Tirgearr Publishing  - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Migliore_Angelique

Available Now: One Night in Portland by Angelique Migliore

ONE NIGHT IN PORTLAND
City Nights, #37
Angelique Migliore

$2.99

BUY HERE

99c/p through Sunday the 25th

Bridges traverse worlds.

Army Captain and surgeon, Finn O’Grady, returns from a field training exercise exhausted and defeated; two soldiers were injured in an accident and one didn’t make it home.

Quilt artist, Lee-Lee Song, storms out of a date with yet another good Asian boy her parents have set up only to run smack into Finn.

Their worlds—which could not be further apart—collide on a street corner in downtown Portland, and neither is in a hurry to return to their own realities. Finn craves the distraction of Lee-Lee's creative and colorful world. Lee-Lee wants a man who is one hundred eighty degrees away from her parents’ choices.

As Lee-Lee and Finn venture together across the many bridges of Portland and share their favorite places around the city, they grow more attracted and closer.

Will this special day together force Lee-Lee and Finn back into their own worlds, or will they build one more bridge in Portland—one to each other?

• • •

Lee-Lee

Swelling? Oh, I was swelling all right.

In all the wrong places. Or the right places. As soon as this blue-eyed hottie’s large hand skimmed up the back of my bare thigh, my brain dropped straight down to the gutter. I couldn’t remember the last time a touch seared my skin with such electricity—if ever. My mind drew a complete blank, so naturally, my mouth filled the void with words.

I kept my head down, pretending to look at my knee as I gathered my thoughts. The giant pack I had tripped over lay on the ground a few steps away. Camouflage: it matched his uniform. Since when did Portland have soldiers just standing out on the streets? That was the job of the hippies.

Lifting my head, I smiled at the soldier. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

Confusion blanketed his face, and he slowly shook his head. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You look a bit like someone just dumped you here. Can I take you somewhere?” His concern for my knee already told me he deserved better than to be abandoned on the sidewalk. Time alone with a hot stranger probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but after eight weeks of boring dates with Jae and a dry spell for over a year before that, my body said it wasn’t the worst idea, either.

His rust-colored eyebrows furrowed as he considered my offer. His very handsome face grew thoughtful, and its intensity ramped up several notches. “How about I drive you home and properly examine your knee? Maybe even ice it for a little while and then check your patella?”

“I think it’s only scraped; I’ll be fine. See?” I placed my foot back on the ground and put my weight on it. A small moan escaped my throat before I could capture it.

“That’s what I thought.” He tossed his giant pack onto his back as if it weighed nothing and secured it on each shoulder. “Where’s your car, ma’am?” Done with my objections, his blue eyes bored into mine.

Did I really want to argue with this man who was concerned over my scraped knee when guys like Jae weren’t even concerned for my future happiness? No, I didn’t. “Only a couple of spaces up, actually.”

“Do you need me to carry you?” He held his arms out.

“Ha!” I blurted. “You have no idea how much I weigh.”

Not one of his muscles budged, but he visually pored over all of my curves thoroughly enough to make my cheeks warm. “Not a lot from the looks of things. Not to mention, you have no idea how much I can carry.”

My cheeks grew even warmer as I stepped out of my comfort zone and boldly returned the investigation of this soldier: his outstretched arms, wide chest, rigid torso, and thighs the size of tree trunks. He was the farthest thing from my parents’ choices, and he looked delicious. “Tempting, but I’m not that hurt.”

He dropped one arm and crooked the other for me to take.

The caring gesture warmed me more than the sun did right then. I couldn’t argue with such a sweet display of gentlemanly affection, either.

• • •

While in her third year of French at high school, Angelique was forced to journal every day. Never the lover of her own personal diaries, she instead rewrote Romeo and Juliet, en Françias. Except that Romeo was a duck-billed platypus, and Juliet was a strawberry. It was a doomed, albeit deliciously sweet, relationship from the start.
Long before that, Angelique wrote and performed ridiculously caddy commercials in grade school with her best friend Shannon. Ever the optimist, she believes the best is yet to come, sharing a meal is the quickest route to peace, and love conquers all. Although she was born and raised in the paradise that is the Emerald Coast of the Florida Panhandle, not traveling has never been an option for Angelique.

Today, Angelique writes character-driven love stories of various heat levels in settings from Earth to the nearest Black Hole which range from the Cosmic past to the Inter-galactic future. She also loves rugby. And champagne. With fresh raspberries, if you please.

Find Angelique online:

Website - http://www.angeliquemigliore.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AngeliqueJots
Twitter - https://twitter.com/AngeliqueJots
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/71617689-angelique-migliore
Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/angeliquemigliore
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Migliore_Angelique

Available Now: One Knight in Stirling by Kate Robbins

Sir William MacPherson is honoured by the queen mother's invitation to protect her from her enemies. The only catch: he must reside at Stirling Castle where he will encounter Coira MacLaren; the one woman who can bring him to his knees and keep him there. Her refusal of his marriage proposal a year ago hit him hard and he has not seen her since. Can he harden himself against her, or will their insatiable lust for one another burn them to cinders this time?

• • •

Stirling, September, 1438

William MacPherson galloped hard toward Stirling Castle with the missive he’d received still crumpled in his hand. Christ. After all this time, why did it have to come now? A year ago, even two, he would have been thrilled with the news, but now the offer filled him with trepidation. Still, as a knight and member of the king’s guard, he could hardly refuse his queen.

Riding across the flat expanse with the blooming, heather-splashed mountains on his right, his heartbeat picked up once Stirling Castle came into view. Jutting up from the flat land all around it, the craggy rock on which the castle was built commanded attention and obedience. Those who had erected it long ago gave strategic thought to it as a vantage point. Soon, William would employ that same strategy without and within its stone walls.

He’d worked hard to earn his place among the guard and this opportunity was to be his reward. And rightly so. He’d been loyal to the Stewarts all through the Highland upheavals and constant challenges among the various chiefs. Long ago, he’d sought the counsel of James MacIntosh, Earl of Moray, and his advice had been sound. Stand with the Stewarts and you will be rewarded.

But then the king was assassinated. The Highland nobles had had enough. King James Stewart, first of his name, was betrayed. He hid in the sewers, leaving his queen and her ladies to fend for themselves, and was then stabbed to death once found. The queen barely escaped with her life, but that did not curb her thirst for revenge. It was a nasty business. For a time, William wondered what would become of the dynasty the Stewarts had fought hard to forge. But prevail they had. The eight-year-old King James, second of his name, now resided at Stirling Castle with the queen mother and his other siblings, and stewardship of the country had fallen to the Earl of Douglas until the king came of age.

