Spotlight: The Billionaire’s Devotion by Amélie S. Duncan

(The Kept Trilogy, #3)

Publication date: November 5th 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

The handsome billionaire Paul Crane can’t seem to stay away from me, nor can he stay with me.

Here I am, finally starting my amazing fashion design internship at a luxury, fashion house in Paris, my lifelong dream coming true… yet I’m still at a loss.

Apparently, escaping the USA press and their never-ending interest in the hot older billionaire and the certain young design student — hello, it’s me! — isn’t enough to give me some relief.

And it’s not just that the internship is complicated or the competition is insane. I’ve caught the attention of top designer Hayden, who sees me as a muse.

But my heart wants Paul, even though he’s still not opened his heart to me. He hasn’t returned, but he’s never really far away.

It’s almost as if he’s decided to keep rescuing me from everything, even from himself.

I don’t want to be rescued.

I don’t want a fairy tale where Prince Charming keeps saving the damsel in distress.

I want it to be real.

But can we make it real — does our love and everything it entails truly have a chance, or will this be the moment when the dream finally ends?

Excerpt

“Want to hear a joke about construction—?”

“You’re still working on it,” I pointed at Dad and said the punchline before he could.

“You’ve caught onto me, kid.”

We laughed together far longer than the joke deserved. Then Dad’s expression turned serious. “It’s good to see you happy, princess.” My happiness surprised me, too. I’d thought my shattered heart wouldn’t ever know joy again. But Paul surprised me.

My love for Paul Crane was tangled in my soul. Rooted. Boundless. Even though it hurt that he wasn’t here with me now, he left me with his love.

His confession came as a light in my darkest hour. He was broken by our loss and exposed, and so was I. We were vulnerable. Powerless. No walls could rise in that despair. And he let me in and told me those words I so longed to hear from him.

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About the Author

Amelie S. Duncan writes steamy, sexy stories. Her inspiration comes from many sources including her life experiences and travels. She lives on the West Coast of the United States with her husband.

Connect:
http://ameliesduncan.com/
https://www.facebook.com/AmelieSDuncan/
https://www.instagram.com/amelie.s.duncan/
https://twitter.com/AmelieSWrites
https://www.amazon.com/Am%C3%A9lie-S.-Duncan/e/B00QX4I3AG/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9884055.Am_lie_S_Duncan

Spotlight: Reign by Donna Grant

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Donna Grant blends the magic of Scottish and Norse tradition in the final installment of her acclaimed Kindred: The Fated series.

Magic holds both beauty and danger…

As Lady of the Varroki, Malene was powerful and revered. But after a battle, she awakens in Norway as Dagny, a witch with no memories of her past. Her identity fragmented, Dagny finds herself entangled in a life far removed from the path she once trod and seduced by the lure of power. Until that need shifts to passion for the one who has imprisoned her, hoping to make her remember.

As a warrior and the Lady’s right hand, Armir will not stop searching for Malene. When he does, she’s not the woman he remembers. Driven by an undying love that transcends the boundaries of time and space, Armir risks everything for her. But enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting to strike. Will he and Malene overcome their pasts to find a future together?

Excerpt

Fall

Armir took a deep breath and looked into the dark depths of the cave. He had used it countless times, but it wasn’t his home. It was a place to rest, to escape. It had also been the location he expected his life to end. Some of his darkest days had been spent within the cold stone walls. He had spent hours roaring his anger and bellowing his grief.

And then, just when he had lost all hope, he felt her magic.

Armir held out his hand as a ball of fire swirled in his palm. He shot it toward the ground. Sparks flared to life in what was left of the ash. He looked down at the flames jumping and dancing. He fought not to look over his shoulder where she lay unconscious. He had held her too tightly, stared too long as he carried her to the cave. But he had thought never to see her again.

He swallowed and checked the area once more. Then he walked through the cave to the entrance. He paused and looked out at the rain as it fell in sheets too thick to see more than a few feet. Armir unsheathed his dagger and cut his forearm. Blood welled and dripped onto the stone. The words of an ancient spell he’d never thought to utter fell from his lips as he walked across the entryway, trailing his blood with him.

When he reached the other side, he pulled out a strip of cloth and wrapped it around the wound. For better or worse, neither he nor Malene would be leaving the cave anytime soon. It was the right thing to do. He had a duty to their people—to everyone—to figure out what had happened to her. Why, then, did it feel as if the weight of the world now rested on his shoulders?

He was weary. Tired of losing hope, tired of the guilt. Just…beat. He’d lived his life for the Varroki, to safeguard Blackglade. It had been the greatest of honors to be chosen to stand beside the Lady of the Varroki—and he had stood beside a few. Yet none had been like Malene.

Armir dropped his chin to his chest. The Varroki were a strong people, their magic unmatched. They had descendants of the Celts and Norse, merging the two cultures into one. Because of that, they had chosen to live in a hidden city. At one time, their numbers had been great, but strict rules and the war with the Coven had decimated their ranks to the point of extinction.

He turned and made his way back to the cavern. Malene was on her side, her long, flaxen hair spread around her. He almost hadn’t recognized her in the breeches, leather, and chainmail covering her. He had taught her battle magic, but what he’d seen when he came upon her and Asa locked in combat was something else entirely. It had been merciless and brutal. She had been cold and ruthless. The opposite of the woman he knew.

