Read an excerpt from Shopping for a Ceo's Wife by Julia Kent

The New York Times bestselling romantic comedy series continues...

Snowbound. Sounds so romantic, with visions of cuddling before a roaring fire, hot chocolate spiked with brandy, and a secret elopement. 

Wait. What? 

My fiancé's father won't stop trying to turn our pending wedding into a three-ring media circus so he can get free publicity for his family's Fortune 500 company. My mother has decided she's done with All Things Wedding and asks her teacup Chihuahua for mother-of-the-bride advice.

They've all gone certifiably mad. 

Then the stress from the wedding puts my mother in the hospital, I scream at my future father-in-law in front of a camera crew and the video goes viral, and the romantic wedding that started with Andrew's grand Pride and Prejudice proposal looks less like Jane Austen and more like Dostoyevsky. 

So what do you do when you're a fixer and you can't fix something? 

You give up on it. 

Not on Andrew, silly. 

The wedding.

Shopping for a CEO's Wife is the 12th book in Julia Kent's New York Times bestselling Shopping series. As Shannon and Declan enjoy their newlywed bliss, Andrew's father wants to exploit Amanda and Andrew's nuptials, much to Amanda's chagrin. Can she learn to stand up to her future father-in-law and fight for what's right? But the real question is: will Spritzy the teacup Chihuahua end up being a flower girl?

Excerpt

Experiencing a season together for the first time when you’re in a new relationship is a rite of passage. For instance, my idea of a fun winter activity involves reading under a thick, fuzzy blanket, snuggling up to a roaring fire, and drinking hot chocolate. Andrew, on the other hand, likes to race down a snow-covered mountain at speeds that would qualify him for the Indy 500.

Guess where we are now?

“I am not going down that double black diamond trail. No way,” I declare, staring at an incline of doom on this mountaintop in Vermont. As I stare down the slope, I wonder what kind of sick bastard planted thirty-foot giant pine trees in the middle of a ski trail.

The sun is shining on this fine Saturday in December. You can’t see my engagement ring, which is hidden by gloves so thick, I might as well box instead of ski. Warming packets tucked away in pockets near the wrists aren’t really helping, because in my terror, all the blood in my body has gone to my gut, which is currently screaming “Run away! Run away!” while leaving my hands and feet to turn into frozen concrete.

Andrew’s response?

A grin.

“Everyone’s afraid their first time. It’s like sex,” he cajoles. The creak of the ski lift, bringing an influx of excited skiers in batches of twos and threes, plays a steady drumbeat behind him. Andrew is the epitome of ski sophistication and slope prowess, his body encased in tight black ski pants, a form-fitting black jacket with red racing stripes, custom-made gloves and skis, and a helmet for safety.

A skier since he was three years old, he has nearly three decades of experience.

Me? I joined ski club back in middle school because the boy I had a crush on skied, too. Broke my ankle on the bunny slope. Everyone called me “Gimp” for the rest of seventh grade.

I point to the sheer cliff Andrew expects me to put my feet on, feet attached to skis that have the potential to stab me in the heart if the laws of physics decide to go rogue.

“That is nothing like the first time I had sex! First of all, there is no backseat of a 1996 Dodge Caravan. Second of all, Al isn’t here -- ”

His grin disappears. “Point made. You do not need to bring up your ex-boyfriend and -- ” His tongue rolls in his cheek, jaw clenched. “-- sex with him.”

“And third!” I crow. Hey, he started it. “In both cases, my mother told me only to act when I felt ready, and never let a guy push me beyond my comfort zone.” I poke him in the chest, right where his lift tag hangs from his jacket zipper. “You’re violating my mother’s rules of consent.”

Most guys would sigh at this point. Although I can’t see his eyes behind those tinted ski goggles, I know they’ve narrowed with determination. Andrew isn’t most guys. Aside from being my fiancé, he’s also the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Which means he never backs down from a challenge. This is the same guy who hired a drone-killing hawk, for goodness sake.

I’m fooling myself if I think I’m not skiing down this trail, huh?