But neither the view nor the prospect of becoming personal guard to the widowed queen was the cause of William’s apprehension.

Coira MacLaren.

Images of her heavy breasts and full hips flooded his mind, making him squirm in his saddle. Try as he might, he could not get that woman out of his head. By his estimation, he shouldn’t have to. She was his and no one, not even she, could deny it. But she had refused his proposal of marriage. That was a year ago, and she’d not left his thoughts either day or night since. From her silky black hair and crystal-blue eyes to her dainty feet, William had explored every inch of her body and knew every curve. God, how he ached to drive his cock into her one more time.

But he would resist. He’d wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and could not stand by knowing she would not have him. A wonderful lover, she’d called him. And then she tore his heart to shreds by refusing him.

Damned woman.

As one of the queen mother’s personal maids, she would be present and he would no doubt see her, though hopefully not often. He’d steel his heart against her—if only he could restrain his lust.

William rode into the courtyard and dismounted. He tossed the horse’s reins at a stable hand then made his way to the great hall. A page met him in the doorway. He took the missive and went straight to the stairs away from the hall, straight toward the queen mother’s lodgings.

William entered the long hall to await her grace. Once inside, he poured himself a goblet of ale from a sideboard and stood by the window, gazing out over the courtyard. Dozens of ladies had gathered to watch some noblemen spar with wooden swords; their manner was much like a dance. William was certain they’d topple over if they ever held a real broadsword. How dainty they were in their hose and doublets.

He smirked. Mayhap a spar could help him temper his ache for Coira. After his meeting, he’d seek out his brother, Thomas, and work off some of his frustration.

“You came straight away.”

• • •

Kate Robbins writes historical romance novels out of pure escapism and a love for all things Scottish, not to mention a life-long enjoyment of reading romance.

Kate loves the research process and delving into secondary sources in order to blend authentic historical fact into her stories. She has travelled to Scotland twice and visited the sites described in her Highland Chiefs series.

Her debut award winning novel, Bound to the Highlander, is the first of three books set in the early fifteenth century during the reign of James Stewart, first of his name.

Kate is the pen name of Debbie Robbins who lives in St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada.

See Debbie here on Canada's Back Stage Pass TV program, aired 4 March 2014.

Find Kate Online:

Website - http://katerobbinsauthor.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/intothehighlandmist
Twitter - https://twitter.com/KateRobWriter
Goodreads - http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/9566304-kate-robbins
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/Kate-Robbins/e/B00FRHRUPE
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Robbins_Kate

Available Now: One Night in Denpasar by Eden Walker

ONE NIGHT IN DENPASAR
City Nights, #36
Eden Walker

$2.99

BUY HERE

(99c through Sunday, 2 Sept)

When Italian Ana Ortensia heads to Bali on a photojournalism assignment, she’s expecting a seriously good time. After all, she’s a sexual adventurer who wears her motto on her T-shirt for all to see—and it’s not Namaste! Within twenty-four hours, she’ll put a carnal spin on enlightenment for Caleb Barnard, a spiritual New Ager with whom she feels safe because he’s so not her type. But Denpasar is about to surprise her. Ana really doesn’t need someone to see through her defences, bring her to her knees, and make her eat, pray, love—or does she?

• • •

Hundreds of tiny fish nibbled my feet. Soft strokes, baby touches. The last time I’d felt anything as pleasurable was with a guy on the London Eye one night. We’d been alone in a pod. And it wasn’t my toes he was interested in.

I snapped several shots of the tank with my camera. Aquamarine water, backlit, with the fish massed blackly against it. Yeah, a good picture. Not in my brief—way too touristy—but maybe I could still do something with it.

In a corner of the patio ceiling, a toy-like portable fan whirred uselessly against the oppressive humidity. Sighing, I rolled my head on my neck. Mio Dio, was I tense. I’d dashed into the Bliss Warung because I needed a break. The place suited my needs perfectly: a quirky walk-in treatment centre and curio shop in one, where you could get a foot massage or exfoliation by live fish at a reasonable rate.

The cool water of the footbath did a nice job of soothing my soul after several hours in the city. Sure, Denpasar was in Bali, the world’s most beautiful island, but it was chaotic, and about as far from the idea of a tropical paradise as you could get. Trust Stack to send me here. They’re always seeking something edgy. Like I do.

As I lowered the camera, I caught sight of my reflection in the water. Waves of thick, red hair cascading down my shoulders. Rope, the man in Reykjavik had called it. And then he’d begged me to tie him up with it. My eyes, which were like pools you could drown in—or so Fernando had claimed, in Barcelona. Or was his name Luis? I laughed.

“Share the joke?” someone said near me in a mellow voice.

I’d been so busy with my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the bench on the other side of the footbath fill up. I looked into a tanned face. Nice hard jaw, feathery stubble. My age, maybe a bit younger. Unkempt white-blonde hair. A small shell on a leather thong around his neck. Oh-oh. New Age alert. So not my type.

I wanted to say: The joke is, mio amico, all men are the same. “Ticklish.” I shrugged, glancing down at the fish.

He shifted, and out of the corner of my eye I observed an imposing thigh muscle tensing against the fabric of his sand-coloured cotton pants. So, he was built under there. His fish scattered and regrouped. Well-shaped feet, I noted. Perhaps I could think about them while we sixty-nined each other?

I gazed up at him and smiled. His eyes were an azure colour not unlike the water our feet were in, and equally sparkling with a certain something. He regarded me with a thoughtful expression, a slight frown creasing the part of his forehead above his nose.

Here it comes. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere? Disneyland?’ People often tell me I’m princess material when we first meet. Little do they realise I’m more like Prince Charming without the charm. I extended my feet, splashing slightly, enjoying the moment. A few drops of water darkened his trousers. Then I sat back, resting my weight on my palms, and stuck my chest out. For a split second, his gaze roamed over my T-shirt. In answer, I looked at his crotch.

Okay, the T-shirt thing. It started in high school. I had this favourite old T that said, I want you to know someone cares. Not me, but someone. My mother gave it to me. I loved it. So did the boys. It became my trademark thing. I had some variations printed. And guess what? The meaner the shirt, the more attention it got. When I went to parties, I wore Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come. Stuff like that. But I came all the time…

“Is that a Nikon?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. I’m Caleb.”