Like all the Ladies chosen by destiny or fate, Malene had to be convinced to leave her family, life, and home for Blackglade. It was rare for a Lady to reign for more than five years. Many died within the first. But not Malene. There had been a few times he hadn’t thought she would survive. He had believed her too fragile, too vulnerable. However, her inner strength surfaced when her back was to the wall. She hadn’t just survived, she had thrived.

She had known nothing of magic when he found her. He had questioned why she had been chosen as Lady of the Varroki, but the longer he was around her, and the longer she ruled, the more he understood. She had fought the confines of her role, all the while worrying over the Varroki.

Finally, she stopped fighting her destiny and instead grasped it with both hands. He could still remember how her soft gray eyes had danced with excitement when he agreed to teach her to read. It had been her first order to him. Once she grasped it, she had been voracious, combing through every tome in Blackglade at least once.

That’s how she’d discovered the decrees of celibacy for many positions within the Varroki—including his—that had long stood in their culture. She had overturned all of them in an effort to help grow their ranks once more. Yet years of being forbidden to touch a Lady couldn’t be wiped away with a snap of the fingers. No matter how much he might want to reach for Malene, he hadn’t.

He couldn’t.

Armir didn’t know when he had begun to love her. The emotion was just there one day, and there was no way to put it back into a box. Or ignore it. So, he had silently dreamed and yearned. And hoped.

Just when he was ready to tell her how he felt, they had gone into battle against the Coven. He should’ve told Malene about his feelings before they walked onto that battlefield. Instead, he had chosen to keep quiet and let her focus on the upcoming clash. It had turned out to be his greatest mistake because he lost Malene that day.

Being at Blackglade without her had been unbearable. He hadn’t found a body, so he refused to believe she was dead and set out to find her, intending to comb the Earth. Every day that passed without uncovering a clue had eventually worn him down, hollowing him out and creating a hole in his heart.

Some days, he couldn’t do anything but sit with his memories. Other days, he covered dozens of miles, stopping anyone he came across to ask if they had seen someone matching Malene’s description. And all the while, a sense of dread had grown within him that she was gone. Lost to him forever.

Armir lowered himself to the ground and looked across the fire at the woman who had ensnared him utterly, completely. He stared at her heart-shaped face with her high cheekbones and plump lips. He had looked into her large eyes so many times, captivated by their color and the wisdom staring back at him.

No one was supposed to touch the Lady of the Varroki. But he had. He could recount each time down to the last detail. Somehow, that made his yearning grow until she was all he could think about. He hadn’t wanted her to go into battle because he had feared losing her. She reminded him she was the Lady, chosen to bear the magic of the blue radiance. He knew her power, her strength. It was why he hadn’t believed her dead.

And he’d been right.

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Spotlight: Merry Christmas by Josie Malone

The holidays are the best time of the year in Baker City, Washington especially when the town ghosts decide to wreak havoc and do their own version of A Christmas Carol.

A Baker City: Hearts & Haunts Christmas Novella

Genre: Holiday Paranormal Romance

The holidays are the best time of the year in Baker City, Washington especially when the town ghosts, led by newcomer, Army Ranger Moises Pride decide to wreak havoc and do their own version of A Christmas Carol. They’ll attempt to redeem Nick MacGillicudy, the incompetent horseshoer who’s been hurting two and four-legged folks for years. He needs a lesson not only in manners, but also in empathy and what the haunts consider decency.

Along the way, they’ll also help Kyra O’Neill, local riding instructor find love, light and happiness with a ‘real man’. Orphaned at a young age, Derek Waller found a new life in the US Army. Thirty years later, he’s ready for something more than camos and combat boots. A home of his own in Baker City won’t be complete without the woman who runs the pool table in the cocktail lounge at Pop’s Café and defeats him on a regular basis.

There’s no place like home for the holidays in Baker City – thank heaven! And it’s Merry Ghostmas to one and all!

Excerpt

PART ONE

NOVEMBER 2019

CHAPTER ONE

Moises Pride drifted through the cocktail lounge at Pop’s Café in Baker City, Washington. It wasn’t super busy on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. Most people had other commitments, shopping, cooking, visiting their relatives, but he wasn’t one of them, not anymore. That’s because I’m dead, dead, dead! Sorry, Momma. Another year of missing the family and your sweet potato pie.

He spotted a few of the other ghosts hanging out, watching the action between the living patrons. An old-time holiday movie played on the big-screen TV in the corner. He floated toward the corner booth where Mayor O’Connell, a middle-aged fellow in a black suit sat talking to Zeke Garvey and Raven Driscoll-Barlow, two former soldiers who’d died in ambushes in Afghanistan. Their war might not be his, but it didn’t mean they didn’t have a lot in common when it came to paying the ultimate cost for serving their country. Nodding respectfully, Moises waited to join the conversation.

Raven, a thin, dark-haired wraith in camouflage fatigues and combat boots, gestured at two of the people sitting at the bar, focused on their conversation and one another. “You have something to do with that, Pride? Are you following Garvey’s example and playing Cupid the way he did with Ann Barrett and Harry Colter?”

“I just gave them a little nudge.” Moises followed her gaze toward the lovely ash-blonde woman in a red dress and the soldier next to her. Derek Waller was a solid, muscular man whose worn features looked as if he’d won more fights than he’d lost in his thirty-plus years of military service. A ‘high and tight’ style for his receding salt and pepper black hair, dark brown, almost black eyes, he was all man. “I’ve hung out at the barn for the past few months, and I’ve seen Kyra O’Neill busting her butt. She deserves someone decent, not that candy-assed horseshoer who bullies the animals when he’s sure nobody’s watching.”

