Spotlight: His Hand-Me-Down Countess by Sorcha Mowbray

His brother's untimely death leaves him with an Earldom and a fiancée. Too bad he wants neither of them...

Theodora Lawton has no need of a husband. As an independent woman, she wants to own property, make investments and be the master of her destiny. Unfortunately, her father signed her life away in a marriage contract to the future Earl of Stonemere. But then the cad upped and died, leaving her fate in the hands of his brother, one of the renowned Lustful Lords.
Achilles Denton, the Earl of Stonemere, is far more prepared to be a soldier than a peer. Deeply scarred by his last tour of duty, he knows he will never be a proper, upstanding pillar of the empire. Balanced on the edge of madness, he finds respite by keeping a tight rein on his life, both in and out of the bedroom. His brother’s death has left him with responsibilities he never wanted and isn’t prepared to handle in the respectable manner expected of a peer.

Further complicating his new life is an unwanted fiancée who comes with his equally unwanted title. Saddled with a hand-me-down countess, he soon discovers the woman is a force unto herself. As he grapples with the burden of his new responsibilities, he discovers someone wants him dead. The question is, can he stay alive long enough to figure out who’s trying to kill him while he tries to tame his headstrong wife? 

Excerpt

London, May 1860

Stone heard the butler intone his name and title loudly enough for all of London to hear, let alone the population of the Devonses’ ballroom. Had anyone suggested three years ago he would bear the family title, Earl of Stonemere, never mind be contemplating his future nuptials, he would certainly have laughed. True, he never actually laughed anymore, but he certainly would have found such a claim incredulous.

It was no longer an amusing matter.

Having survived the receiving line, he eased through the crowded ballroom. Every few feet, he stopped to speak with one acquaintance or another. Not so long ago, these same people would have been running for the hills and hiding their daughters. But fate, a fickle mistress to say the least, had other plans.

Moving with a quickness born of desperation, he barely acknowledged the next three men as the heat from the crowd paired with the stench of perfumes and body odor to choke him. After his service in India, crowded entertainments such as a ball had grown difficult to endure. The press of bodies and the loud murmur of conversation punctuated by the occasional shrill laugh smothered him, too similar to the roar of battle and the cries of the dying.

Moving past a swarm of silk skirts, he spotted a dark, hidden alcove, an oasis from the overwhelming onslaught, both real and imagined. If he could shut it down quickly enough, he wouldn’t embarrass himself. If he failed, all of London would learn just how broken he was.

He was an earl. Not a soldier. Never again a soldier.

Once the cool darkness enveloped him, he opened his mouth and drew a breath. His pounding pulse eased as the vise around his chest released and his damp skin dried. After another quarter hour spent tucked away, he believed he could manage the crowd long enough to find his betrothed.

As any good officer would, he had a strategy. Find her, claim his dances, and then await each one either on the balcony or on the dance floor, if required. Even the cardrooms at these soirees bordered on disabling.

He reached for the drapes to his hideaway, but hesitated as two women tittered in the immediate vicinity.

“Why, Gladys, I heard his name announced earlier. I’m certain Matilda invited Stonemere despite all the gossip.”

“I simply cannot imagine what she was thinking,” the one called Gladys said.

“Can’t you? Having one of the Lustful Lords in attendance at your ball? I daresay everyone who is anyone will wish to be able to say they were here. It’s all so deliciously scandalous and yet possible now the unmitigated rake is off the market.” Gladys’s friend sighed with a bit more drama than anyone in their right mind or otherwise would deem necessary.

“Well, one should hope that man can contain himself what with all these poor young virgins parading around. It would serve Matilda right if he debauched each and every one of them while here under her auspices.”

“Oh, do be sensible, Gladys. He could perhaps ruin four or five in one night, but all of them?”

Past ready to find his fiancée and escape his hidey-hole, he stepped out next to the ladies in question, turned to them, and bowed over each of their hands. The shock on their faces far outweighed any notion of good manners on his part. “Why, ladies, you both give me far more credit than I deserve. Even in my heyday of debauchery, I could only service three ladies in a single evening.”

As the two ladies sputtered, he departed their corner. The temptation to turn and wink at the gossipers won out, which caused another round of tittering and sputtering from behind him. Of course, he was well aware of what proper Society called himself and his friends. But the Marquess of Flintshire, Earl of Brougham, Baron Lincolnshire, and Viscount Wolfington—as well as himself—held little regard for polite society. Each of them had learned the hard way that they had no place amongst their peers.

