Excerpt: Tempt Me Eternally

Title: Tempt Me Eternally

Author: Gena Showalter

Date of Publication: June 2, 2014

Formats Available: E-book

Buy This Book: Amazon

Synopsis: The huntress becomes the hunted in this sizzling paranormal romance from New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Gena Showalter, previously published as part of the Deep Kiss of Winter anthology with #1 New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole, now available as a stand-alone ebook!
With only skin-to-skin contact, Aleaha Love can change her appearance, assuming any identity. As an AIR (Alien Investigation and Removal) agent, her newest mission is to capture a group of otherworldly warriors. So imagine her surprise when the hunter becomes the hunted, and she’s taken captive by dangerously seductive Breean, a golden-skinned, iron-willed commander, who threatens everything Aleaha stands for—and makes her want to be only herself, for the first time in her life.

 Excerpt:

They were coming.

Warriors unlike any other. Monsters of unimaginable power. Otherworlders. Fierce creatures with the ability to look inside your soul, glimpse your greatest fear, and present it to you with an unrepentant smile.

Should’ve stayed home, Aleaha Love thought. ’Cause we’re gonna get spanked. Hard. And not in a good way. Instead, she’d answered her cell and her captain’s call to action, and now found herself crouched in the middle of a gnarled forest, staring into a snow-laden clearing, moonlight shooting bright amber rays in every direction as flakes wafted in the breeze like fairy dust.

Though she wore white from head to toe, had a pyre-gun stretched forward, and was burrowed in a drift as cover, she felt exposed. Vulnerable. And yeah, damn cold.

What in the hell did I get myself into?

“Everyone in position?” a voice whispered from her headset.

A whisper, yeah, but it startled her. She managed to cut off a yelp, but couldn’t stop tremors from sweeping through her. Steady.She’d never hear the end of it if she accidentally fired her weapon before the fight had even begun.

“Premature weapon ejaculation,” they’d say with a chuckle, and she wouldn’t be able to deny it.

One by one, twenty teammates uttered their assent. They had wicked cool nicknames like Hawk Eye and Ghost. Her turn, she said, “Lollipop, in place.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dress her up and watch her play bad alien, delicious cop,” the boys had laughed before giving her the stupid moniker her first day on the job. “Naughty lawbreakers will want to taste her, not outrun her.”

That had been, what? Five weeks ago, she realized with a jolt. Oh, how life had changed since then. From hiding in the shadows, afraid of what she was, to working cases with New Chicago’s elite team of smart-asses, content with her somewhat pampered existence. A pampered existence she didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned, but whatever. No guilt for her. Really.

“Need someone to snuggle against, Lolli?” a quiet, amused male voice asked. Devyn, supposedly a king of some sort and a self-proclaimed collector of women. He wasn’t really a member of Alien Investigation and Removal but was a special contractor, as well as the man who’d once wired her gun to blow bubbles rather than fire at target practice.

Word on the street, he was more powerful than God and deadlier than the devil, though no one would tell her outright what he could do. He was an otherworlder, that much she knew. That, and most of AIR’s flunkies kept their distance from him. They feared him, which only heightened Aleaha’s need to keep her own secrets.

She, too, was different.

She didn’t know whether she was human or alien. Or both. She didn’t know whether there were others like her or not. She didn’t know who her parents were or why they’d abandoned her on the dirty streets of the Southern District—a.k.a Whore’s Corner—of New Chicago, and she didn’t care. Not anymore. All she knew was that she could assume anyone’s identity with only a touch. That person’s face became hers; their height became hers; their body became hers.

For years, she’d lived in fear of being found out, of being hunted and tortured for her unnatural ability, afraid that everyone who looked at her saw the truth and knew she wasn’t who she claimed to be. But she couldn’t drop the mask. As herself, she was wanted for theft, assault against a police officer, and more theft. And then maybe kinda sorta murder. Not that she was culpable. He’d deserved it.

She’d rather lose a limb than spend any more time in jail.

Her fear of discovery was waning, though, and she was settling comfortably into her newest life as Macy Briggs. Maybe one day I’ll even be worthy of it. Again, not that she felt guilty. Really.