“These two were betting on how long she’d wait for some guy tonight.” Raven frowned thoughtfully. “Is that him?”

“Not the Sergeant-Major,” Moises said. “I already told you. She’s hung up on Nick MacGillicudy and I’d like to do something about the jerk.”

Mayor O’Connell frowned thoughtfully. “What do you have in mind, Pride?”

“Oh, let’s get in the holiday spirit.” Moises pointed at the TV. “We could do our own Christmas Carol on Nick MacGillicudy and teach him what he needs to know.”

“He might even move on and leave town,” Zeke agreed. “I never liked the guy when we were in high school. Do I get to be the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

“You’re not the only one who has issues with Herman MacGillicudy and his son,” Mayor O’Connell said. “That banker has been running Baker City into the ground for years. He tries to get his grown kids to help him rip off our kin.”

“He won’t be happy until he levels the place and turns it into one of his gravel pits,” Zeke said. “His daughter, Dominique, the realtor may say she’s on the same page, but that isn’t true, not when she finds buyers for the houses and businesses here. She helped my wife purchase the bakery after I died. ”

“She restores the places that need it before she sells them,” Raven pointed out. “I like Dominique. She did right by my bestie and her hubby. They love the home she found for them.”

The mayor nodded. “She takes after her momma, one of the O’Leary women.” He paused, obviously considering Moises’ suggestion. “Most of our folks will be here tomorrow when Pop sets up his holiday meal. Let’s get everyone involved. Things have been downright dull since the haunted town festival last month and the Veteran’s Day Parade a couple weeks ago. We need something to do now.”

***

On Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve, the lounge at Pop’s Café in Baker City wasn’t as busy as it would be on the upcoming holiday weekend. When she’d arrived an hour ago, Kyra O’Neill had glanced around the room but didn’t see her date waiting in any of the booths against the walls or at the tables in the middle of the room or playing pool in the alcove near the restrooms. He wasn’t standing at the bar either. Oh no, not again! Nick MacGillicudy had a habit of being late and not showing up at all when he promised to meet her.

She sighed. For this, she’d hurried through the horse chores at work when she finished her last equitation class. She’d hustled into the barn manager apartment, nabbing the shower before her room-mate, Trina Sweeney could. Kyra turned down the offer of a microwaved pasta dinner, saying she’d eat in town with Nick. They’d arranged to meet at the café. Okay, so it was more her idea, than his, but he’d agreed. They could eat and then spend the night out at his trailer. She wasn’t comfortable taking him back to the carriage house style apartment above one of the barns at Miracle Riding Stable.

Her comment earned a pitying look from the other riding instructor, but she hadn’t shared the criticism both of them often heard from Nick’s younger sister. She claimed he only made piecrust promises, easily made, and easily broken. When she heard about Kyra being stood up once again, Dominique would have a lot to say and none of it would be positive.

After another look around the lounge, Kyra took a deep breath and sauntered toward the bar. She’d dressed for romantic success in a cranberry red, heirloom lace dress with tight-fitting, three-quarter lace sleeves. The double-layer handkerchief hem swirled around her knees and her fashion boots tapped out a rhythm on the tile floor. She’d pinned her long ash-blonde hair into a loose bun, leaving sexy tendrils around her face, ears, and neck. Throw in the cosmetics and jewelry and she looked damned hot tonight, nothing like a 38-year-old woman who was shoveling horse pucky two hours ago.

Most of the tables appeared to be empty, not an unusual sight in Baker City. The corner booth had a cord across the end and a ‘Reserved’ sign hung from it. Pop MacGillicudy, the owner had said his grandfather always held the place for the mayor and his cronies. Granted, all of them had died years ago, but in this town, the ghosts were real and treated with respect. Or else!

Kyra decided she’d order a glass of white wine and wait a little longer. A somewhat successful farrier, Nick could be busy shoeing a horse for a client. She reached into her purse and drew out her cell phone. No messages. She hesitated before she texted him. She didn’t want to appear desperate even if she was. She pasted on a smile and hoped it looked genuine when the bartender, Pop’s daughter, Linda, a plump, brown-haired woman in a flowered shirt and black slacks approached.

There were a few years between them and way too much history, but then again Kyra knew she was too snarky to make friends easily. Sarcasm was always a good offense and defense, for that matter. She’d hitched up on a stool. “A glass of Chardonnay please.”

“You look ready for the holidays.” Linda smiled and reached for a goblet in the rack. The soft brown eyes warmed her pretty face. “How’s life at Miracle Riding Stable? Are Debbie and her family off to eastern Washington for Thanksgiving?”

“They left early this morning.” Kyra put her small red purse on the antique bar. “I’m in charge while she’s gone.”

“Of course you are. Debbie says she doesn’t know what she’d do without you. She’s so grateful you stayed on after she bought the place last spring.”

Pleasure flooded through Kyra. Granted, she often heard sincere praise from the retired Army sergeant, but it was even more special knowing the woman shared her opinion in the small town. “The housekeeper only does the daily stuff and is off for the weekend. Debbie has a special project for your cleaning company on Friday. Her grandmother is coming to visit after the holiday and Debbie hoped you’d have time to prepare the guest suite off the kitchen for her.”

“No worries, as her daughters say. I’m grateful she kept me on after she hired Lupe Gonzales.” Linda placed the glass on the bar. “Would you like something to eat? The kitchen’s still open.”