“Your mother also believes that rational risk-taking is key to human development,” he counters. If I could see his eyebrows, they’d be raised.

Oh, ho ho! Using my own mother against me.

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About Julia Kent

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.

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Spotlight: Nothing Like a Duke by Jane Ashford

He wants her.
She has no intention of wanting him.
But even Flora has to admit…
There’s nothing like a Duke.

Lord Robert Gresham has given up all hope that the beautiful and independent Flora Jennings will ever take him seriously. He heads to an exclusive country house party to forget about the beauty haunting his thoughts.

Too bad the lady in question has no intention of being forgotten.

Excerpt

A protruding bit of bramble caught the side of Flora’s pelisse. She twisted to reach for it, and a whole raft of briars shifted with her, entangling the other side of her skirts, her right arm, and the brim of her bonnet. If she pulled away, it would rip the cloth. She struggled a little; more thorns dug in. “Blast it, I suppose you were right, you wretched dog,” she exclaimed, and discovered that Plato was gone.

Flora lifted a hand to free her hat. The movement tipped another part of the bush, which swayed and seemed to grab at her. A second branch lodged in her bonnet. She felt several claw at her back. A stem lashed across her neck. That one drew blood. She tried to step back, and was pricked by more thorns, through her clothes, from all directions.

Flora went very still. She saw that the path petered out just ahead. Or perhaps this hadn’t been a path at all, but merely a deceptive opening in the vegetation. She hadn’t been paying attention. She tried again to move. She was trapped in a sea of briars. The thorns were long and wickedly barbed. They pricked the skin of her neck, her arm, her back, her side.

She became aware of a rustling in the leaves near her feet. What next? The badgers? Snakes? No, of course not snakes. It was far too cold.

A small black-furred head poked through an opening at the base of the briars. Evading the thorns with no visible effort, Plato emerged and stared up at her. “Oh, you’re back, are you?” said Flora. He sat down at her feet. “Come to gloat? Point out that if I’d followed you, I wouldn’t be in this predicament?”

Plato looked at her. Not judgmentally, because that was impossible.

“Go fetch help,” commanded Flora. The dog didn’t move. “Some clever gardeners. A footman from the house. Anyone. Go!”

“Plato? Where are you, you dratted animal?” called a voice nearby.

“Lord Robert?” she called.

There was a short silence. “Flora?”

“Yes. I’ve, ah, become entangled in some brambles. Plato doesn’t appear to care in the least. Or, actually, he’s staring at me as if it was all my fault.” She frowned down at the dog. “Does he ever blink? He’s really a bit uncanny, don’t you—”

Robert appeared on the path. “Good God!” He started forward.

“Be careful! It’s very easy to get caught. If you touch one branch, the whole mass moves.”

“I see.” He examined the arching stems. “You really are caught, aren’t you?” His lips twitched.

“If you laugh, I’ll...make you sorry,” Flora promised. Plato made one of his odd grumpy gargling sounds. “And you! I’ll find a badger and hand you over to him.”

Robert choked. “So, would you say you’re in need of rescue?”

“Just get me out!”

Robert moved a few steps closer. He could see that the thorns had barbs like fishhooks, ready to rip and tear if not removed very carefully. There was a trickle of blood on Flora’s neck. After a moment of calculation, he eeled between two branches. He had to stop once and detach thorns from his sleeve before he reached her side.

“These things are diabolical,” she said. “When I turned to pull loose, they seemed to...sort of lunge at me.”

“Stay very still.”

“I know!” She let out a huff of breath. “I beg your pardon. This is...rather irritating.” She smiled an apology.

Robert felt a catch in his chest, as if his heart had stumbled briefly. “Right then. Move back, Plato,” he said. For once, the little dog obeyed him, slipping easily out to a more open spot.

He began on the closest branch, embedded in the skirts of Flora’s pelisse. He had to kneel to reach it properly. His knife was small for the tough fibers. The bush swayed as he sawed at the branch. A spray of thorns rasped across his hair, but didn’t catch hold.