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About the Author

Sorcha Mowbray is a mild mannered office worker by day…okay, so she is actually a mouthy, opinionated, take charge kind of gal who bosses everyone around; but she definitely works in an office. At night she writes romance so hot she sets the sheets on fire! Just ask her slightly singed husband.

She is a longtime lover of historical romance, having grown up reading Johanna Lindsey and Judith McNaught. Then she discovered Thea Devine and Susan Johnson. Holy cow! Heroes and heroines could do THAT? From there, things devolved into trying her hand at writing a little smexy. Needless to say, she liked it and she hopes you do too!

For more information about Sorcha, please visit her website, “Like” Sorcha on Facebook and follow her on Twitter, Instagram and Goodreads. Join Sorcha’s newsletter to be the first to hear about upcoming releases. She’s loves hearing from her readers. Email her directly at sorcha@sorchamowbray.com. 

Spotlight: First Crush, Last Love by Elizabeth McKenna

Remember your first crush? How your heart raced and your cheeks flushed whenever you saw him? Jessie Baxter does, and it’s happening again. Ten years ago, despite her best efforts, Lee Archer wanted to be just friends. Now, he wants more, but Jessie's still recovering from a psycho ex-husband. Can she learn to trust again and make her first crush into her last love?

Elizabeth McKenna’s latest novel will have you remembering the angst of high school, the grief of a failed relationship, and the happiness of true love.

Excerpt

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth McKenna

The smell of bacon roused Jessie from an early morning dream of being chased across a cold, moonless beach. The feet that carried her for miles on her runs were useless in the deep sand. Every time she stumbled, her panic grew until her body no longer responded to commands. Rubbing at her heavy eyelids, she blew out a deep breath, and the last remnants of the nightmare faded away.

She squinted at the clock on the nightstand and groaned. It seemed like she had been asleep for mere minutes. After saying goodnight to Lee, she had stared at the dim stars on the bedroom ceiling and waited for sleep to bring her a needed reprieve from her messed-up life. Instead, her mind had bounced between Billy and Lee, wondering what either of them was up to and why she had to be involved.

When her stomach rumbled in appreciation of the smoky sweet smell, she sat up with a jolt. Lee Archer was in her mother’s kitchen making breakfast, and it smelled damn good. She jumped out of bed and twirled in a circle, unable to decide what to fix first. Her frizzy curls stood out in every direction, and her breath reeked from last night’s garlic-laced meal.

She grabbed a pair of running shorts and checked the hall before dashing to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged with her hair in a messy bun and her teeth scrubbed to the point of drawing blood.

In the kitchen, Lee stood at the stove pushing eggs around a pan and wearing last night’s rumpled clothes and a shadow of a beard. Jessie clamped down on her bottom lip. It was too much to take in.

“You’re awake. I left you some coffee.” He gave her a crooked smile before turning his attention to the frying bacon.

She eyed her morning drug on the far side of the kitchen and willed her legs to move in the direction of the coffee maker. After dumping three sugar packets into a cup, she poured the heavenly brew with a sigh. Looking up, she frowned at Lee’s amused expression. “What? I like sweet coffee.”

“Breakfast will be ready in a minute. Can you put down the toast?” He nodded with his chin at the toaster.

While she slept in, Lee had set the table, cooked eggs and bacon, poured juice, and cut three mums from her mother’s garden for a centerpiece. Yeah, making toast was the least she could do.

“What do you do for a girl the next morning when she actually sleeps with you?”  

Lee’s eyes ran up and down her body, and then something akin to a growl came from his throat. Maybe she should have put on sweats instead of shorts.

“I like cooking. Remember Denny’s restaurant? I think if I hadn’t become a cop, I would have been a chef.”

They settled at the table and ate in silence for the first few bites.

“Is it OK?” He pointed at her plate with his fork.

She nodded in appreciation. “Better than OK. I usually grab a granola bar for breakfast. This is a real treat.”

“I was thinking we could swing by my place so I can get cleaned up before heading to the station. I’ll need you to make a statement before I can run the knife for prints.”

Her gaze went to the kitchen island where the hunting knife sat wrapped in the plastic bag. “Billy was arrested for a bar fight in college. Would his prints be in the system for that?”

“Should be.”