“Ana,” I said, extending a hand. He shook it. His palm was warm and dry in a strong, square grip, his handshake firm and sincere. I liked him, despite the fact he was Mr Earth Hour.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Mmm-hmm. National Geographic,” I lied. It’s a thing with me. I make stuff up when I’m bored. Which is quite a lot of the time. I lifted the camera and took a pic of him, too quick for him to smile. I knew instinctively I’d caught something essential about him. “Got you.” He frowned again. It made him seem perturbed, studious and sweet in a nerdy kind of way. But in his photograph, which I flicked to, he radiated innocence, all pure of heart. “Wow, Mr Photogenic.”

“And is that an Italian accent?”

“It is.” I raised an eyebrow. “They say once you’ve slept with an Italian woman, you’re never the same again.” I spoke from experience; I had dated Stella Di Ser Piero in Venice and Florence last spring and all through the summer. Our romance only cooled with the weather, when we went on tour with her brother’s exhibition—and then Paris happened. A cocktail waitress named Lola, to be exact, at the famous Moulin Rouge. I know, it’s so sexist: French girls in costumes. A weakness of mine.

Caleb levelled a look at me, giving nothing away.

“Sorry, I can’t help it, I’m Neapolitan. Naples is an ‘in your face’ part of the country.”

“They gave the world pizza and ice cream. Can’t be all bad.”

“I thought I’d say the Italian-woman-in-bed thing before you came up with it. I’ve heard it so often.” Then again, maybe hippies didn’t speak that way. “You from Australia?” I added, when he said nothing.

He shook his head, watching me. It was impossible to read his expression. “Cape Town. They say once you’ve bedded a South African, you never want to have sex again.”

• • •

Eden Walker (nicknamed Aziza, or Beloved) worked as an actress and a psychologist before committing to writing full-time. She began writing love stories on a little blackboard as a young teen, the advantage being that she could rub the risqué bits out before anyone saw them! But now she is having fun going public. She has two books, The Seeing Place and its sequel, This Crazy Paradise, with another house. She is a keen blogger and would love to hear from readers.

Find Eden Online:

Blog - https://edenwalker.blog
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AzizaEdenWalker
Twitter - https://twitter.com/EdenWalking
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Walker_Eden

Available Now: One Night in Inverness by Charlotte Howard

ONE NIGHT IN INVERNESS
City Nights Series, #35
Charlotte Howard

$2.99

BUY HERE
(99c through 1 April)

In order to save their marriage, Des and Frankie decide to mix business with pleasure when they attend a literary festival in Inverness. But once they arrive, Frankie soon discovers Des's long-kept secret, and has left her questioning whether she can ever trust him again. Des isn’t the only one with secrets, and Frankie wonders if it's all worth the heartache. As the night wears on, they are both forced to face the truth about their marriage.

Can Frankie accept the truth about Des?

Can Des forgive Frankie's past?

Can one night in Inverness fix their marriage?

• • •

The sound of my husband swearing snapped me out of the mouth-watering daydream, and back into the dullness of reality. I put my book, and the sinfully delicious Nathan Mathers contained within its pages, down on the hotel bed and glared at him. “What’s happened?” I asked, trying to sound concerned and not irritated that he had ruined my fantasy.

“They want Roberta Hathaway to attend the festival,” he said, pacing the room and running his hands over his head, raking his fingers through his light brown hair, which was in desperate need of a trim, I noticed. I’d started doing that – picking up on little things about him that grated on my nerves. I gave myself a mental chastising. This was supposed to be a weekend for us to rekindle our long-lost spark. And it hadn’t been that long, after all. Some couples go years without sex. What were a few months? My stomach knotted as unwanted memories began to swim towards the surface of a very deep lake.

I grazed my teeth along my bottom lip and glanced down at the name on the cover of the book I’d been reading. “Is that a problem?”

I was secretly giddy at the prospect of finally meeting my favourite author, and didn’t understand why he was so stressed. Roberta Hathaway was a prolific, and best selling, erotic romance author. She’d achieved the top spot on numerous sought-after lists. The Sunday Times, New York Times, USA Today, Amazon… They all raved about her novels. But she was also famously reclusive.

In the ten years that Des’s company had represented her, she had never once attended a signing, festival, or book launch, leaving all the publicity down to him and his business partner, Peggy. In fact, the only time anyone saw her was when they looked at the rather dated black and white photo on the back of her books. My husband had been her agent for a decade, and I’d never met her. The idea of her finally attending a literary festival was immense! I mentally played out the conversations I’d have on the playground when the other mums found out that I had met Roberta Hathaway. They’d be insanely jealous.

I’d first discovered her through Des a few years earlier, when he’d handed me a copy of her first novel Sinfully Yours to glance over. He’d called it an Advanced Reading Copy. It hadn’t even had a front cover then, and was full of typos. It had been a good read, but hadn’t really been my thing at the time. I’d glanced over it, more than read it. Before Roberta, the most erotic thing I’d ever read was an old Jilly Cooper novel, tucked away and gathering dust in the school library when I was a teenager. It had felt naughty at the time – I was sure it had been put there by mistake. Probably a prank by one of the sixth formers. When I look back, I realise how tame it was in comparison to what I read now. Especially when compared to Roberta Hathaway. She had certainly improved since that first book I’d scanned all those years ago.

“Think of the publicity,” I said, trying to keep my tone smooth and unexcited, although I suspect he heard the eagerness seeping through my words. I wondered if that made me a sad and lonely desperate housewife. I spent my free hours lost in so-called Mummy porn, supposedly written and designed for women whose sex lives were lacklustre and boring.

Des ignored me, as he always did when I dared to make a suggestion regarding his business, and picked up his mobile. He pressed a button and held it to his ear. “Peggy? Did you get the email? Shit… Yeah, I know… I know. What the hell is she playing at? How the hell does she expect us to pull that off with no notice whatsoever?” He cast a glance at me before checking his watch. “Half an hour? Yeah, I could do that.” He hung up. “I’m really sorry, hon, but I have to go and meet with Peggy to sort this shit-storm out. Get yourself some room service or something, and I’ll make it up to you another day. I promise.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead – more action than I’d had in weeks.

I clucked my tongue and frowned. Our trip to Inverness was supposed to combine business with pleasure; a book festival for Des to mingle at, sell some of Roberta’s new books, and make new contacts, and a dirty weekend away for the both of us to try and relight a flame that had been long extinguished. It was the first time we’d had more than a day to ourselves since our eldest son had been born, almost twelve years ago. And now I was being abandoned, yet again, so that he could go and discuss my favourite author with his business partner. So much for stoking dwindling fires. The guilt of a certain dalliance started to feel unwarranted, and the suspicions I’d been flirting with began to stain my vision once more.