Kyra hesitated. She was supposed to have dinner with Nick, but she was hungry, close to starving. Her day started with morning chores, feeding forty equines while her boss loaded her Jeep. She and the three girls left early to meet Debbie’s husband at the army base. From there, they’d head over the mountains to Pullman where Debbie’s stepsons attended college.

Once they’d gone, Kyra groomed and saddled the string of lesson horses. She’d taught horsemanship classes all day and afterwards, it’d been time to muck stalls, water and feed those same horses once again. Granted, she didn’t have to do it alone. Trina always did more than her share, plus they had a high school boy to help. The younger woman promised to look after the cats and dogs at Debbie’s house since their boss preferred to leave the pets at home, not take them on a road trip.

“Dinner?” Linda repeated. “Dad made chicken fettuccine, and I know it’s one of your favorites.”

“That sounds good.” Kyra lifted the glass, sipped chilled wine. “Have you seen Nick anywhere? He was going to…”

Linda froze for a moment before she picked up a damp towel to wipe the counter between them. “He hasn’t been in since last night.”

“We’re supposed to have dinner together,” Kyra said. “Everybody in town eats here at the cafe. Are you sure you haven’t seen him?”

The silence grew between them. Linda reluctantly shook her head. “He was hustling some gals playing pool last night and he left with one of them. You can do so much better than my cousin’s son.”

Kyra nearly admitted the truth. She didn’t want a different man. She wanted tall, blond, muscular Nick MacGillicudy, the raunchy, sexy man whose kisses set her on fire. She blinked hard, determined not to cry in the middle of a town where she was related to far too many of the citizenry. “Is there garlic toast to go with that pasta? Since I don’t have to worry about my breath, add a couple pieces along with a small house salad. Ranch dressing on the side, please.”

“You bet. I’ll order your dinner right now.”

***

Sergeant-Major Derek Waller hadn’t wanted to stop on the way to Baker City from Seattle. It’d been difficult enough fighting the rush-hour, followed by the holiday traffic. He appreciated the invitation to spend the weekend and have Thanksgiving dinner with Harry Colter, one of the other sergeants from Fort Bronson, the Army Reserve base in Seattle, and his family.

Otherwise, it’d be another plastic meal at a restaurant because there was no longer a dining facility at the old historical fort that protected the city for more than a century. Now, the different units were transitioning to various sites throughout Liberty Valley and the army post would become a park. Only the military cemetery would remain at Fort Bronson along with two buildings designated as a museum.

An orphan raised in a series of foster homes, Derek enlisted as soon as he could. He’d dreaded retirement after being in the Army for more than twenty years, so he joined the Active Guard-Reserve program and was in charge of various part-time military units for another eleven years. Harry was one of the newest liaisons assigned to the post after his career in the elite Army Rangers, and their experiences in combat ensured they had a lot in common.

Parking outside Pop’s Café, Derek headed into the lounge rather than the restaurant. He recognized the perky, middle-aged woman behind the bar as the owner’s daughter. The tall, classy blonde in a brilliant red dress sitting on a stool at one end definitely drew his attention. He didn’t know her, but he’d like to have the opportunity. He deliberately angled closer to where she sat, a nearly empty glass of white wine in front of her.

Derek eased onto the stool next to hers. “Are you ready for another one?”

“Not from someone I don’t know.” She turned an icy gray gaze on him. “Go away.”

“I just got here.” He grinned at her, entertained by the rejection. “How will you get to know me if I leave?”

“I’ll handle it.” She signaled the bartender. “Linda, I’m ready for my check.”

“I’ll have it for you in a few minutes.” Linda turned her attention to Derek. “Twila Garvey dropped off those cheesecakes Ann Barrett ordered and said you’d be along to pick them up. Bad traffic, huh?”

“And a late night at the base,” Derek agreed. “I barely made the PX in time to grab the case of wine her husband, Harry Colter wanted.”

“I’ll get those desserts. Meantime, Kyra O’Neill, play nice with others. Sergeant-Major Waller works nearly as hard as you do.” Linda paused. “Have you had dinner, Derek? Or do you want Pop to throw a burger on the grill for you?”

Grateful for the half-assed introduction, Derek nodded. “Sounds good. Then I won’t have to impose on Ann and Harry for a meal.” After the bartender walked away, he eyed the other woman again. “So, what do you do, Kyra?”

She picked up the glass in front of her and he admired the fact that she didn’t wear polish on her extremely short fingernails. He never had liked claws on women, especially red ones.

“I manage Miracle Riding Stable outside town,” Kyra said. “It’d serve Linda right if I did the ‘dine and dash’ routine, but she’d just send half my relatives after me. And because we barely speak except at holidays, I’m not in the mood for a lecture from the likes of them.”

He chuckled. “And being the perfect gentleman I am, I’d volunteer to pay for your drinks.”

“I also had dinner and a piece of Twila’s New York cheesecake for dessert.” Slight amusement flickered across her face, then faded. She scowled, but still looked amazing even when she was slightly pissed. “It hasn’t been a good night. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Guy’s an asshat.”

She blinked, shocked. “How did you know I was stood up?”

“Dump him. Anyone who’d blow off a date with you isn’t worth your time or effort.” He paused. “I bet you know little Princess Devon, Ann’s daughter.”

“She’s one of my best students,” Kyra admitted. “The girl has talent. She’s never a princess in my barn. She’s only seven and impresses me most of the time. You’re talking a kiddo who’s happy to brush, clean hooves and saddle up for herself. She even grabs the plastic fork and scoops poop if one of the horses takes a dump in the arena. Oh, crap. I probably shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Hey, I enjoyed it. Tell me more.”