“If it’s his knife, then what?”

“We’ll bring him in for questioning.”

“Can you hold him? Like put him in jail?”

“That will be up to the DA and the judge.”

She nodded. “Even if he did this, he can still . . .”

Putting her fears into words would make them too real, but from the grim look on Lee’s face, she didn’t have to.

“You could file for a restraining order,” he said.

“Would that help?” She wasn’t sure she had the strength for more legal action against Billy. Like most divorces, theirs had been ugly, full of half-truths and name-calling. She had even secretly wished him dead at one point to put an end to it all.

“To be honest, probably not, but it would make arresting him a lot easier if he keeps stalking you.”

Stalking her. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but it was what Billy was doing. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her fork. Three years. Before this weekend, it had been three years since she had talked to her ex-husband. Why couldn’t he move on? If their love had been so wonderful—if they had been soulmates—he never would have cheated on her. That was the one thing she had never understood when he fought the divorce. It was obvious they weren’t right for each other. Why couldn’t he see that?

She nibbled on a piece of bacon, while her mind searched for new answers to old questions. After a few more bites, she pushed her plate away.

“Changed your mind about my cooking?”

“It was wonderful. I guess I don’t have much of an appetite this morning.”

“How about I clean up while you shower?” Lee gathered their dishes and headed for the sink.

She shook her head in disbelief. “How are you not married?”

Over his shoulder, he gave her a smile that ignited small fires in several sensitive areas of her body. “I have no idea.”

“Well, the cockiness might be a turnoff,” she said, covering her desire for him with a dose of sass.

He looked down at his crotch. “There’s nothing wrong with my—.”

She held up a hand. “Stop!”

His low chuckle sent flames over her cheeks. He turned on the kitchen faucet and squirted dish soap into the sink. “Go take that shower.”

Jessie darted from the room. It would need to be a cold shower, she thought, as she pounded up the stairs.

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About the Author

Elizabeth McKenna works as a full-time technical writer/editor for a large software company. Though her love of books reaches back to her childhood, she had never read romance novels until one Christmas when her sister gave her the latest bestseller by Nora Roberts. She was hooked from page one (actually, she admits it was the first love scene).

She had always wanted to write fiction, so she combined her love of history, romance and a happy ending to write Cera's Place and Venice in the Moonlight. Her short story, The Gypsy Casts a Spell, is available for free on her website http://elizabethmckenna.com/. She hopes you will enjoy her first contemporary romance novel, First Crush Last Love, as much as others have enjoyed her historical romances.

Elizabeth lives in Wisconsin with her understanding husband, two beautiful daughters, and a sassy Labrador. When she isn't writing, working, or being a mom, she's sleeping.
 
Connect: Website | Facebook | Twitter: @ElizaMcKenna | Pinterest | Goodreads

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Spotlight: The Suburbs Have Secrets by Barbara Wallace

Blackmail And Murder and Lies – Oh My!

When Sadie McIntyre gives a drunken Marylou Paretsky a ride home on a rainy night, little does she realize it’s the last time anyone will see Marylou alive.

Tragic accident? Or Murder?

The following morning, Marylou is found dead at the bottom of her staircase. What first appears to be a drunken tumble becomes far more complicated as Sadie discovers Marylou wasn’t as sweet and timid as everyone thought. Turns out Marylou spent her spare time digging up dirt on her neighbors and left behind a list of their secrets. Much to her horror, Sadie’s name is right on top.

Eager to keep her past buried, Sadie, with the help of her best friend Rob and Dan Bartlett, the town’s sexy new chief of detectives, sets out to who on the list was desperate enough to kill. Will she discover the answer before the truth gets out?

Or will the killer find Sadie first?

Excerpt

It was half past seven, Sunday night. I was on my way home from a wildly unsuccessful open house and debating whether or not I wanted to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Riesling when wham! Out of nowhere, a dark figure stepped in front of my car.

I slammed on the brakes. Thankfully, I wasn’t driving fast, so I screeched to a halt inches shy of a collision. The person—whoever it was—didn’t notice. Head down, the figure crossed the street…

And promptly crumpled to the ground.

I got out of my car and hurried around the hood, stopping short when I reached the left headlight. The person sat cross-legged in the middle of the road, face obscured by a dark navy hood. “Are you all right?”

The person muttered a reply. From where I stood, it sounded like “stupid street.”