• • •

British author, Charlotte Howard, was born in Oman and spent much of the first part of her life flitting between Oman, Scotland, and England. Now settled in Somerset, Charlotte lives with her husband, two children, and growing menagerie of pets.

Her career as a writer began at an early age, with a poem being featured in an anthology for the East Midlands. Since then Charlotte has written many short stories and poems, and finally wrote her first full-length piece of fiction in 2010.

During what little spare time she has, Charlotte enjoys reading and writing (of course), spending time with her family, and watching action movies whilst eating curry and drinking tea.

Charlotte is an active member of Yeovil Creative Writers Group.

Find Charlotte Online:

Website - http://www.charlottehowardauthor.co.uk
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/charlottehowardauthor
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Shy_Tiger
Blog - http://choward2614.wordpress.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Howard_Charlotte

Available now: One Night in Havana by Kathleen Rowland

ONE NIGHT IN HAVANA
City Nights series, #34
Kathleen Rowland

$2.99

BUY HERE

(99c through 4 February)

A desperate competition and sizzling attraction leads to dangerous desire.

New York Marine biologist Veronica “Roni” Keane is attending the Havana Bay Conference in Cuba. Tomorrow only one grant will be awarded which will provide the winner with professional recognition, resources for a project, and living expenses for two years. She hopes to continue her deceased father’s work, but smooth operator, Carlos Montoya, has won many grants in the past.

Carlos, a freelancer for the Havana Port Authority, works to help protect Havana’s reputation as a bastion of safety. As international travelers flock to the island, attracted by its 1950’s time-warp and colonial architecture, the drug business is running rampant, particularly on Roni’s cruise ship. Something’s not right, and when her scuba tanks are tampered with, Carlos brings in the military police to investigate. For her safety, he keeps her close, but he craves her body.

Their attraction leads to a fun night with a bit of kink. But Roni finds herself in more trouble than she bargained for when the criminals blame her for alerting the military police and come looking for her. Can Roni trust Carlos to protect her? Will she stay in Havana if Carlos wins the coveted grant, or kiss her lover goodbye?

• • •

“Why, Veronica Keane.” A voice heavy with a Spanish accent drawled from behind her. “A dive bar?” A taunting tsk. “What do we have? A slumming New Yorker?”

She stiffened and closed her eyes. She knew that voice and its owner, Dr. Carlos Montoya, a finalist like her, competing for the same damn grant at the biggest Cephalopoda conference of the decade. Her heart pitter-pattered against her ribs. To turn toward him would intimate distress, or worse yet, weakness. She wouldn’t fail to win this grant, not when she was a final contender. “I like this funky little place.” Sia Macario Café, smack in the center of Havana, allowed her to observe locals and their daily lives.

“You need to eat with all the mojitos you’ve downed.” The big tease wasn’t counting. This was her first drink, but his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot promises. She’d rubbed shoulders with the Cuban scientist all week. This splendid specimen of Latin male brought on a physical ache that punched low.

A flare-up stirred fear. For her own good, she needed to resist. “I ordered camarones enchiladas.” By now she knew the menu on the chalkboard by heart. She tipped her head back to whiff grilled shrimp soon to arrive in sofrito sauce with fried sweet plantains.

“The flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.”

“I bet. Your grandmother would be happy to hear that,” she said, knowing he brought out the best in most people. Two days ago he'd invited her and a handful of others scuba diving. The chance to ogle him had been one of the perks. He’d worn nothing but swim trunks, his bare chest on display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of fat on him. Since he’d not given her the time of day, she’d checked him out without him noticing.

The hard-bodied host had led the way toward habitats of soft-bodied creatures. To find where invertebrates lived was never an easy task. Octopuses squeezed into narrow passages of coral for protection and gave females a place to keep their eggs. She’d discovered the remains of a few meals nearby. Octopuses scattered rocks and shells to help them hide.

This grant meant so much to her and no doubt to him as well. Veronica mindlessly toyed with the gold necklace around her neck, but anxiety crackled through her brain. Unlike this man of action, she lacked the flamboyant personality necessary to talk people into things. Carlos had that ability. He'd made friends with judges on board while she’d conversed with an older woman about a box of scones made with Cuban vanilla cream.

That day the wind had picked up to a gale force, and this woman named Bela with Lucille Ball red hair needed help walking to her home. The half mile down the seaside promenade, The Malecón, had provided her with time to practice her Spanish. Turned out Bela was Carlos’s grandmother. She’d worked as a maid when the Castro government came to power. When private homes were nationalized, titles were handed over to the dwelling occupants. Bela owned a crumbling home in the respected Verdado district and rented out rooms.

What Veronica detested about Carlos was his abnormal level of talent for schmoozing. Not that he wasn't charismatic; he drew her like a powerful magnet with emotions hard to untangle. Why was a self-assured woman who ran her own life thinking about a man who commanded everyone around him?

She inhaled a breath and turned around on the barstool, caught fast by a gut punch of Carlos Montoya in the flesh. She sighed and surrendered to the tendrils of want sliding up between her thighs.

Tall and muscular, his lush dark hair curled to his collar giving him a wild, roguish appearance. His face was lean and chiseled. His mouth full and tempting. His eyes the smoky-gray of a grass fire and fringed with black lashes as dense as paintbrushes. He smiled. A faint hint of mockery curved his mouth, a sensual mouth she imagined to be either inviting or cruel. Or both at the same time when he leaned over a woman with a diamond-hard gleam in his dark eyes while she drowned with pleasure. She fought a fierce desire to run her hand across his broad chest, tip her face upward, and…

His breath tickled her face.

Not going there. She blinked and forced her mind to focus. Carlos Montoya was not the kind of man you lost focus around. But that image of putting her mouth full on his and peeling away his shirt once introduced in her mind was impossible to expunge. Pointless even to try.

He was an intimidating blend of intellect and sexy danger. Both qualities had her leaning back against the bar’s edge. If it weren’t for him, she’d have a chance at winning the grant.

• • •

Book Buyers Best finalist, Kathleen Rowland, is devoted to giving her readers fast-paced, high-stakes suspense with a sizzling love story sure to melt their hearts. Kathleen used to write computer programs but now writes novels.She grew up in Iowa, where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and raced her sailboat on Lake Okoboji. Kathleen now happily exists with her witty CPA husband, Gerry, in their 70’s poolside retreat in Southern California, where she adores time spent with visiting grandchildren, dogs, one bunny, and noisy neighbors. While proud of their five children who’ve flown the coop, she appreciates the luxury of time to write while listening to characters’ demanding voices in her head.