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About the Author

Josie Malone lives and works at her family business, a riding stable in Washington State. Teaching kids to ride and know about horses, she finds in many cases, she's taught three generations of families. Her life experiences span adventures from dealing cards in a casino, attending graduate school to get her Masters in Teaching degree, being a substitute teacher, and serving in the Army Reserve - all leading to her second career as a published author. Visit her at her website, www.josiemalone.com to learn about her books. 

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Spotlight: Losing My Breath by J Rose Black

Genre: Contemporary Romance

A Marine never says die.

Neither does his princess.

Battle lines are drawn when sheltered debutante Meridian Daly moves across the hall from grumpy former special forces Marine Callan Brand. Situated a bit closer than advertised to 'crime alley', Meridian’s neighbor finds himself grudgingly guarding the pampered princess out of habit. But with her sharp wit and killer curves, he can’t help but surrender to temptation…

When their relationship evolves from casual courtship to something more, Callan finds that Meridian's already discovered his closely-guarded secret. But can he let go of his pride, and tell her the whole truth of who he is and what he’s done—in the name of honor and country?

As Callan’s scars start to reveal themselves, his life spirals beyond the careful control that's helped him survive—and kept those he cares about safe.

From him.

But this tough-in-a-tiara princess won't back down, even in Callan’s darkest hours. And Meridian just might prove to be more tenacious than a never-say-die Marine!

Excerpt

“You’re following me.” Callan placed the dumbbells on the mat and straightened.

His neighbor rolled her eyes as she stood. “I happen to work out every Tuesday and Thursday at this time.” She flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve seen you here.” She pointed at him with her water bottle.

Nice of her to offer. He grabbed the beverage, uncapped it, and took a nice long drink. “Thanks,” he said, and handed it back.

She glared. “Are you this big of a jerk to everyone here, or do I get some special treatment for living across the hall from you?”

“I thought you were offering it to me. It’s bad manners to point,” he said with a chuckle.

“You’re lecturing me on manners? The guy who can’t even introduce himself?” The frown on her face wasn’t even close to cross. She was clearly too good-natured for her own sake, and—if their interactions were any indication—she was also far too naïve. She shouldn’t be in a place like this. Maybe locked in some ivory princess tower, guarded by a monster.

Prissy Neighbor huffed as she stepped around him. She bent down, in those short running shorts with the open sides—to whip a pair of fifteen-pound dumbbells off the rack.

He sighed. Yet another one I’ll need to keep an eye on. Trouble will find her. I have zero doubts about that. The only question is: How bad will it be when it does?

He grimaced. It’s like she doesn’t even live in the same world. Where dark and twisted people exist, killing and preying on the weak. Innocents. She hefted one weight up to her shoulder, turning the grip as she went. But she slung the other dumbbell—engaging back muscles and using momentum to help propel the heavy weight.

She’s mad at me. So she’ll end up injuring herself. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your form is wrong.”

She met his gaze in the mirror. Sweat dripping from her temples like the rain on that day . .

His eyes drifted to his own reflection. A hard-assed former Marine glared back. She turned her back to him and repeated the awkward movement.

He sighed. “You should lower the weight and go slower. You’re slinging the dumbbell and not getting the full benefit of the effort.”

Prissy Neighbor pivoted and faced the mirror again. He could see her brain processing the information. Her first instinct, the stubborn side of her, stuck out her chin and glared, again, at his reflection. But her more reasonable side must have won out. She put the dumbbell back on the rack—with a loud clatter. Then she repeated the hammer-curl movement with the lower weight.

“You’ll get better results if—”

“What now?” She planted her free hand on her hip. Her lip curled into a snarl.

What do you know? She has some fight in her after all. “I can show you,” he offered.

She flipped the weight to her free hand, then met his gaze. One light-colored eyebrow rose. Another wave of heat flared in his abdomen.

He moved behind her, sliding his fingers along her tricep toward her forearm. He lifted the weight from her hand and set it beside her, then held her wrist in a straight line out from her shoulder. “Hold, right there.”

Warmth radiated from her skin in waves. Her pulse beneath his fingertips. The telltale flutter in her neck. Life. It mattered, was precious. And could be taken away in an instant. The urge to remain there, connected to another human being, stirred an ache in his chest. Her hair smells like strawberries and coconuts.

He fitted one palm against the back of her hand; the other held on to her elbow. “This isolates the bicep.” He helped her complete the movement without a weight.

“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.” Her knuckles tapped her shoulder. “Now down in one fluid movement.”

He helped her repeat it once more before retrieving the weight at her feet. She performed eight full reps, then switched hands. She met his gaze in the mirror as she executed the same movement—working the other bicep. He gave her a slight nod, and his reflection added an even smaller smile.

After finishing sixteen reps, she lifted one side of her mouth. “Thanks, Umbrella Guy.”

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About the Author

J. Rose Black weaves stories about obsession, redemption, and the transcendental power of love. From her early days writing fanfiction for a passionate following of international readers, to crafting novels with her own characters, Rose has always been drawn to broody protectors and plucky, nononsense women ready to fight for what they believe in. 