I stepped closer. Probably not the best idea, seeing as how I was alone and dealing with a potentially crazy person. Then again, curiosity has always been my downfall.

“Hello?” I said, reaching for their shoulder. “Do you need some help?”

“Don’t touch me!” the person screeched, and jerked away from my touch. In the process, they fell backward, knocking the hood away.

“Marylou?”

“Stupid street. Freaking tilted off balance.”

It was Marylou Paretsky.

At least she had Marylou’s voice and pudgy face. The Marylou I knew wore pastel twin sets and chirped her words like an excited chipmunk. The woman in front of me looked like a street person. Her navy-blue sweatshirt was two sizes too small. I could see her stomach protruding out from beneath the hem. And her hair, normally neat as a pin, hung in a half-done ponytail, the sandy brown curls flopping in her face. When she turned, I caught raccoon circles of mascara lining her eyes.

I watched as she struggled to stand up, only to get her feet halfway under her body before sitting again. “Stupid street. Stop moving,” she muttered.

She was drunk as a skunk. “Here, let me help you up.”

“Leave me alone. I’m fine.” The protest might have had more oomph if she hadn’t tipped over trying to slap my hand away. Not even trying to save herself, she fell and lay with her cheek smushed into the blacktop. “’M perfectly fine.”

We weren’t going to get anywhere this way. Grabbing her upper arm—this time she was too busy lying down to wave me off—I tugged her into a sitting position.

“Stop it! Gotta stay here. Gonna listen to me.”

Listen? If she kept hollering in the middle of the street, the whole neighborhood was going to hear her. I looked around at the houses with their curtains drawn. Thankfully, we were on the north side of town where the houses were set farther back from the sidewalks. Plus, everyone would be settling in to watch the eight o’clock game.

“You can’t stay here,” I told her. “We’re in the middle of the street.” Dear Lord, but she reeked. Alcohol. Mothballs. There was a third smell in there too I couldn’t identify. It might have been sweat. “Tell you what. Let’s get you home, and you can sit there.”

“No! Gotta stay. It’s impo-portant.”

Impotent or important? I didn’t get to ask because she managed to yank free of my grip and crawled on all fours toward the curb. Dignity was clearly off the table at this point.

At least we were out of the street though. We were making progress.

That’s when she threw up.

We’re talking super ugly, power retching. The kind that poured out of you and turned the air sour. I jumped onto the grass, praying the splatter didn’t hit my pants. How much had Marylou had to drink anyway? Considering the volume coming out of her, it was obviously a lot. Afraid to look down in case there was a stream of vomit in the gutter, I stared at my car that was still running in the middle of the street.

Marylou continued retching long after she’d emptied her stomach. Harsh, gasping heaves that made her body shake. I stood behind her and rubbed circles between her shoulder blades, the way I used to when my son, Tim, had the stomach flu. Someone was going to find a very unpleasant surprise when they stepped outside tomorrow morning, that was for sure. I wondered if I should ring the doorbell and let them know. Then again, did I really want to be publically associated with this debacle?

“…loser.”

I looked down. Marylou had managed to push herself upright. Sitting on her haunches, she rocked back and forth, her arms clutching her stomach. “Lousy, stupid loser.”

“You’re not a loser,” I told her. “You just had too much to drink. Happens to everyone. I’ll bring you—”

“Not me. Her. Them.”

She spoke so harshly, I jumped. This was not the chipmunkian woman I thought I knew. “Who are they?”

“Thinking I can be ignored. Well, I can’t. ’M not some stupid kid anymore.” She swiped her hand hard across her mouth. “I’m a winner now. She’ll see. A. Win. Ner.” She punctuated each pause with a jab of her finger against the Native American logo silkscreened just above her heart. She’ll be sorry. Gonna stomp her on her head.”

“You don’t mean that.” At least I hoped not. Hearing her talk about violence freaked me out. As the past five minutes had shown, I didn’t know Marylou as well as I’d thought. For all I knew, those twin sets she normally wore concealed the heart of a serial killer. Wouldn’t be the first time I misjudged a person’s character, although I thought I’d gotten better over the years.

“Yes, I do,” Marylou snapped. “I hope they all die in a hole. Every single one of them.”

“Who?” I asked again. With all the various pronouns being bandied about, I was getting confused. “What did they do?”

But Marylou was too deep into her angry pity party to hear my question. Instead, she rambled on about winning and making “them” see. “Lying bitch. But I know. Got proof.”