Find Kathleen Online:

Website - http://www.kathleenrowland.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/kathleen.rowland.50
Twitter - https://twitter.com/RowlandKathleen
Blog - https://kathleenrowland.wordpress.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Rowland_Kathleen

Available Now: One Night in Zanzibar by Evan Purcell

ONE NIGHT IN ZANZIBAR
City Nights, #33
Even Purcell

$2.99

BUY HERE
(99c through 3 December)

On the run and fearing for her life, Lucy finds herself on Zanzibar, a small bit of paradise off the coast of Tanzania. She isn't worried about romance, only protection. But when she meets a mysterious local, she gives in to the siren's call of the island.

For one unforgettable night, Lucy experiences all the passion and excitement that she's been hiding from. This stranger, though, is more than he seems, and soon Lucy's troubled past will catch up with her.

• • •

“Beautiful lady!”

“Hey! Hey, miss!”

“We have what you want!”

“Everything fresh!”

Lucy quickened her pace. She’d been wandering through Stone Town’s labyrinth of twisting alleys for the last few hours, and the constant shouts and catcalls were finally taking their toll on her.

This was supposed to be her safe place, her retreat from… everything.

And it was. This was her retreat. She’d been on the island for the last nine days, and while she’d never regretted her decision to come here, she’d discovered that sometimes, things in Zanzibar got a little intense.

She turned another corner—nearly identical to all the others, crumbling white walls on either side and bright-colored fabrics hanging from clotheslines—and forced herself to calm down.

She took a breath. Stop panicking.

There were tourists everywhere, and all the vendors really cared about was unloading some overpriced scarves on rich Americans. No one had followed her from Cape Town. No one from her old life was here.

It was okay.

She was safe.

“Hello, beautiful lady. Spices?”

She ignored the voice.

Stone Town was the core of Zanzibar City, a hub of constant activity and a destination for sightseers from all over the world. Because it was built during the times of sultans and trade routes, the city was a mishmash of Arabic, African, and European cultures. Windows and doorways had the gently pointed shapes of Arabian architecture, the walls were built from the powdery sandstone of the local beaches, and the markets themselves were splashed with the vivid colors of the mainland.

And the smells… God, the smells… Citrus, mango, curry, pepper, sea salt. The air was sweet and spicy, and every alley had a slightly different aroma.

As a small-town Afrikaner leaving South Africa for the very first time, the sensory overload made her head spin.

“Hey!” a single voice reached her ears. Somehow, amidst the hundreds of voices around her, this one stood out. Deep. Velvety. Somehow familiar? She wasn’t sure.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Even in the hot, equatorial sun, goose bumps pebbled her skin. She paused, breathed slowly.

Zanzibar is safe. That is why you chose it.

Actually, she’d randomly chosen Zanzibar on the map, mostly because it was a place she’d never considered visiting before, somewhere Derick wouldn’t think to visit. A safe place.

She didn’t have much of a plan. She’d left in such a hurry that she couldn’t even go to the bank and take out more cash. There were ATMs on the island, but if she withdrew money here, then it wouldn’t take long for Derick to check her bank statement and track her down.

She couldn’t risk that.

Basically, Lucy planned to stay here a while, keep her head down, and wait for things to die down back home. Best case scenario: Derick would get arrested for doing something stupid. Or violent. It was only a matter of time.

“Hey,” that deep voice came again. It wasn’t loud, but it was confident.

Lucy spun around. She knew she shouldn’t respond to overzealous vendors, but she couldn’t help herself. Her body felt compelled to react to that voice.

It took her a moment to lock eyes on the man who was calling for her. There were so many people in the market, waving their hands and shouting out words in Swahili. But when she saw him—when her eyes finally met his—she knew he was different.

Gorgeous.

He stood behind a shelf covered with bags of spices, his lower body hidden by the merchandise. He was tall and muscled, with wide shoulders—their shape accentuated by the tight black T-shirt he wore.

His eyes—large and dark—were framed by thick lashes. His hair was jet black and wavy, not in tight curls like most of the locals. He smiled—an actual, genuine smile—and said, “Karibu.”

Welcome. That was pretty much the only Swahili word Lucy knew.

“Asante,” she replied. Thank you. Well, maybe there were two Swahili words that she knew.

“You are new to our little island.” He stepped out from behind the stall. He towered over her, even taller than she expected. And just like that, all the other people in the market disappeared. It was as if they were never there at all. All the shouting and haggling and arguing about anything and everything… it all faded away.

Right now, Lucy was alone with this stranger. He looked at her, his dark eyes revealing specks of gold, and waited for her to respond.

“Uh… yeah,” she said. In times like these, Lucy wasn’t exactly a stellar conversationalist. She often let her emotions carry her away, and right now her emotions were yelling at her—screaming at her—to do anything other than stare open-mouthed at this handsome stranger.

“Are you interested?” He was talking about the spices.

She looked around, left, then right, then left again, like she was crossing the street. There were dozens of spice sellers on either side of her. They were mainly men, young and eager. For the most part, their inventories were identical. The same bags of spices, arranged in the same order along their counters. And she said no to all of them.

But this man…

What made him so different?

“Sure,” she said. “What do you have?”

What was she doing? Hadn’t she learned her lesson back home? Don’t let your guard down, especially around handsome men. She reached up and touched the faded scar on the side of her neck, running a fingertip along the line of raised skin. She had gotten that scar because she hadn’t been careful, because she’d trusted the wrong man. She swore to herself that she’d never let that happen again. And now… here she was.

With a stranger.

God.

A handsome, mysterious stranger who made her heart shimmy in her chest.

“For you, miss,” he said, “I have everything.”

• • •

Evan Purcell is a high school English teacher working in beautiful Bhutan, the happiest country in the world. He lives in a valley with a name that all his American friends are constantly mispronouncing (Bumthang), and spends his free time hiking, camping, and watching trashy horror movies with his friends.

Before Bhutan, Evan was a principal in Zanzibar, a teacher/trainer in China, and a camp counselor in Russia. He loves exploring new countries and working with the local schools. There are tons of misconceptions about Americans in other countries, which is why it’s so important to go out and meet people.

A published author since fourth grade (thanks to an Arizona poetry contest), Evan has spent the last few years focusing on romance novels. He’s also written movie reviews, comedy articles, and award-nominated screenplays.