When Rose isn’t deeply immersed in her latest manuscript, she’s working in cyber security and thwarting the next generation of internet bad guys. Out of the office, she’s #Shipping with friends over her favorite, swoon-worthy couples, heading to the gym to battle the great evil that is Unmovable Baby Weight, or complaining about her husband’s addiction to 3D printing. Also: nagging her children to eat something other than cheese. 

To learn more about Rose’s stories and the characters and worlds visited in this book, check out her website: jroseblack.com 

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Spotlight: The Girl in the Vault: A Thriller by Michael Ledwidge

They stole her dream. Now getting it back will take the perfect crime.

It’s summer in New York City and Faye Walker has it all. She’s not only scored one of the most highly coveted internships in all of Wall Street, she’s also just met the head-over-heels love of her life. With her natural-born gift for numbers and a work ethic that knows no bounds, Faye is a shoo-in for a full-time position at the illustrious merchant bank Greene Brothers Hale. Then, just as she awaits her offer and her signing bonus, a treacherous betrayal arrives to shatter Faye’s plans and her young life.

But what her high finance masters-of-the-universe bosses don’t know is that Faye isn’t like any of the other interns. Having made her way past her humble small-town beginnings, for Faye, going back is not an option. That’s why Faye now has a new plan. One that involves Swiss watch timing, nerves of steel and ten million dollars in cold hard Wall Street cash.

Excerpt

PART ONE: SUMMER IN THE CITY

In New York City near the southwest corner of 63rd Street and Madison Avenue, there is a restaurant called Stella’s and when everything started, I was sitting in one of its coveted lime-green velvet booths.

It was coming on ten at night, and I was drinking a lemongrass daiquiri. In all my years on the planet up to that point, I’d never touched lemongrass or daiquiris. Until that summer. That summer it seemed like it’s all I drank.

“Should I get you ladies started on a new one?” asked our waiter.

Our waiter was named Tommy, and he was a fortysomething Italian guy with slicked back hair who had the vaguely menacing solemn look of a Sopranos extra. But intimidating demeanor aside, he was always exceptionally nice to us. And when I say us, I mean my work cubicle mate, Priscilla Hutton, who was sitting across from me.

Priscilla and Tommy were actually old pals as she had been partying here at Stella’s since her Birch Wathen Lenox private high school days.

I did some high school partying myself back in my small town in Kentucky. Just never at a place that had nine-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne on the menu and a VIP room described in New York magazine as “Hollywood East.”

“The answer to that is yes, Tommy,” Priscilla said. “My friend and I need two fresh jolts stat. If that’s okay with you, Faye.”

Sometimes I wonder about that question. I wonder about what would have happened if I’d gone back to my apartment instead of accepting.

Or even more importantly, about what wouldn’t have.

“I’m game if you are,” I said, smiling.

The second drink order surprised me. We usually had only one polite drink at the end of the week here, down the street from our job, and then parted ways.

It was part of our unspoken deal. I hooked up Priscilla by handling all of our incredibly high-pressure work stuff, and Priscilla hooked me up by letting me hang out with her a little.

Even though I was totally carrying her, it was a good deal on both ends because Priscilla was gorgeous and rich and knew everyone in New York. She’d actually been in society pages like Avenue magazine ever since high school, each time tan and perfect in an effortlessly stylish outfit that she just threw on after a day spent surfing or skiing or at the spa.

Priscilla was also one of those people who had that voice, that eastern establishment rich person voice, that some call Transatlantic or Boston Brahmin or Locust Valley lockjaw. Not a ton of it, not a pretentious amount, just a sophisticated hint, an elegant tinge, just enough.

It made her sound like a young Lauren Bacall or Bette Davis or someone. I loved just listening to her. It made you feel a little special just to hear her confide in you, as if only for a few moments, you were in the privileged people club, too.

I really didn’t even know why Priscilla had applied for, let alone accepted, our summer internship. It was extremely hard work, and she was kind of a ditz, so why not just take the Instagram influencer route? I often wondered.

I think it had something to do with her father’s business, some defense contractor aerospace company in Connecticut that made airplane parts. Maybe she needed some finance experience to become an executive there? Not that she had told me any of this, but I did have internet access.

She even pretended to be my friend. She shared fashion advice with me, which was a sorely needed lesson. And she also told me all these incredible stories about her days in prep school and Yale and Palm Beach and the Hamptons.

At least at the office. When she was in the mood.

“But another?” I said as Tommy left. “That’s okay, Priscilla. I know you have things to do. I should be going.”

“No, not yet. I owe you big time, Kemosabe. If you hadn’t remembered to recheck the Westland account for me before it went to the treasury team, that Aiken would have dragged me up the stairs of the boiler room by the scruff of my neck.”

It was true. She had screwed up big time. One of our biggest hedge fund clients wanted $130 million wired into their Cayman account, but Priscilla had boneheadedly put in the account numbers of a completely different fund instead. Getting a number wrong here and there wasn’t a problem. Sending money into another fund’s account was. If it had gone through, the money could have instantly disappeared without a trace with no way to unwind it, and our client could have been out $130 million.

“Oh, that,” I said. “Don’t mention it. Anytime. I was looking for something to do anyway.”

That’s when Priscilla looked at me, and we both completely lost it.

Oh, we laughed then all right. Practically until the lemongrass came from our nostrils.

Looking for something to do, I thought, shaking my aching head.

That was a phrase I used way back in the normal life I led before I accepted the summer internship at the venerated Wall Street private investment bank, Greene Brothers Hale, nearly three months before.