“Okay,” I said, “let’s get you home.” My car was still in the street. It’d be just my luck to run out of gas listening to her blather. Taking her elbow, I finally succeeded in pulling her to her feet. Because no good deed goes unpunished, the moment she stood, she leaned into my side, along with her rancid breath. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I know.”

“He thinks I am, but I knew he didn’t buy that aftershave for the smell. He bought it for her.”

“Who?”

“Her!” She spit the word like it was leftover vomit on her tongue. “Ungrateful bastard. Screwing around with his assistant. After everything I’m doing for him.”

“Paul’s having an affair? Are you sure?”

“Course I’m sure. No one works that many late hours. No one. Why does everyone think I’m stupid?” Her head separated from my shoulder. “You think I’m stupid too, don’t you?”

“No,” I replied, feeling her glazed glare. “It’s just… he doesn’t seem the type.” I’d only met Paul Paretsky once, at a volunteer’s mixer for our town’s local cancer fundraiser. He was a quiet, awkward man with palms so sweaty, I’d had to wipe my hand on a napkin after he shook it. If I remembered correctly, he spent most of the mixer avoiding any actual mixing. Hard to imagine him having the nerve to cheat on Marylou. “I meant how do you know?”

“Cause I know, that’s why. Dinner and the game. I know better. I know lots of things. Important things.”

As her index finger assaulted the emblem on her chest a second time, I realized how stupid I was in trying to have this conversation. “Why don’t we go sit in my car?”

“I’m serious. You have no idea how many things I know. You should respite…respect me.”

“I do respect you.”

Her head lolled toward mine again, bringing a new waft of rancid breath. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

Only a few more feet to the passenger door. Never had such a short walk felt so long. With every step, Marylou’s voice grew more slurred, and her steps more sluggish. It was like dragging a giant sack of flour. If she passed out before I got her into the passenger seat, I was screwed, because there was no way I would be able to lift her into my SUV by myself, and I didn’t relish knocking on some stranger’s door to ask for assistance.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, she was in the front seat. “Can you buckle your seatbelt?” I asked.

“I threw up on my sweatshirt.”

Make that a no.

“I can’t believe I got vomit on it. Now it’s all ruined.”

How could she tell? I hadn’t noticed when we were outside, but under the dome light I could see the thing was covered with stains, including a crusty one on the front pocket.

The spot offending Marylou was near the emblem. She rubbed furiously at the peeling image, trying to clean it. The poor silhouette was getting its share of abuse tonight. Reaching into the glove compartment, I handed her a clump of napkins and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. “Here,” I said, “these might work better.” Not to mention she could clean her hands. “When you get home, you can throw the shirt in the wash, and it’ll be like new.”

“Can’t. Got to keep it or won’t work. I don’t feel well.”

Oh no, not in my car. “Hold on,” I said, buckling her in. “Let me get you something for the ride. If you get sick before I get back—” I pushed the passenger door as wide as it would go. “—lean out.”

Keeping one eye out for her head, I ran around to the rear of my car to look for something I could use as a bucket. Underneath the open house signage was my obligatory stash of canvas grocery bags. The ones I was supposed to use but always forgot about until I was halfway through the groceries. Too bad I didn’t have a plastic bag to use for a liner, but my collection of plastic grocery bags was hanging by the back door of my house for me to remember to take them for recycling.

Hopefully, the fate of the environment didn’t rest on my memory.

“You’re so nice,” Marylou slurred when I returned. She’d stopped wiping and was picking at the white shirt bulging from beneath the sweatshirt hem. “They would leave me in the gutter. Wait!”

Her head, which had started to drop against her chest, smacked against the headrest. “I gotta show her. So she knows.”

“How about you wait until tomorrow,” I said, stuffing the bag between her feet. “When you’re not so…sick and can talk better.”

She nodded. “In the morning. I’ll show her. They’ll have to listen to me.”

“Let’s get you home. You can get some sleep and tomorrow be at your best when you talk to them. Her.”

Honest to God, she was killing me with all the pronoun switches.

Sticky fingers clamped themselves around my wrist. “You’re the best, Sadie.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Sadie McIntyre, living saint.” I tried to pull my hand away so I could shut the door, but Marylou’s grip tightened. Where was this strength when we were walking?