But with Christmas only a few weeks away . . . ugh. Worst. Holiday. Ever. Her “friends” would bake Macy’s favorite foods, not Aleaha’s. They would give her gifts meant for Macy, and reminisce fondly about good ole days she knew nothing about, and she would have to smile through every minute of it. And yeah, okay. Fine. Then she would feel guilty.

“What, ignoring me?” Devyn said with another of those snarky laughs. “Wasn’t like I was going to ask to feel you up or anything. I mean, I was just gonna surprise you with my handsiness.”

God, she was on the job, yet she’d lost track of her thoughts. Mortifying. “Can you take nothing seriously?”

“Hello, have you met me? I take making out very seriously.”

All the men on the line snorted in their attempts to muffle their laughter. They might be wary of him, but they couldn’t help but enjoy his perverted sense of humor.

“Fuck you, Chuckles,” she said, trying not to reveal her amusement. Irreverent bastard.

“Excellent. We’re on the same page, because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do to you.”

Give herself to Devyn? Not in this lifetime, and not because he wasn’t attractive. If anything, he was too attractive. Hell, he was total screw-like-ananimal perfection. Tall, with dark hair, wide amber eyes, and skin that glittered like a jewel; there was no one else like him. There was a recipe for his smile, though: wicked desire dipped in acid, wrapped in steel and sprinkled with candy. The recipe for his laughter? Well, that was wicked desire tossed in the gutter, wrung out in a whorehouse, and slathered with scented body lotion. Women threw themselves at him constantly, and he ate it up like they were his own personal smorgasbord.

They probably were. Thank God she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Or, rather, a lover, since that’s all someone as fickle as Devyn could ever amount to. Macy—the real Macy—had been dating a piece of scum Aleaha was still trying to lose and she didn’t have the time or patience to throw anyone else into the mix.

“Temper, temper,” Jaxon Tremain chided. He was one of two agents who hung out with the sexy otherworlder, and the resident smoother. There was something unnaturally calming about his presence, as if he could slink inside a person’s psyche and wash away her fears. “Would you kiss me with that mouth?”

“Funny,” she said dryly.

She could hear the others chortling and snorting with more surprised amusement. Someone said,

“Soliciting kisses from women, Jaxon? Mishka will kill you for that.”

“If by kill you mean seduce, then yeah,” Jaxon replied. “You’re right.”

Mishka was Jaxon’s wife and a hired killer who possessed a robotic arm. Aleaha had only seen her once, but that had been enough to scare ten years off her life. Never had she seen eyes so cold or heard a voice so uncaring. Of course, the moment Mishka spied Jaxon, her entire demeanor had changed. So had Jaxon’s, for that matter. Usually he was as con- servative as a priest. One glance at Mishka, though, and he’d morphed into gutter man.

Aleaha had marveled at the change in him, a change she was witnessing once again. Empathetic as he was, perhaps he was veering onto the perverted track now to get her mind off the bloody massacre sure to begin. Apparently, though, she didn’t need help today. She couldn’t concentrate worth a damn. What was wrong with her?

“Well,” Devyn said, drawing the spotlight back to him. As always. “Be a good lollipop and answer the man. Will you kiss him or not?”

“I could give you a list of all the things I’ll never do to you with my mouth,” she muttered. “How ’bout that?”

Devyn laughed, and, yep. It was wicked desire. “She reminds me of Mia when she talks like that. Tell us, Lolli, is that list for everyone or just Jaxon?”

“All right, team,” Mia Snow herself interjected before Aleaha could reply. “Save it. You know I only want you to stun these men. Do not burn them. I repeat, do not burn them. An open wound will bleed and that will spread their infection. And believe me, I will kill every single one of you myself if that happens.”

There was a moment of frightening silence. Infection. What a delightful reminder. Not only were the warriors coming here vicious, there was a possibility that they were bringing the plague with them.

“Good,” Mia continued. “I’ve got your attention. Solar flare approaching in ten.” She was inside a van about a mile away, watching the action on a night- vision monitor with a handful of backup agents. “Nine.”

Aleaha tensed. A few months ago, a big case had busted wide open and AIR had learned that otherworlders were traveling to Earth through interworld wormholes that initiated with solar flares. Then, a few weeks after that, another case had come to light. Members of a race of aliens known as the Schön had descended, their bodies carriers of a virus that passed to humans through their blood and ejaculate. This virus turned men and women into cannibals. Their queen—or living host of this sickness—was on her way here, due to arrive in the near future.