Robert soon pricked his skin. There was no way to hold the branch still without being stuck, and he’d left his gloves indoors when he’d seen Plato shoot wildly out of the bushes and then go haring off again.

Blood made the blasted thing slippery. Robert got out his handkerchief, used it to wrap the branch, and went back to work. At last, he was through. The severed stem sprang back a little, he was glad to see, giving him a few inches of working room. He looked up. “One down,” he said with a smile.

The heated gaze he encountered went through him like a thunderbolt. He was suddenly acutely aware of his position, right in among her skirts. His shoulder rested against her thigh. The scent of her—flowery perfume and sheer female—enveloped him.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” she said.

“It’s nothing.” Intensely aroused, Robert eased to his feet. Flora smiled at him again. Her fierce blue eyes raked him. He knew, absolutely, that she was remembering their kisses.

The next branch was wrapped around her far sleeve. He had to press close to her to avoid the briars at his back as he reached for it. And stay there while he cut through the stringy fiber of the bramble. The feel of her—curve of breast and hip, her cheek resting on his chest—made him clumsier. At one point a thorn drove deep into the pad of his index finger, and he stifled an oath.

Flora was having trouble breathing. She could feel his heartbeat, so near her ear, accelerating in tandem with her own. She could feel his muscles shift against her as he cut at the brambles. If she looked up, carefully, she could see his face—handsome, intent. The lips that had thrilled her were only inches away. But she couldn’t move enough to offer her own again. She had to remain very still, plastered against him.

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About the Author

JANE ASHFORD, a beloved author of historical romances, has been published in Sweden, Italy, England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, and Spain, as well as the United States. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. She lives in Los Angeles, California.

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Read an exclusive excerpt Bombshell by CD Reiss

Hollywood bad boy Brad Sinclair always gets his way, whether it’s the role he wants or the bikini-clad model he has to have. But when a bombshell gets dropped in his lap in the form of a dimpled five-year-old from a forgotten relationship, he knows his life is about to change forever.

Cara DuMont isn’t exactly thrilled when she gets assigned to be the nanny for the latest box-office king. She has one rule: no celebrity fathers, especially single ones with devilish good looks and rock-hard abs.

But as soon as Cara meets Brad and his adorable little girl, she knows she’s in for a world of trouble. Because there’s something about the way Brad looks at her that makes her believe that some rules are meant to be broken…

Exclusive Excerpt

I’d done a French braid on Nicole for Blueberry’s party, which should have taken three minutes, but she fussed and pulled it out. Brad commented that his daughter’s hair was a mess before I could fix it.

He was trying. I kept telling myself he was trying.

In the hours before Blueberry’s party, the Greydons came by Chez Sinclair for a playdate. They brought their six kids, four nannies, and lunch.

If Brad Sinclair was an A-list actor—and he was—Michael Greydon rose above the alphabet. The A-lister’s A-list. He was such a star he could quit to adopt six children with his wife, a notorious paparazza. I was even a little starstruck, and I was never starstruck. But when he and his wife came for a pre-party iced tea, I noted his low-wattage glow and sane approachability. It was hard not to stare.

The ride to the party pulled up promptly at two. Kids and nannies herded into a shiny black bus lined with video screens and games. Brad, Michael, and Laine went in a separate car. Apparently, our destination didn’t have a helipad.

All four Greydon nannies were from West Side, so they were fit and attractive. Pleated khakis and a white polo couldn’t hide a thing, even in my case, with a shirt that was three sizes too big and a bra that was a cup size too small. The pleats in my chinos seemed designed specifically to create dual pouches over the crotch, and the legs were so long I had to cuff them.

“It’s a thirty-day job,” I said. “Then I’m leaving. So if you hear of anything—”

“You’re leaving? Why would you leave?” Helen interrupted in French. The children were engrossed in a highly anticipated movie that was still two weeks from release. “There’s no wife to judge you all the time. It’s perfect.”

Helen had come from France to au pair five years before and stayed for the sun and easy work. She held the Greydons’ six-month-old while the other nannies entertained the children or gossiped.