Our musty-smelling windowless basement office a few blocks down Madison Avenue really did look like a boiler room or maybe something out of a Dickens poorhouse. Only with computers and phones on our cheap desks instead of dusty ledger books.

And out of these electronic torture devices, all day—for pretty much twelve hours straight from eighty-seven different pissed-off, stressed-out directions at once—came numbers.

The stress and anger directed our way was due to the fact that the numbers represented money. Profoundly massive amounts of money from hedge funds or institutional investors or just really, really rich people. This money either needed to be placed into our bank’s fat cat VIP client accounts or taken out of them and sent other places, places like the Cayman Islands or Switzerland.

You’d think this given task was simple enough like we were mere bank tellers, just moving around much larger sums.

But you would be wrong.

Each incoming or outgoing bank transfer had to be placed in its proper slot. Each one processed through a verification process wrapped in an amount of red tape to make your eyes bleed. Emails with these numbers had to go to the proper people for due diligence verifications. All in the proper order. Yesterday. Or else.

It was the volume of the orders. It was staggering. The air traffic controllers out at Kennedy airport had less to juggle.

Or maybe it was the unhinged wrath of the psychopathic traders and other finance people on the upper floors of our building who kept calling down to see if the transfers had cleared.

Where the hell was the money? they wanted to know. What the hell was wrong with us? Did they actually have to f-ing come down there?

Every morning when I sat down and looked at my newly filled inbox of waiting orders, I thought about the Greek hero, Sisyphus, cursed to eternally roll his rock up that hill.

In envy.

Was he a summer Wall Street intern, too? I would wonder.

And did I mention all of this labor and misery was being extracted from me gratis?

That was the kicker. Since it was an unpaid internship, we were only doing it for the possibility of maybe getting a full-time entry level job as a junior investment analyst.

My skin was being flayed for free.

As I sat there that Friday, attempting to cool my smoking brain with rum and lemongrass syrup, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been duped.

Because I thought I was going to be a swashbuckling Wall Street pirate.

Instead, I’d been shanghaied and thrown into the slave galley to row.

Excerpted from The Girl in the Vault. Copyright © 2023 by Michael Ledwidge. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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About the Author

MICHAEL LEDWIDGE is the writer of seventeen novels, the last dozen being New York Times bestsellers cowritten with one of the world’s bestselling authors, James Patterson. With twenty million copies in print, their Michael Bennett series is the highest-selling New York City detective series of all time. One of their novels, Zoo, became a three-season CBS television series. He lives in Connecticut.

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Spotlight: Her Dying Kiss by Jennifer Chase

Publisher: Bookouture

Publication Date: July 17, 2023

Pages: 370

Genre: Crime Fiction/Thriller

She wakes to the dawn light streaming through the window and rolls over to whisper good morning to her fiancé. But panic floods her veins. His side of the bed is empty and cold. Blood trails towards the open door. All trace of him is gone…

It’s been one month since Detective Katie Scott’s fiancé, Chad, went missing without a trace. Devastated Katie is still working tirelessly day and night to track down the love of her life, barely sleeping and chasing every new lead. But now the case has gone cold.

When the body of beautiful Gina Hartfield is discovered among the pine needles in a clearing on Lookout Ridge, Katie swallows her own pain and knows she must focus on finding Gina’s killer. The young woman was found with a pink velvet blindfold shading the hollows where her eyes had been removed. Katie is certain she is chasing a sadistic individual who will soon take another life…

But the autopsy reveals Gina’s body was washed before being abandoned, leaving no trace of evidence behind. And with no witnesses to Gina’s disappearance, the women of Pine Valley are terrified to go out alone.

Desperately combing the crime scene, when Katie sees a newspaper article about her previous cases pinned to a nearby tree, she is certain Gina’s murder is personal. Then tire tracks found in the forest are matched to a truck seen following Chad in the days leading up to his disappearance. Katie’s blood runs cold.

Is there a link between Chad’s disappearance and Gina’s brutal murder, or is the killer playing a twisted game with Katie? Can she find out the truth before they take another life?

Excerpt:

Chapter One

One Month Later

Tuesday 1130 hours

There was a dead body, which was the focus of the synchronized police search. A deceased woman had been found by the utility company during their routine check and maintenance of the meters along the roadway. The body was efficiently wrapped in a large piece of dark brown burlap that had been rolled several times leaving only her head exposed. If not looking closely you would misinterpret the body dump for some type of discarded rug.

The victim was a brunette woman with long, perfectly combed hair with the strands resting on the burlap. At first, it seemed she was relaxed and had merely gone to sleep when, in fact, there were pink velvet pieces of fabric covering her eyes, as if shading her view of something.

John Blackburn, Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department’s forensic supervisor, kneeled down and carefully lifted one of the pieces of velvet, revealing the dark empty socket the eyeball had once occupied. The eye had been cleanly detached. It gave the body a more macabre appearance than the usual fixed eye stares of the dead.

John’s face was deeply sad and his mouth was turned down as he prepared to take a few more photos to document the scene before the medical examiner’s office took possession.

He carefully circled the body, taking the appropriate photographs—overall, medium range, then close-up—before collecting any evidence he could find. The young woman looked to be resting as the late afternoon sunshine cast down on her face. Her complexion, pale and ashen, appeared to be scrubbed clean, giving her a waxy doll-like exterior. There were no evident signs of makeup, dirt or blood on her face.