Tonight, ten members of her horde were supposed to utilize one of those wormholes. Their purpose: to smooth the way for her. Which meant, destroying AIR.

“Six.”

Shit. The countdown. Despite the frigid temperatures, sweat beaded on Aleaha’s brow, dripping from the brim of the white cap she wore. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.

“Five.”

Though her résumé claimed she’d worked as a cop for more than two years, this was actually Aleaha’s first mission.

What seemed forever ago but had only been a few months, she’d stumbled upon the body of a woman who’d been raped and killed in a back alley—a woman she’d recognized as Miss New Chicago’s Finest in Uniform calendar girl, Macy Briggs.

She’d almost walked away. The higher the public profile, the more scrutiny she received. But . . .

Already tired of the adult-toy-store clerk identity she’d previously stolen, Aleaha had seized the chance to better herself, hiding the body and shifting so that she was an exact match to Macy’s appearance, thereby claiming the woman’s life as her own.

Only later had she learned that Macy had applied to AIR and been accepted. To back out would have looked suspicious and changing identities yet again hadn’t appealed. So she’d done it. She’d attended that first day, then the next. And the next. They’d watched her suspiciously, as if they knew the truth, but they had never accused her and she’d realized she was probably paranoid. Soon they’d even relaxed, accepting her as one of their own. Now, here she was, done with trials and on mission one.

“—was actually your warm-up,” Mia said, cutting into her thoughts. “Ten. Nine.”

Shit. She’d missed the end of the first countdown? She was practically begging to be killed tonight.

“Seven. Six.”

Oh, God. What if she did, in fact, die out here? What if she lost everything she’d worked so hard to gain? Her gun hand shook. You have to stay calm, damn it.

With bouts of extreme emotion, she shifted from one identity to another without any control. “Four. Remember, guns set to stun and only stun.”

Her pyre-gun was already dialed to the proper setting, so she curled her index finger around the trigger and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. Breathe in, breathe out. You do know how to fire a weapon, at least. A skill she’d learned from her only true friend, Bride McKells. A vampire, and her champion. They’d been separated more than a decade ago, chased apart by cops who’d caught them breaking into homes for food, and Aleaha hadn’t been able to find her since. She’d never stop looking, though.

“One.”

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Excerpt: Hollow

Title: Hollow

Author: Ava Conway

Date of Publication: April 18, 2013

Formats Available: E-book

Buy This Book:  Amazon

Synopsis:  Girl, Interrupted meet Beautiful Disaster in this thrilling and sexy debut novel, in which a college student learns her perfect life is a lie and finds new love where she least expects it—a mental institution.

Freaks, misfits, and psychopaths. Those are the kinds of people found at Newton Heights Psychiatric Hospital, and high-society girl Lucy White’s new home.

Freaks, misfits, and Jayden McCray. Jayden has his own set of rules for life at Newton Heights, and in this enigma, Lucy finds a way to live with the events that left her cheating boyfriend and best friend dead—and Lucy in the middle of the investigation into their demise.

The problem? Jayden makes her want things she’s not supposed to have, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality and making Lucy feel more at home in Newton Heights than she ever did at home. But this isn’t how her life is supposed to be…

Excerpt:

“AFTER I PRESSED the accelerator, things get a little fuzzy,” I said.

“Hmm . . .” The lawyer twirled his monogrammed pen between his fingers and scribbled something into his notebook. “The same thing’s written in the police report.”

I tried to move my hands, but remembered they were strapped to the bed. After I ripped all the lifesaving tubes out of my arms last night, the hospital staff wanted to make sure I didn’t do anything so stupid again.

“Does it look as bad as the papers are suggesting?” My father pushed his fingers through his hair, which had turned more salt than pepper since I had gone to college.

The lawyer slapped his notebook shut and slid it into his leather briefcase. “You know the media will exaggerate anything to get a story. Although I have to admit, an attempted suicide one week after the accident won’t help her defense.” He clicked the briefcase shut with a loud, purposeful snap and smoothed his designer suit. “The jury will think she has a guilty conscience.”