“It was always temporary,” I answered in French.

“The celebrity lifestyle isn’t for me.”

She tsked. “All the perks! Nice clothes, tags still on. Food from the best restaurants. All the people you meet. You can live the life without having the life. No?”

I just shook my head, but I didn’t tell her the other reason I had to run away as if my shoes were on fire.

I’d had another dream. And another. I was starting to blush whenever I was in the same

room with Brad Sinclair and he hadn’t even touched me.

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About the Author

CD Reiss shot up the New York Times bestseller list with sizzling works like Hardball and Shuttergirl, but she still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God, but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t answer, she’s at the well hauling buckets.

Born in New York City, Reiss moved to Hollywood to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from the University of Southern California. Unfortunately, her screenwriting went nowhere, but it did give her enough confidence to write novels.

Today she’s adoringly referred to as the “Shakespeare of Smut,” which she thinks is flattering, but it hasn’t gotten her out of chopping a single piece of wood.

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Read an exclusive excerpt from All the Lies We Tell by Megan Hart

Everyone knew Alicia Harrison’s marriage to Ilya Stern wouldn’t last. They’d grown up on a remote stretch of Quarry Street, where there were two houses, two sets of siblings, and eventually, a tangled mess of betrayal, longing, and loss. Tragedy catapulted Allie and Ilya together, but divorce—even as neighbors—has been relatively uncomplicated.

Then Ilya’s brother, Nikolai, comes home for their grandmother’s last days. He’s the guy who teased and fought with Allie, infuriated her, then fled town without a good-bye. Now Niko makes her feel something else entirely—a rush of connection and pure desire that she’s been trying to quench since one secret kiss years ago. Niko’s not sticking around. She’s not going to leave. And after all that’s happened between their families, this can’t be anything more than brief pleasure and a bad idea.

But the lies we tell ourselves can’t compete with the truths our hearts refuse to let go…

Exclusive Excerpt

Alicia balanced a pan of ravioli and a tuna-noodle casserole against her chest while she tried to open her front door. Food, so much food. Ilya’s kitchen table had groaned with it, and his fridge had been packed to overflowing, the freezer in the garage stuffed full. That’s what people did when you lost someone: they brought food. Babulya had been well loved in the community.

The service had been nice. Alicia had spent a few hours across the street, but too many people had turned to her to act as hostess for a house that was no longer hers. On the day they buried a woman who’d treated her like family, Alicia did not want to be irritated by anyone treating her like she was still Ilya’s wife, but there it was. That niggling, burning annoyance at the number of people who’d asked her where to find the paper plates or plasticware. Or the trash bags when they were being helpful by emptying the garbage can, and she ought to have been grateful for their kindness.

The fact she still knew where to find everything had annoyed her, too. Hell, she’d found an old bottle of her hand lotion in the bottom drawer of the upstairs bathroom. Still half-full. She’d tossed that in the garbage and spent the next fifteen minutes trying hard not to burst into tears.

Now back in her own house, Alicia filled her freezer with food she knew she was never going to eat. She sat down at her kitchen table. She poured herself a glass of iced tea. She checked items off a list one at a time. She moved with stiff joints—robotic—and focused on putting her efforts into action, not emotions, until finally she had no more things to distract her, and she gave herself permission to weep.

No tears came.

Instead, a deep and unsettling exhaustion settled into her with liquid and relentless ease. Filling her up from the inside, it weighted her bones. It scourged her.

The knock on her back door startled her, but the sight of who’d done the knocking surprised her even more. A tendril of embarrassment at being caught in such a melancholy moment twisted inside her. It might’ve been anyone, but of course it was him.

“Hey, sorry to bother you. I brought . . .” Nikolai lifted the casserole in his hands as though in apology. “We didn’t have room for this, either. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. C’mon in.” She stood aside, too aware of his warmth as he pushed past her. “You can see if there’s any room in the freezer.”

Nikolai fit the casserole into the freezer and closed it. Turned to her. They stared at each other.

“I had to get out of there,” she said quietly.