“Seriously,” Marylou said. “You’re real nice, not fake, two-face nice. You’ve been nice to me since the day I got here. Not like those other lying witches.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I appreciate you. That’s why I didn’t…” Whatever she was about to say, she stopped, increasing her grip on my wrist instead. Her eyes grew serious and strangely sober. “I will never betray our friendship, Sadie. You have my word.”

The October wind picked up, causing the skin on my neck to prickle. She was drunk. Drunks tended to get dramatic. “Your word, huh?”

“Till the day I die.”

She flashed me a sloppy smile. It was the start of a head-to-toe relaxation. Gaze growing unfocused, she leaned against the headrest and let her fingers grow slack. “Swear to God.”

She set a low bar. Marylou and I weren’t exactly what you’d call friends. Beyond seeing her at Cuppa Joe’s Café every morning, and serving on the Night Walk Charity Planning Committee, we had very little interaction. In all honesty, I’d always thought her a kind of an odd duck.

“Let’s get you home,” I said, finally breaking my wrist free.

It didn’t dawn on me until I had buckled my own seatbelt that I didn’t know where Marylou’s home was.

“Hemlock Street,” she said when I asked. Seriously? We were currently in Upper Woodbridge. The good side of the tracks, if you will, where the people with large incomes lived. Not very large—that was yet another section of town. Both areas were several miles from Hemlock Street, however.

A horrible thought hit me. “You didn’t drive, did you?”

“Walked,” she said, shaking her head. “Would never drink and drive.”

Thank God for that small favor. “Pretty long hike.”

“I didn’t mind. I had… Did you see my bottle? I had a bottle. I’m thirsty. What did I do with it?”

Dropped it, empty, on somebody’s lawn was my guess. “We’ll get you some water when you get home,” I told her.

“Oh-kay.” The words came out a disappointed sigh. Her head rolled to the side, and she looked out the window. “Rather have a drink.”

Her and me both.

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About Barbara Wallace

Bestselling, award-winning author Barbara Wallace specializes in sassy, smart novels known for their emotional depth. Since her debut in 2009, she’s gone on to publish nearly 20 titles with Harlequin Romance and Entangled Publishing to world-wide popularity. A life-long Yankee, Barbara lives in New England with her husband, their son, two very spoiled self-centered cats (as if there could be any other kind) and a very catered-to rescue pup.

Connect: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Bookbub

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Spotlight: A Day in the Life by Theodore Ficklestein

A Day In The Life is Theodore Ficklestein’s debut novel about Nickolas Cripp, a college student finding his way in the world. Although Nick won’t admit it, he is the main focus to a young adult book that follows him from his home to college to the city, where he wants to attend an open mic.

Along his path, he encounters a teacher who asks about the apocalypse, a drunk on the train and two friends who feel writing isn’t Nick’s strong point, among others. Nick soon finds out that the funniest things in life aren’t that funny at all, and the greatest comedians never go up on stage.
As he goes through his day, one oddball character at a time, Nick starts to question if the comedy club he dreams of being in, is really for him. Should he be who he wants to be? Or who the world thinks he should be? Neither of which, he is entirely sure about.

A personal journey of self-discovery through the eyes of a youth yearning for meaning in a meaningless world; Nick learns that in life, the joke is on you.

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About the Author

Theodore Ficklestein is an author, blogger and poet. His books include This Book Needs A Title Volumes 1 and 2 and I Killed the Man Who Wrote This Book. His first novel Day In The Life will be published by Gen Z Publishing in 2017. His multiple blogs include This Blog Needs Sports, This Blog Needs Poetry and This Blog Needs Movies. 

Spotlight: Between You and Me by Lynn Turner

Between You and Me
Lynn Turner
(The Wild Rose Press)
Publication date: September 20th 2017
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Love at first sight strikes Seattle Scientist Finnegan Kane at the worst possible moment, paralyzing him as he’s pitching his cutting-edge idea to powerful New York venture capitalist Emanuela Monroe…

Finn survived the crash that killed his parents when he was sixteen. Twenty years later, his smart devices are about to redefine what it means to be disabled.

Emanuela makes dreams come true for a living, but still longs to fulfill her own. Despite Finn’s stunning secret, she thinks his idea might be worth the risk…and he’s determined to show her that he is, too.