“Come on, honey. Think.” My mother drew her neatly trimmed brows together, bringing attention to her large, round eyes. Normally my mother’s baby blues were her best feature, but the clumpy mascara and bronze eye shadow she’d chosen that morning made her look tired and worn out.

“There must be something else you remember. Some little bit of information that could help the police drop the charges.” She took my hand with her long, manicured fingers. People said that we looked alike, but besides the raven-colored hair and blue eyes, I didn’t see very much in common. It was almost as if we came from two different worlds. Hers was stoic and orderly. Mine was a neurotic mess.

I shook my head and turned to the lawyer. “There’s nothing more.” My voice sounded hoarse and strained.

Probably because of all the tubes they had to jam down my throat while trying to keep me alive.

My father swore and started pacing the hospital room. Even tired he looked magnificent, like some great stallion in an Armani suit. His angular features, tanned skin and outgoing personality drew people to him and made him an outstanding lobbyist. It was a damn shame that it was for show. Only my mom and I knew that the charismatic lobbyist waged an inner war with himself every night, armed with his trusty bottle of bourbon and a Cuban cigar.

“Your friend was right. You shouldn’t have been driving that night.” The lawyer leaned against the bottom of the bed and arched his brow. “None of you should have.” The highhanded tone grated on my nerves. All my life I had been trying to live up to my parents’ impossibly high standards.

The last thing I needed was this greasy-looking rent-a-lawyer talking to me in such a condescending tone. I opened my mouth to tell him this, but was cut off by my father.

“They can’t prove she was driving,” he said. “The car flipped over and no one was wearing a seat belt.”

“He’s right.” My mother dropped my hand and stood. “The other two were thrown from the car.”

“I know, and that’s why there’s still a chance of overturning the manslaughter charges.” The lawyer studied me for a long moment with his beady, green eyes. From day one, I didn’t like this guy. It wasn’t just that he was conceited or condescending, it was how he always seemed to be calculating his next step, as if life was this massive board game and he was playing to win. While I had no doubt that his decisions were the best for him and his law practice, I wondered if they were the best for me.

My mother certainly seemed to think so. She hung on his every word.

“What if we send her away to live with extended family for a while?” she asked. “It will keep her out of the press until things calm down.”

“No,” my father said. “We can’t send her out of state while she’s facing charges.”

“You have no relatives close by?” the lawyer asked.

“We moved away from them to be closer to work,” my mother explained.

I didn’t like how these people were discussing my future as if I wasn’t in the room. “I don’t need to hide from the press.”

“Don’t be silly, Lucy,” my mother said. “You know we can’t afford the negative publicity right now. If you stay with us, then reporters will set up tents on our lawn, waiting for some crumb of information that they could use to tear us down.”

“She’s right, unfortunately,” my father said. “We have to find a way to keep her in state, but out of the public eye until this all blows over.”

“I’m twenty-two. I can handle myself.”

“Of course you can, dear,” my mother soothed. “Now hush, we’re thinking.”

The lawyer studied my face. Uneasiness crawled over my skin as his beady eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I’ve got it.”

“What?” my parents both asked at the same time.

The lawyer’s gaze never left mine as he addressed my parents. “Is there any history of mental illness in the family?”

“Of what?” My mother stiffened and exchanged glances with my father.

“Of mental illness,” the lawyer repeated, turning toward her. “If there is, I could talk to her doctor about arranging an evaluation while we wait for a court date.” He straightened away from the bed railing and began to pace. “If we can prove she’s mentally unstable, it would help with the defense.” He drummed his fingers together as he walked, as if closing a steel trap.

“You want to put my daughter in a loony bin?” My mother swayed and grabbed the bed railing.

“Not a loony bin—a mental hospital. And only if she needs it.” The lawyer cracked his knuckles. The loud noise reminded me of how both of Bethany’s legs had been broken in the crash. “Yes, putting her in an upscale institution like Newton Heights until the investigation is over will help gain sympathy for our cause.”

“Newton Heights. That’s where that celebrity went last year when she announced she was being treated for depression, isn’t it?” my father asked.

“Yes, but . . .” My mother waved her hand in the air, as if struggling to find the right words.