Nikolai scrubbed a hand over the top of his head and gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah. Me, too. I probably could’ve managed to find a place for that casserole over there somewhere. I really just wanted to get out of the house. I wanted to come over here.”

“It’s quieter here.”

“You’re here,” he said abruptly, then stopped.

Slowly, slowly, something twisted and tangled between them. Did she move? Did he? All Alicia knew was that she was in his arms. The chair she’d been sitting on got knocked over because it had been between them.

Nikolai’s hands were in her hair.

His mouth was on her mouth.

His tongue, oh God, his tongue was sweeping inside with practiced strokes that drew a moan out of her from the very tips of her toes. He shook a little at the sound of it; she noticed that. Also the way his fingers dug deeper into the fall of her hair to tug her head back a little so he could plunder her mouth just a little harder. A little deeper.

She wasn’t sure who’d started the kiss, but she was sure who ended it. With a short, sharp gasp, Alicia stepped backward. One step. She was still within reach, if he wanted to grab her, did she want him to?

The answer, she discovered when she looked at his wet, open mouth, was yes.

The second kiss was softer. Lingering. His hands moved to her hips and settled there, drawing her closer so their bodies pressed against each other. There was no bumping of noses or clashing of teeth. He moved, and she moved with him, in perfect sync.

 Both breathing hard, they let the kiss ease away at the same time. She didn’t move out of his embrace this time. She looked up into his face.

“But you . . . you don’t even like me,” she said.

Nikolai smiled in the same lopsided, smart-ass way he always had. “I think it’s pretty obvious, Allie. I do like you. At least a little.” 

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About the Author

Megan Hart is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of more than thirty novels, novellas, and short stories. Some of them use a lot of bad words, but most of the other words are okay. Her work has been published in almost every genre, including contemporary fiction, horror, romantic suspense, and erotica. She can’t live without music, the Internet, or the ocean, but she and soda have achieved an amicable uncoupling.

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Spotlight: Riot Street by Tyler King

Sometimes, getting in too deep is the only way to survive…

As darkly charismatic as he is unpredictable, Ethan Ash knows me better than I know myself.  He’s spent years unraveling the family scandal I’ve tried desperately to escape.  I once thought that made us adversaries.  Now he’s the closest ally I have left.  

Ethan’s both the chaos around me and the deep, calm center where I feel safe.  People warn me about him, tell me he’s dangerous.  Don’t fall for him.  But its too late.  Beacuase I can’t tell where my addiction ends…and his obsession begins.

Excerpt

“You awake?” Ethan shifts next to me in bed beneath the blankets. “Something wrong?”
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
He rolls to his side, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Talk to me.”
“Really, it’s nothing. I’m just restless.”
“You’re safe with me.” His fingers slide under the hem of my tank top to lightly brush bare skin. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“No, I know. It isn’t that, I’m just…”
I don’t have the words to articulate it. Even if I could, I’m not sure it’d make sense.
“What can I do?” he asks, trying to understand.
Ethan needs a problem he can fix. Something with bolts and buttons. Something he can take apart, reassemble, or knock with a hammer. People aren’t as easy.
Instead, I kiss him. My lips against his, it isn’t a solution, but it makes me feel better. Wrapped in blankets, secluded in darkness, he overwhelms my senses. The taste of mint on his tongue, the clean, rich scent of his skin—they drive all other thoughts from my mind. I feel only his mouth, his tongue teasing mine, and his heart beating under my palm.
“Avery,” he hums against my lips. “Wait a minute.”
My fingers comb into his hair, tugging. I don’t want him to speak. To let words break the illusion. I just want him, everywhere, all at once and nothing else.
“Listen to me.” He breaks away. “I want you to hear this.”
Hand caressing the side of my face, he runs his thumb under my bottom lip until I settle.
“I mean it. Whenever you’re scared or hurting, I want you to feel safe with me. I want to be the person you talk to, not the one you hide from. Anything at all, or nothing, whatever it is that gets inside your head and makes you want to run, give it to me. I’ll take it away. I’ll bury it in the ground, and never let it hurt you again. I promise, Avery, with all my heart. You never have to be afraid of anything when you’re with me.”
The darkness turns liquid and my chest clenches.
“Why do you say things like that?” I barely whisper.
“Because they’re true. And because I love you.”