Find Evan online:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/EvanPurcellWriter
Blog - http://evanpurcell.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Purcell_Evan

Available Now: One Night in Venice by Eden Walker

ONE NIGHT IN VENICE
City Nights series, #32
Eden Walker

$2.99

BUY NOW
(99c through 1 October)

“Il sono molto pericoloso,” he said softly, “I am very dangerous—for you, caro—don’t you think?”

Kate Pollock is an average art student from London who, by sheer fluke, ends up in Venice on a scholarship. On her first day, she spots sex-on-legs in the corridor, the illustrious Martinez Di Ser Piero, and is shocked to learn he’s her Practicals tutor. The last thing she expects is for him to be attracted to her, but after one kiss, she’s lost to this mysterious man.

Following a dry spell in his career, Kate inspires Martinez to paint again. When his latest work goes missing, she has to solve the crime, as well as the enigma that is him. Kate thinks she’s falling in love with Martinez—could he be ‘the one’, or will his secret past break her heart?

• • •

Ten minutes later the gorillas in uniform ordered me out of there and on request pointed me in the direction of the cloakrooms. There was an annoying amount of paint on me by this stage. I’d stuck two pieces of hastily filched newspaper to the soles of my feet and had so much paint on my fingers that I needed to open the swing-door of the bathroom with my bum.
I held my hands up like the virulent evidence from a crime-scene. The place was empty, but steamy. It was some kind of locker room. Antique, with black and white floor tiles and exposed copper pipes. Lime yellow walls peeled at the cornices. I padded on over to the gargantuan sinks when someone opened a cubicle door to my right and a figure stepped out. I jumped.

Jesus. It was him, in just a pair of black trousers. He stopped, regarded me, and pulled his fly up slowly. The sound echoed in the room.

“Shit, you scared me,” I croaked.

He cocked his head at me. That thick hair was wet.

“This is the staff locker room,” Martinez said mildly. “For gents.”

“Oh, crap,” I said. Somehow I couldn’t stop swearing.

“But you’re welcome,” he added, leaning back against the tiled wall of the cubicle and crossing his arms. His pecs flexed against the smooth, almost hairless quality of that broad chest. His olive-coloured skin took on a slight sheen in this light. “It would be a pity to get paint on that sweater.”

Did he mean Peter’s dreadful cardie? How embarrassing.

“That colour looks familiar,” he added, glancing at my red feet. And my oversized men’s jeans, which, on consideration, were probably Peter’s too.

“I didn’t touch it…” I mumbled, heat rushing into my face. I felt faint.

“No, it looks like you fell on it.” He shifted his weight onto one leg and crossed the other over it, becoming even more casual. I tried not to look at his perfect body, but I couldn’t look at his face either, so I just stared at the floor like a naughty schoolgirl.

Which is so not a good role for me. I hated school. I even struggle with university, because I’ve been a rebel all my life. Something inside me snapped and I jerked my chin up, looking him in the eye. “I helped with the clean-up?” I suggested, sounding bolder than I really felt.

He laughed. “Okay, we can go with that.”

“I wanted to touch you?” I don’t know why I said that. It just slipped out. Seriously, I had no control.

Martinez smiled knowingly. Steam still emanated from the changing room behind him, which I assumed also contained a shower. He looked like a real live pin-up. May: Mr Italy. He bowed his head. It was an oddly defeated gesture. His breathing became slightly accelerated.

“There’s a sink over there,” he said. “Do you need help getting your foot into it?”

I laughed, though my heart crashed to the ground. “No thanks, I’ve already put my foot in it plenty.” I stalked past him stiff-legged, as the newspapers beneath my feet turned to papier-mâché on the damp floor. I was probably leaving a trail of red paint that the officials could follow…straight to the staff showers.

What on earth possessed me to mention touching him?

“A Painting Major?” he asked, still leaning calmly against the outside wall of the shower. I could see from his reflection in the mirror that he was watching my bum.

“Nope, feet of clay,” I said, shrugging. Jeez. First I’d been completely inappropriate, and now I was making appalling puns.
“Oh.”

“I know it’s…unfashionable.”

He chuckled. “Art? Unfashionable?”

The pompous prick. I turned the water on loudly and ran my hands under it. A large red smear stayed behind on the brass tap.

“Is this oil?” I asked, rubbing.

“Your powers of observation, Ms…?”

“Pollock,” I muttered.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Not oil,” he continued. “A fast-drying polymer resin.”

“God.” I heaved my right foot up into the sink and nearly fell over. Then I scratched at the newspaper, which was firmly encrusted to my sole. I whipped it out again, christening the floor with pink water.

This is just fantastic.

“I won’t be long,” I shot over my shoulder.

“Do you do this often?”

“What?” I asked, quietly alarmed.

“Roll in paint and then head for the men’s showers to get it off?”

I had to laugh again, turning to him. He looked straight into me, just as he had in the Master-class. “No, do you?” The atmosphere between us, which had been kind of flirty but awkward from the first, suddenly got several degrees hotter. I turned back to the sink in a hurry and stuck my other foot in. I wobbled. Before I knew what he was doing or could stop it, Martinez Di Ser Piero stepped forward and steadied me with a hand to my hip.

A jolt shot right through me. His touch was like molten lead running under my skin, a hotline to my pussy. I jerked involuntarily as I was squeezed by a spasm of desire, and caught my breath.

“Oh yes,” he said, near my ear. “All the time.” Up close, right behind me, tension in his voice. “How old are you, anyway?”

It was a weird question. For some reason it turned me on beyond sanity.

A pause. “How old do you want me to be?”

• • •

Eden Walker (nicknamed Aziza, or Beloved) worked as an actress and a psychologist before committing to writing full-time. She began writing love stories on a little blackboard as a young teen, the advantage being that she could rub the risqué bits out before anyone saw them! But now she is having fun going public. She has two books, The Seeing Place and its sequel, This Crazy Paradise, with another house. She is a keen blogger and would love to hear from readers.

Find Eden Online:

Blog - https://edenwalker.blog
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AzizaEdenWalker
Twitter - https://twitter.com/EdenWalking
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Walker_Eden

Available Now: One Night in Kuala Lumpur by Abbey MacMunn

ONE NIGHT IN KUALA LUMPUR
City Nights series #31
Abbey MacMunn

$2.99

BUY HERE
(99c through 3 September)

In search of inspiration and excitement, successful artist, Ziva Clarke, takes a trip to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Her exhibitions in the UK have left her exhausted; she’s had no fun in ages and her creativity is at below zero—the exotic Far East could be just what she needs.