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—

DELETED SCENE:

Christmas Eve

Finn removed the large gift box he’d hidden in Emanuela’s closet and set it on the bed in front of her. He sat at its edge, his obvious anticipation of her opening it almost as great as hers. “Happy Christmas Eve, Emmi.”

She smiled and, at his nod, lifted the lid. “Whoa.”

She reached in, carefully lifting the model house from the box. It was alabaster in color, and the detailing was incredible. She recognized the floor-to-ceiling windows at the south end and gasped, turning it to admire the familiar wrap-around deck. There were grooves indicating the planks of wood the deck was made from, and exterior lighting just like the ones on the house Finn rented in Penn Cove. She fingered the tiny fibers that made up the rigid parts of the house.

Her eyes narrowed. “You printed this?”

He nodded again. She giggled at his body language. He was as still as a log, his ears perky, eyes bright–If he’d had a tail, it would have wagged.

“Finn?”

“Take the roof off. Have a look inside.”

She lifted the ends of the roof and it came completely off. Inside was a perfect replica of the interior, each room complete with removable furnishings and detail equally as stunning as the outside—like the natural granite of the free-standing fireplace in the living space and the logged walls of the bedrooms. Perfect—except there seemed to be extra space.

She frowned. “I don’t remember that being there.”

He grinned, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. “That’s because it isn’t there yet. Turn it again, but this time go slow.”

Her head jerked to the side, but she did as instructed, turning the model until the front of the house faced her again. There, just out front, was a tiny signpost that read “Sold.”

She yelped. “Oh my God! When? I thought he wasn’t selling?” Her voice grew higher and squeakier with each question.

He shrugged. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Finn!” She smacked him impatiently.

He laughed, lifting his shoulder against her assault. “My offer was more than fair—well above market value. I could tell he wanted to keep it, but after I told him it held sentimental value for me—and that he could buy a house almost anywhere with what I was offering—I convinced him to sell.”

She could have cried. She loved that house, but was resigned to living somewhere else, convincing herself that anywhere with Finn would be home. Maybe it was selfish, but she’d been heartbroken at the prospect of someone else living there, getting to watch the sunrise—their sunrise—every morning.

She pointed to the extra space again, her voice barely above a whisper. “And this?”

“A bigger office, a den, a pool—whatever you want, Emmi.”

She slid the model to the side, enough to clear the space between them, and beckoned him to her with her finger. “I’m so happy,” she whispered against his lips.

“That’s all I want.”

Author Bio:

Lynn Turner inherited her writing gene from her mother, who created fantastic tales about witches, invisible worlds and talking animals, and read them to her children at night. Lynn isn’t as great with the voices as her mother, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

She discovered romance far too young, when a mission to find a young adult fantasy title led her to historical romance. She spent hours skimming those sumptuous pages, drinking in the vivid descriptions of settings and clothes, feisty heroines and looming lords, and poetic language. (She may or may not have enjoyed the PG-13 bits too, tucking a new title beneath her pillow at night).

She enjoys character-driven narratives most, and anything that transports her someplace else. Passionate about food and travel, she features healthy doses of both in the stories she crafts. Above all, she is dedicated to writing inclusive stories that explore what it means to be imperfectly human.

When she isn’t writing, she’s traveling, dreaming of traveling, or watching old Samantha Brown travelogue videos and wishing she had her job. She and her husband share their home in California with their two extraordinary children, and hope to add a little furry one to the family very soon.

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Spotlight: OMG Don Quixote & Candide Seek Truth, Justice and El Dorado in the Digital Age LOL

After years of living off their celebrity, Don Quixote and Candide join forces to seek adventure in the modern world. In this re-imagining of literary history the two meet Cyrano De Bergerac, Merlin, Sherlock Holmes, the crew of the Starship Enterprise, Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, Dean Moriarty, Elizabeth Darcy (nee Bennett) Mr. Darcy and multitude of historical figures, and share unexpected encounters with people from their past. While Don Quixote remains rooted in days of yore, Candide is preoccupied with exploiting all things modern. This rollicking fun-filled tale will entertain the well-educated and erudite reader with tongue-in-cheek humor. You are cordially invited to join Don and Candide on their quest to find truth, justice and El Dorado in the digital age. 

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About the Author

STEFAN SOTO was raised by a Romani Princess and a Ukrainian circus performer. He resides on an English canal and has no known address. His early works were banned by most right-thinking European powers. The author invites readers to investigate Cervantes and Voltaire's original treatments of the title characters.