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About the Author

Tyler King was born and raised in Orlando, Florida and graduated from the University of Central Florida with a degree in Creative Writing. As a journalist, her work has appeared in Orlando magazine and Orlando Business Journal, among other publications. She is a proud army spouse currently living in Virginia with her husband.
 
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Spotlight: Live Out Loud by Marie Meyer

I thought I'd live in silence forever . . . and then I met him.
 
I'll never be able to hear, but music has always been a source of comfort for me. Rather than listen to the rhythm, I can actually feel the beat pulsing through me. It's pure bliss. So the moment I saw Thorin playing his guitar, I was mesmerized. I'd never seen anything more beautiful . . . or intimate. I couldn't tell where his body ended and the song began. He's everything I need in my life . . . I'm falling fast, hard, and deep.
 
I want him more than anything. But while I live in silence, Thor lives in secrets. He's holding something back-something that's keeping this intensity, this longing from being real. And the silence may be too loud to bear . . .

Excerpt

Shit, sweetheart, where’s the fire?

“Hey, Red, hold up,” I say, trying to get her attention. I don’t want to startle her, but it’s no use, she can’t hear me over the noise of the club. If I don’t stop her now, she’ll leave and I won’t get her number. I drop my hand onto her shoulder and she goes rigid under my touch.

Smooth, Kline. Way to scare the poor girl.

Very slowly, she turns around, almost as if she’s expecting to see the Grim Reaper standing behind her. When our gazes meet, her shoulders relax and she lets out a deep breath. Up close, she’s even more beautiful. And Jesus…her eyes. When I caught her gaze for a few seconds on stage, I knew there was something special about her eyes; I just couldn’t see them clearly. Up close, they’re extraordinary. I’ve never seen eyes like hers before…the color of emerald sea glass. A long forgotten memory surfaces, one of my earliest…walking along the beach as a kid…with my dad…before everything went to hell.

I shake off the phantom thought and focus on the girl. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just…I…” I stumble over my words like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy. What the hell’s my problem? She’s not the first chick you’ve ever talked to. Spit the damn words out, Thor. “I saw you while I was up on stage, and I was hoping to get your number, I’d really like to take you out sometime.”

There. I said it. Not hard.

She smiles widely and nods. Lifting her hands between us, I notice her fingers move. Graceful and deliberate hand motions. Is she using sign language?  

“She can read your lips.”

I glance to my right. A tall girl with long, half black, half blond hair flanks her side. Pretty, but pales in comparison to her friend.

“Read my lips?” I shake my head, not understanding. I point to the redheaded beauty and direct my question to her friend. “She’s deaf?”

There’s a tap on my shoulder and my eyes snap back to Red’s. Moving her hands again, she signs something, and I’m clueless. Her lips move, but she doesn’t speak. And apparently, I’m shit at lipreading. But at least her expression is playful. That’s a plus, right?

She lowers her arms and smiles. Damn, I love how the right side of her lips pulls up higher than the left.

I’ve never had to chase down a girl. For some reason, chicks dig guys in a band. They’ve always pursued me. But, the one time I see a girl so gorgeous, and take the time to run after her, she can’t even hear me.

I look at her friend. “What did she just say?”

Red’s friend folds her arms over her chest, wearing the same beatific smile she did when I stopped them. “She answered your question. Yes, she’s deaf. She also asked if you still want her number.”

I stare at the girl. With wild red curls framing her face and a mischievous smirk, she waits for my answer. Hell yeah, I do.

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About the Author

Marie Meyer is a teacher who spends her days in the classroom and her nights writing heartfelt romances. She is a proud mommy and enjoys helping her oldest daughter train for the Special Olympics, making up silly stories with her youngest daughter, and bingeing on weeks of DVR'd television with her husband.
 
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