Charmer Sam Tempest is visiting Kuala Lumpur on business with his father, but behind the impeccable suit and the wicked smile, he’s not a happy man. Duty bound to join his family’s international business, Sam longs to follow his true passion—to carve wood sculptures.

The two lonely souls meet by chance on a crowded street, and it turns out they might not be the strangers they first thought. So begins a night of confessions, shared dreams, and hot sex.

Can one steamy night in Kuala Lumpur be the answer to both their dreams?

• • •

Squinting, Ziva tried to see who’d spoken in a deep, smooth-as-silk British accent.

A tall man stood before her and greeted her with an alluring, lopsided smile that exuded confidence. Kind eyes crinkled at the corners.

His broad shoulders were clad in a navy, tailored business suit. With his thick hair, a rich, burnt umber colour, slicked back off his forehead, and an angular, clean-shaven jaw, the guy could have stepped off the set of a TV advert for men’s cologne. And his lips… oh boy, his lips. Full, well-defined, and made for sinning.

Her mouth dried. Kuala Lumpur grew more interesting by the second.

Elise filled in for her temporary inability to speak. “No, we haven’t. My sister failed to mention Pavilion or Lot 10. I’m afraid she doesn’t share my love for shopping.”

Surprise flashed across his face before his smile widened then hitched higher in one corner. Yep, male model material. Just my luck if he’s gay.

Elise shifted from one foot to the other and adjusted her hold on her dozen or so shopping bags. “Are the malls far?”
“No, not far. They’re near the Golden Triangle part of the city.”

Ziva stifled another groan. More malls, right near where they were staying.

The guy tipped his head. “I’m Sam, by the way.” Sophisticated charm oozed from every pore. “It’s lovely to meet two beautiful English roses so far from home.” Although he spoke to both of them, he directed an intense gaze at Ziva. Mischievous cobalt eyes sparkled in the bright sunlight then he winked at her. Hmm, not gay then.

“Hi, I’m Elise,” her sister said, sticking out her chest. “Nice to meet you, too.” She shuffled her feet again. “My feet are roasting standing here.”

Ziva glanced at Elise’s unsuitable choice of footwear as she stood on a drain cover. “I’m not surprised your feet are hot. It’s ninety-five degrees and you’re wearing high-heeled boots. I told you to wear your flat sandals.”

Elise rolled her eyes. “Flat sandals do not go with this outfit,” she said resignedly. “Kuala Lumpur is home to some of the best shopping malls in South East Asia—who cares about a little discomfort?”

“So, you were listening when I read out the tourist brochure and the amazing places I’d like to visit.”

“No, not really.” Elise gave an apologetic shrug. “I heard ‘shopping malls’ mostly.”

Sam laughed. His attention never left Ziva. “And your name is…?”

The crowd surged forward to cross the road. Someone jostled past Ziva, accidentally knocking her elbow. Her tatty canvas handbag and her one and only shopping bag dropped to the ground. She gasped as her new lingerie tumbled onto the dusty pavement. “Oh, crap!”

Stooping to her haunches, she then hastily stuffed lacy bras and matching thongs back into the paper bag. Her blonde curls tumbled over her face, helping to hide cheeks that burned hotter than the pavement. A serious contender for Miss Tiny Tits UK, she’d been spoiled for choice when she’d seen that the malls in KL catered for smaller women, so she’d treated herself to a few items of sexy underwear. Not that she had an occasion to wear it, but still, the last thing she needed was to have it displayed for all to see.

Sam kneeled in front of her, picked up a black bra, and swung it on his finger. “Here, I think you missed one.”

Head still down, she reached for the bra, but he hooked his finger around the strap and held it firm. She tugged. “Let go.”

“Not until you tell me your name.” He tugged back, stretching the lace and elastic across the distance between them. “And not until you look at me.”

• • •

Abbey MacMunn writes paranormal and fantasy romances. She lives in Hampshire, UK, with her husband and their four children.

When she’s not writing, she likes to watch films and TV shows – anything from rom-coms to superheroes to science fiction movies.

She is a proud member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme.

Find Abbey Online --

Website - http://abbeymacmunn.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AbbeyMacMunnAuthor1
Twitter - https://twitter.com/abbeymacmunn
Pinterest - https://www.pinterest.com/abbeymacmunn
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/MacMunn_Abbey

Available Now: One Night in Washington, D.C. by Jordan Monroe

ONE NIGHT IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
City Nights series, #30
Jordan Monroe

$2.99

BUY HERE
(99c/99p through 2 July)

Lauren and Adam are two professional musicians living in Washington, D.C. One night after performing together, Adam admits to Lauren that he's been interested in her for a long time. The two share a passionate evening at her apartment in Waterfront SW. However, though they like each other a great deal, their long term desires don’t match up: he believes his next step is to have a family, and she is wedded to her performance career.

After their final performance together, will they be able to, as they say in D.C., reach across the aisle and come to a resolution?

• • •

They sat in silence for a moment, each searching for something to say. Lauren kept sipping her wine while taking stock of her companion.

She and Adam had known each other for about four years, but merely as occasional stand partners; their fingers would sometimes touch as they both reached to turn the pages of music, and Lauren would always momentarily lose her concentration. Gigs would come up in the District on short notice which required professional musicians. They’d met at a senator’s daughter’s luxurious wedding at the Ritz, as members of the small brass ensemble hired to serve the cocktail hour entertainment. Like now, Adam hadn’t been wearing his scarlet Marine Band uniform, opting instead for the standard concert dress of all black. It suited him nicely: he was tall, well-built, with dark hair in the standard crew cut, and had the most piercing blue eyes Lauren had ever seen. It surprised her that even now, at thirty-one years of age, she could succumb to the grips of a crush.

“Can I ask you something, Lauren?”

She blinked, jerking herself from her train of thought, which had steamed into the territory of whether or not Adam would be interested in tonguing parts of her, as opposed to his mouthpiece. “By all means. You know this is a judgment-free zone.”

“Right. Okay then.” He set down his glass and turned to face her. She shifted in her chair; those eyes were unnerving. “You’re single, right?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Wow, just want to get right to it then?” He nodded; she blinked. “Fine. Yes, I’m not seeing anyone. And you?”

“Well, I’m currently seeing you.” His face cracked into a wide grin.

She laughed and gently pushed his shoulder. “How did you know I love silly jokes like that?”

“It was honestly a lucky guess.”

“Well, you got lucky.”

He turned away, reaching for his glass. About a third of his drink was left. “I hope to continue getting lucky, Lauren.”