“It’s expensive, but for those who can afford the high costs, it offers a sanctuary from the outside world.” The lawyer waved his hands to the sides and flashed his slick smile. “There’s also a teaching hospital on site, so if she should need physical treatment . . .” The implication was clear. If I was ever to try to kill myself again, emergency personnel would be on site to save my life.

Fear sliced through me at the thought of going to Newton Heights. I didn’t want to be locked away with all of the crazy people, like some reject in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I wasn’t sure what they did to patients at Newton Heights, but if it was anything like that movie, I wanted no part of it.

“I’m not going.” My voice sounded small and weak to my ears.

“You might not have a choice in the matter, kid,” the lawyer said. “Not if you want to beat these charges.”

My father bowed his head and ran his hand over his face. “I can’t believe this is happening to us again . . .”

“Clark—”

My father lowered his arm and nodded to me. “She’s turning out just like him.”

“Who?” I asked.

The air became thick with tension. I switched my focus from my father to my mother, but neither was willing to expand on my father’s mutterings. Instead they stood there, staring at each other, and I couldn’t help but think that some silent war was being waged in front of me.

“Mom, what’s Dad talking about? I’m turning out like who?” Hair fell into my eyes. I shook my head, trying to remove the offending strands from my field of vision.

“Whom,” my mother corrected, her gaze still fixed on my father.

“I was so convinced Lucy would turn out differently . . .”

The vein in my father’s temple pulsed, but otherwise his face remained an expressionless mask.

My mother let go of the bed railing and put her hand on my father’s arm. “Clark, she is different—”

“Would someone tell me what’s going on?” I raised my voice, desperate for some answers.

“We can’t keep up appearances under so much scrutiny.”

My father unfolded his arms and placed his hand over hers. “No.”

I tried to sit up, but the restraints forced me back on the pillows. “Mom, what’s he talking about?”

My mother moved to my side. “Not now, Lucy.” She swiped the hair from my face and smiled reassuringly. “To answer your question, Mr. Jameson, yes, there’s a history of mental illness in the family, but I will die before that information is leaked to the press.” Her voice was a sharp contrast to the gentleness of her touch.

“There’s no need to tell the press,” the lawyer reassured her. “Just the doctor. All we need is an evaluation.” He glanced at me. “Since she’s technically not a minor, we’ll also need her signature.”

“Leave that to me,” my father said.

A disoriented feeling settled into my core as I mentally flipped through all of my extended family members. “Who was mentally unstable?” I whispered to my mother. “Was it

Aunt Heather? Cousin Paul?”

“Not now, Lucy.” My mother turned to the lawyer. Her face became a cool, expressionless mask. “Will that be all, Mr. Jameson?”

The lawyer shifted his gaze between the three of us, as if weighing his options. “For now, yes. The police are still going through evidence at the crime scene. They’ll probably want to question her again at some point.”

“What happens if Lucy’s found guilty?” my father asked.

“Vehicular manslaughter is a serious crime. It would most likely involve prison time.”

My mouth went dry. Prison?

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Excerpt: Knight of Love

Title: Knight of Love

Author: Catherine LaRoche

Date of Publiaction: June 9, 2014

Formats Available: E-book

Buy This Book: Amazon

Synopsis: In this saucy romance, an English lady turns the damsel-in-distress tale on its head as she escapes her malicious fiancé and fights for both her life and that of the lustful rebel that has become her protector.

Lady Lenora Trevelyan, a naïve yet stubborn young lady born to the highest noble houses of England and Germany, finds herself betrothed to the brutal Prince Kurt von Rotenburg-Gruselstadt. But after she is cruelly bruised and flogged by her fiancé, she decides to take the reins of her fate. In the midst of a German revolution, Lenora escapes Kurt’s iron fist and embarks home to England. She quickly finds herself in the hands of a rebel group and their robust, gentle, and handsome leader, Wolfram von Wolfsbach und Ravensworth, the English Earl of Ravensworth.

Lenora struggles to deny the passion she feels towards the frustratingly chivalrous Earl but her desire for him continues to bloom. Wolfram hungers nothing other than to fight for democracy and civil rights in uniting Germany and to protect what he assumes is his damsel in distress. Through nights of immeasurable pleasure, Lenora and Wolfram learn that their passion is no match for the revolutionary chaos that ensues. And when Lenora discovers that her protector’s life is threatened, she must risk everything to save her Knight of Love.