The south district area of Pine Valley was known for several warehouses that had been empty now for more than six months after a manufacturing company had vacated to a newer and more modern facility in an adjacent town. The front area to the one where the body had been found was overgrown, the weeds a few feet tall and garbage strewn around from where it had fallen out of an overturned, rusted-out dumpster. The dreary grey building looked more like emergency bunkers from a long time ago than a plant that had recently manufactured automotive parts.

Parked along the cracked driveway leading to the loading docks were several police cruisers, county vehicles and the forensic van. The main area of interest was near one of the loading bays. There were numerous cones and flags around, marking various pieces of evidence for photography documentation. The emergency personnel monitored the area and were conducting grid searches and making sure that no one was in or around the area that wasn’t supposed to be there, in addition to searching for more potential evidence. Everyone moved with precision and unity for the common goal of maintaining the crime scene.

“What do you think, John?” asked Detective McGaven. His towering height made him noticeable from a distance. His badge and gun were attached to his belt. “Is it the same as the other at Lookout Ridge?”

John walked up to the detective and nodded slowly. “We won’t know for sure until the body is unrolled and examined under controlled conditions, and I can run some tests… but, the signature appears to be similar if not the same, with the removed eyes.”

McGaven scratched his head, still observing the latest victim. His thoughts returned to his partner, Detective Katie Scott, and how he wished she were there examining the crime scene. Her perspective, instincts, and experience over the past year and half had been more than exemplary—her methods sometimes bordering on unorthodox, but always getting results. He had left several messages for her in hopes that she would open communications and ultimately return to work. His expression was solemn. It was as if a part of him was missing without her. He wanted to go to her house, but respected her need for privacy at this difficult time.

“Wish Katie was here?” said John watching the detective closely.

McGaven looked at the forensic supervisor and nodded. “How’d you know?”

“I feel it too. It seems strange not having her here.” He gazed around the area as if he expected to see Katie appear.

“Anything new with this scene?”

John shook his head. “Not that I can see right now. But we’ll know more soon.”

McGaven was disappointed, but knew that John would do everything he could to find any evidence. The last thing the detective wanted was for these homicides to go cold. He turned away and saw Detective Hamilton speaking with the utility workers. It wasn’t his optimum partnership, but he respected the detective and would overlook personality differences to make it work. “Thanks, John,” he said as he walked away, moving carefully around the area, looking for possible entrances and exit locations of the killer.

A young blonde woman with short hair was bent over taking a tire impression with a type of dental stone, waiting for it to harden. She looked up when McGaven approached. “Hi, Detective,” she said and smiled.

“How’s it going, Eva?”

“Good. This is my third impression. Two were consistent to each other and this one is different and definitely older. It’s probably not the killer’s, but John said we needed to be thorough.”

McGaven nodded. “I agree. If this crime scene is connected to the other one at Lookout Ridge, then we need the evidence to tie them together.”

“Ten-four,” she said and continued her task.

McGaven saw that Hamilton was speaking with the officers first on the scene so he took the opportunity to check out around the building. Everything was extremely overgrown, looking more as though it had been abandoned for years, not months. The weeds were extremely tall and had folded over due to their height and weight. There was an area where pallets, recyclable materials, and miscellaneous pieces of metal equipment had been stacked in the deserted area.

Still walking carefully, he was trying not to step on something potentially hazardous or possibly evidence-oriented. The further he walked the quieter it became—the voices around the crime scene seemed to settle to a low hum as he studied the back area. The sun was high and beat down on him making perspiration trickle down his back. He kept walking, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He thought about what Katie would do—he had been with her at many crime scenes and knew she would try to get a sense of the area, to look for places where the killer might have been.

The back of the building looked much like the front except more weather-beaten. The grey paint faded in areas and the windows on the second floor were dirty with some broken out. He observed the inconsistencies of the exterior of the building. Even though there wasn’t any graffiti to deface the area, the elements had caused rough and weathered places resembling an industrial mosaic appearance.

As he perused the area, he noticed a trail where weeds had been trampled, not by animals, but by something bigger. A person. Stopping in his tracks, he systematically scanned the area. There were no other signs indicating disruption to the weeds, so he cautiously moved forward. He spotted some paper or a piece of garbage rolled up tightly and wedged into the crevice of an exterior vent. It could have been easily missed or even dismissed, but something in McGaven’s gut made him take notice. He was going to alert John and Eva in order to have them search and document the area, but his instinct drove him to verify the origins of the paper first after quickly taking a photo of it with his cell phone.

Taking two more steps to meet up with the wall, he retrieved his gloves and slipped them on, and then carefully touched the paper. Leaning in, McGaven noticed that it appeared to be consistent to ordinary computer paper that had something printed on it. It wasn’t weathered and the printing was dark and readable. In fact, the paper appeared to be recent.

McGaven gently unrolled the paper. The condition and edges were as if it had been placed recently – there were no folds or fragile areas. As he continued to unroll it, he saw it was an article most likely printed from the internet. To his shock, the title read: Pine Valley Detectives Solve Three Murders in Coldwater Creek.

McGaven took a step back—his senses were now heightened as he glanced around, surmising that the killer had placed this article for them to find.

Why?

Was it the killer’s calling card? Was he taunting the police?

Was there another article hidden at the previous crime scene at Lookout Ridge they had missed?

The article concerned the last case that he and Katie had worked in a neighboring town. All the details flowed through his mind. It had been tough and dangerous. He carefully replaced the paper where he had found it and hurried to alert John.

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About the Author

Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning and USA Today Best Selling crime fiction author, as well as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master's degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent psychopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling. 

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