Lauren nearly spat out her wine. Is he serious? I doubt it; he’s probably talking about gambling or something. She gulped down her mouthful, then attempted to channel her inner coquette. “Lucky at what, Adam?”

He turned back to her. She found it impossible to look away from his eyes. “Essentially, getting to know you better. Spending time with you while not buried in music. Not waiting until the next wedding or gala to see you. Does that make sense?”

Lauren took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves. She hadn’t expected to hear this from Adam. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she hadn’t been expecting to hear this kind of talk from anyone, not recently at least. Fighting for a chair in the National Symphony Orchestra had eaten up much of her post-Master’s degree life. Now that she had her chair, she’d been trying to settle into a routine. “Frankly, this comes as a surprise.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean…I’ve kind of been wedded to this whole NSO thing, remember?”

Adam reached over to take her hand. She became stiff, but didn’t move her hand away. “I know you have, Lauren. And it’s completely paid off, right?”

“Sure, but—”

“Wouldn’t you say it’s about time you let loose a little?”

He slowly moved his thumb across the top of her hand; this gesture alone was enough to awaken parts of her that had lain dormant for quite a long time.

Entirely too long. She blushed again, finishing her glass of wine.

“Would you like another?” he asked.

She shook her head, tossing out a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. Facing Adam straight on, she mustered the courage to be completely honest with him. “All right. You think I need to let loose a little? Perhaps I do. Maybe I’m reading you wrong, but I get the sense that you want to fuck me.”

• • •

Jordan Monroe is delighted to be using her English degrees. She enjoys both listening to and playing music, watching Sherlock while anxiously waiting for new episodes, and buying too many books to fit on her bookshelves. She lives within twenty-five miles of Washington, D.C.

Find Jordan online:

Website - https://missjmonroe.wordpress.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/MissJMonroe13
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Miss_J_Monroe
Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B01H0H83HM
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/MissJMonroe13
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Monroe_Jordan

Available Now: One Night in Minneapolis by Margie Church

ONE NIGHT IN MINNEAPOLIS
City Nights #29
Margie Church

$2.99

BUY HERE
(99c/99p through 30 April)

Marine Major Skylar Landis doesn’t resemble the demure Catholic high school girl Vince Andersen once knew. They’d dated briefly until she'd patch things up with his nemesis, Ethan Standfeld. After school, she joined the Marines and they’d lost touch.

Their ten year class reunion in Minneapolis brings Skylar face-to-face with Vince, awakening her memories of the past. She asks him to plan a hot, no-strings-attached hook-up to sustain her sexual fantasies while her intelligence unit is deployed to the Middle East. As their adventure unfolds, and he gives her exactly what she needs, Skylar wonders whether she can forget the man who put her desires first and asked for nothing in return.

• • •

He checked his watch, wondering what was keeping her. The days, hours and minutes until their reunion had passed at a snail’s pace. When he glanced up, a rumble of appreciation formed in his throat. He smiled, yet resisted the urge to go to her. This was her grand entrance.

Skylar walked toward him, the picture of confidence and seduction in a black and white sheath dress that clung to her curves. Her coppery-red hair rested on her right shoulder.

Vince couldn’t wait to run his fingers through the thick, luxurious tresses and over every inch of Ms. Landis.

She stood in front of him, a demure smile on her lips. “Vince. Finally.”

He took her hands, drawing her into an embrace. “Welcome home.”

“I can’t believe the day is finally here. We’re here.” Her voice held a gentle North Carolina drawl she’d picked up after years living at the U.S. Marine Corps base there.

When he kissed her cheek, citrus and spice scents grabbed his attention. He whispered into her ear, “You look even more gorgeous than I imagined, and you smell good enough to eat.”

“One can only hope.”

He winked at her. Though it had been ten years since they’d seen each other, the intimate exchanges they’d had and the plans they’d made for this weekend removed the usual dating preliminaries. He brushed the tip of his nose against hers.

Passion smoldered in her green eyes. She didn’t move from his embrace.

He kissed her lips softly, hoping to invoke the same desire unfurling in the pit of his stomach. He noted a slowness in her breathing. Anticipation?

She brought her hand to the back of his head, and slowly moved her fingers in the short hairs there.

Vince held her a little tighter. He teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, silently inviting her to taste him. The sounds of shoppers quieted as only her soft moan reached his ears. He kissed her with strengthening desire, but didn’t rush this first time. Pent-up emotions made his body react like any red-blooded man’s would, especially since she responded with equal passion. If he didn’t end the kiss soon, anyone would be able to see the physical effect she’d had on him. Vince cupped her cheek and gave her one more gentle kiss before stepping back.

He cleared his throat. “You’re lucky we’re in public.”

She glanced down his body, then back to his eyes. A satisfied grin curled her glistening lips. “A little bit of patience is all you need.”

“Patience?” He snorted. “You’ve driven me half out of my mind with wanting you. I think we should continue this reunion in the privacy of your hotel room.”

She reached for his shirt collar, pulling him close again. “I want to enjoy every second of the adventures we’ve planned.”

She’s right. He stuffed away his natural desire to get naked and wreck the bed in every way possible. He pointed toward the hallway while gliding his other hand down her back to rest on her hip. “Our first stop is there. Macy’s is never going to be the same in my book.”

She gave him a flirty grin. “Oh, I like the way you think.”

Skylar had challenged him to organize their weekend together. Of course, they had to attend at least some of the reunion activities. That was half the fun. He’d asked a hundred questions to learn about her sexual comfort zones and expectations. She’d given him few guidelines about what was off-limits. If things went the way he planned, the next twenty-four hours would be some of the most memorable of his life. A long night of lovemaking in a romantic setting such as the Blu was totally in his wheelhouse. The rest of it? Not so much.

• • •

Margie Church writes erotic romance novels with a strong suspense element, in keeping with her moniker: Romance with SASS (Suspense Angst Seductive Sizzle). Never expect the same thing twice in one of her books. She tackles subjects and conflicts that aren't typical in romances. Life is complicated. People are, too. Marrying those concepts makes her work fascinating to read. Margie was 2011 GLBT Author of the Year, and her book, Hard as Teak, was named 2011 GLBT Book of the Year at Loves Romances Café. She is well-known for her BDSM erotic romances as well.

Margie lives in Minnesota, is married, and has two children. Some of her passions are music, biking, walking on moonlit nights, fishing, and making people laugh.

Find Margie online:

Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/MargieChurch
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/MargieChurchAuthor
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/MargaretRChurch
Blog - http://authormargiechurch.wordpress.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Church_Margie