Excerpt:

The German Confederation

February 1848

The first lash robbed her of breath.

The second granted her freedom.

If he’d go so far as to have her publicly flogged, she owed him no further loyalty. Any obligation remaining from their betrothal contact ended here, in this moment, with this lash.

Morally, she was free.

Now all she had to do was escape the bastard and make him pay.

As the second stroke landed, fire replaced the shock, and a hot slick of pain bloomed across her back. The coarse linen shift that a spying maid had forced her into provided no protection. It offered little modesty, either, from the uneasy crowd Kurt had gathered inside the castle gates to witness her punishment. She gritted her teeth and refused to cry out. A rough rope bound her wrists above her head to the flogging post. As her knees buckled, the  binding made her perversely glad; she doubted she could stand upright on her own.

Before arriving at this godforsaken pile of German stone, she—Lady Lenora Trevelyan, eldest child to the Duke and Duchess of Sherbrooke, third cousin to Queen Victoria’s German consort, His Royal Highness Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha—had never been struck in her life. Now, in her three months at Schloss  Rotenburg, she’d lost count of her bruises.

At first, before her parents had returned home to England, Kurt hadn’t hit her—or “corrected her,” as it pleased that smug worm to call his slaps and blows. He claimed it was for her own good, of course, to teach and prepare her for her life as hisPrinzessin and mistress of Rotenburg.

She must carry out her duties perfectly, he’d hiss, tightening a grip on her arm until she knew she’d wear a band of purple bruises for a week. Or he’d strike out in sudden fury at some perceived failure of hers—she’d forgotten the name of one of his sainted ancestors in the castle’s gloomy portrait gallery, or made a minor grammatical mistake in her German, or not shown proper courtesy to a visiting Bürgermeister.

Tied now to the flogging post, she lost count after the third blow. She’d seen the long leather strap when the stable master, shamefaced, had bound her with muttered apologies and handed the lash to a muscled groom more accustomed to cracking it around stubborn horses than using it to beat highborn ladies. Now she could barely feel the individual strokes as they landed, only the waves of hot agony clenching her back and shoulders in a vise grip of pain.

Through the red haze blurring her vision, she saw Kurt standing nearby. Next to him, his sanctimonious toady minister prattled the Bible proverb of the virtuous wife whose price was far above rubies. The gleeful, twisted pleasure Kurt took in her pain radiated off his stork-like form like a sickening stench. She bit down on her lip and gathered her hatred of her fiancé like a babe to her breast.

It was all she had left to get her out of this hell.

When Kurt finally held up a hand to signal the groom to cease, her labored breath echoed in the silent crowd. She knew the townspeople didn’t approve of the public beating their prince had commanded for his foreign betrothed. No more than they believed his story that she’d agreed to a religious flagellation in humble preparation for becoming his pious and obedient wife. But Prince Kurt von Rotenburg-Gruselstadt ruled the castle and town with an iron fist. None would risk their lord’s wrath to stand up for her.

Kurt stepped to the front of the dais. “Lady Lenora bears her trial most nobly,” he announced to the crowd. “Her embrace of her suffering does honor to a bloodline that unites the highest noble houses of England and Germany.”

That bloodline, she knew well, was why he’d chosen her. The prig made no secret of his disdain for any born below the upper aristocracy. The Holy Roman emperor himself, Kurt often delighted to inform her, had conferred the title of Prinz upon the House of Rotenburg-Gruselstadt in the previous century. Her own background had led the matchmakers to judge them a perfect pair: her father’s ancient ducal title intermingled, like that of so many English peers these days, with noble blood from her Prussian princess mother.

No one had thought to mention that her fiancé had the temperament of a petulant demon on a bad day in hell.

As Kurt stalked toward her, she forced her knees to straighten. She was done being afraid of this man. He pulled back the torn linen shift to inspect her back. Despite her resolve not to cry out, she gasped as the frayed edges stuck to her skin.

“Beautiful work,” he murmured into her ear. “This is what a woman should look like. Chastised to a man’s authority, marked to her proper place.”

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Excerpt: Deceptive Innocence

Title: Pure Sin #1: Deceptive Innocence

Author: Kyra Davis

Date of Publication: July 24, 2014

Formats Available: Paprerback, E-book

Buy This Book: Amazon

Synopsis: Kyra Davis, the New York Times bestselling author of Just One Night, returns with book one in the thrillingly erotic Pure Sin series featuring a beautiful young woman out for revenge—until she falls in love with the one man whose secrets are as dangerous as her own. (Note: this volume collects Parts 1 - 3 of the previously serialized Deceptive Innocence ebook series.)

Ever since Bell’s mother died while serving time for a murder she didn’t commit, Bell’s been focused on one thing: revenge. She knows her mother was set up by Jonathon Gable, the head of both the powerful Gable family and an international banking corporation. Now she’s determined to take him down—from the inside.

Bell needs access to the Gable home and offices, so she poses as a bartender to seduce her way into the bed—and life—of Jonathon’s rebellious youngest son, Lander. He’s not a typical Gable, spending more time in the dive bars of Harlem than the posh cocktail lounges of the Upper East Side. He has an attraction to danger, a vulnerability Bell isn’t shy about exploiting. It should be easy to uncover the secrets she needs to destroy his family and clear her mother’s name.

But it turns out Lander is much more complicated than she ever imagined. He’s enticing, intelligent, mysterious—plus their sexual chemistry is off the charts. Even though Bell knows he’s the enemy, she can’t help but be moved, both physically and emotionally, by the man she swore was just a target. When he finds out the truth she’s sure both their hearts and her plan will be crushed...until she begins to realize that Lander might be hiding his own secrets, darker than she ever imagined.

Excerpt:

My heart’s beating a little too fast and my eyes keep darting toward the door. He’ll walk through there any moment now. There are only a handful of barflies to distract me, and the kinds of drinks they order don’t take a lot of thought to make. This is not a Mojito Sparkler type of crowd.

Most of the people who come to drink at Ivan’s are men. They come to lose themselves in alcohol and sports. The few women who show up are looking for a special kind of trouble. This isn’t the place you come to in hopes of picking up a nice guy.

I know these women. Maybe not personally, but essentially I know who they are and what they’re about: disheartened or damaged, looking for men who can inflict enough pain to help them forget the pain that’s coming from within. Screwing assholes, making themselves vulnerable to emotional predators—it’s just another form of cutting, really. Every time they smile at a Hells Angels type I can see the unspoken words hovering over their heads.

Here’s the knife. Hurt me so I don’t have to hurt myself. Take away the responsibility and just give me the pain.

I get it, I really do. But it’s not my game, not anymore.

So I just pour the beer, keep the whiskey flowing, keep my smile evasive, cold enough to scare away the more aggressive ones, warm enough to coax the tips out of the passive . . . and keep my eyes on the door.

And then it happens. At exactly seven fifteen, he shows up.

I feel an acute pang in my chest, right where my heart is.

Lander Gable. How many times have I seen this man walk into this bar while I was sitting across the street in a cab or rental car? But now, today, I’m in the bar, and he’s walking toward me, not away. I’ve never been so close to him before. I can almost touch him!

And soon I will.

The ringing of the phone momentarily distracts me.

I pick up and ask, “Ivan’s, can I help you?” The person on the other end mumbles an embarrassed apology for calling the wrong number and hangs up, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear long after hearing the click, pretending to listen while I study the perfect specimen in front of me: a clean-shaven face, bronze skin, a watch that’s worth more than everything I own . . . Only he’s replaced the suit he wore to the office today with a pair of Diesel jeans and a sweater. Less conspicuous, but still a little too clean for this place. His physique hints at time spent at a gym, not a dockyard.

You’d think some of the other guys would kick his ass just for entering their bar.

And yet absolutely no one gets in his way.

It’s not until he’s almost at the bar stool that we make eye contact. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something there—curiosity maybe, perhaps surprise at finding a woman bartending, definitely appraisal.

I’ve gotta give myself a major pat on the back for that one. I must have spent two hours putting myself together today for him. He’s why I’m wearing my wild black hair down, letting it cover my bare shoulders. He’s why I matched the loose, low-slung jeans with a fitted tank that subtly reveals the benefits of my new push-up bra. He’s why I’m wearing thick mascara and sheer lip gloss. I know this guy’s tastes.

He takes his seat, pulls out a ten, and gestures to the bottle of whiskey still in my hand from the last drink I poured. “On the rocks, please.”

“You sure?” I ask even as I fill a glass with ice. “I could make a whiskey sour if you like. Maybe throw in a cherry?”

He raises his eyebrow slightly. “Mocking a patron when you’re new to the job? Risky, isn’t it?”

“How do you know I just started?”

“I’m here a lot.”

“Every day?”

“A few times a week.” He reaches for his drink, brings it to his lips. Over the glass he offers a bemused smile. “I like your prices.”

“Really?” I ask. “Drinks more expensive where you’re from?”

“You make it sound like I’m visiting from some far-off land.”

“Are you?”

His light-brown hair looks darker in this room, his eyes brighter. “Upper East Side,” he says.

“Ahhh.” I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest. “That’s about a million dollars from here.”

He winces. “Not necessarily.” On the other side of the bar a few men burst into cheers as a UFC fighter’s arm is broken on live TV.

“You living at the 92nd Street Y, then?” I quip.

“No,” he answers, his smile returning. “I’ve managed to avoid that fate.” He studies me for a moment, trying to gauge what he’s dealing with. “How ’bout you? You live here in Harlem?”

“Occasionally. I’m a bit of a drifter.” I fiddle with a glass, playing at cleaning it. “So why do you really come here . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Considering how coy you’re being about what part of town you live in, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t volunteer my name just yet. That way we both have an air of mystery.”

“Oh, I’m only coy about inconsequential things.” I lean forward, put my elbows on the bar, and cradle my chin in my hands. Ever so slightly I arch my back. “I’m very straightforward about the things I want.”

“Really?” He takes another sip. “And what exactly is it that you want?”

“Tonight?” I pause for a moment, pretending to think. “Tonight I want . . . your name.”

His smile spreads to a grin. “You think you can coax it out of me?”

“Maybe.” Out of the corner of my eye I spot one of the regulars on the other side of the bar waving his empty glass in the air. “When I have the time.”

And I walk away to pour the next drink.

The foreman needing the refill is too drunk to notice that I’m trembling while taking his money.

God, is this working? Am I being too forward? Too much of a tease? My mother would have chewed me out for behaving like this.

Keep Reading here!

http://xoxoafterdark.com/2014/07/15/psn-deceptive-innocence-kyra-davis/?mcd=z_140723_XOXO_PSN_deceptiveinnocence

Excerpt: Breathing Ghosts by Laekan Kemp

She is a winding cosmos, bleeding and bursting into night. She is a dream. She is dead.

Excerpt:

“Don’t move.”

A breeze rushed past, my hair tangled over my face. I reached for it and Nia narrowed her eyes.

“I said be still.”

“You want to draw me like this? With my hair in my face?”

“I want to draw you just as you are.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

I could see the shadow of her hand bleeding across the page and the harsh lines of my face. Ovals and dark shadows. The square of my jaw. I tried not to watch her draw, anticipating the worst. Not because Nia wasn’t good. She was. But because I wasn’t. Not for preserving on a sheet of thick drawing paper.

She’d bought them the week before, almost twenty bucks for a pack of ten. And she’d been waiting to use them until that weekend when we could drive down to the beach.

She wanted me against the tide. She wanted the sunset. She wanted everything to be perfect. I couldn’t tell her no. I couldn’t tell her that I was uncomfortable, that I didn’t even like posing for pictures let alone portraits. And I couldn’t tell her that I was afraid—of what she’d draw, of how she saw me.

“Tilt your head up.”

I shifted, the sun burning my eyes.

“Keep them open.” Nia crawled in front of me. “I want to get your eyes right.”

She traced the shape, then erased, tried again, erased some more. She left the iris bare before dotting the freckles around the outer ring and then carving out my lashes.

She stared at them for a long time, her own eyes unflinching against the wind. I glanced down at the drawing and there were things floating there I didn’t even recognize: dimples and flashes of light, my lashes tangled near the corner of my eye, a dark shadow pooling down to the bridge of my nose.

I closed my eyes for a minute, rubbing out the sting.

“Almost.”

I shook my head. “I think you’ve got it.”

She touched the edge of my eyebrow with her thumbnail, pinning me, and then she sketched it low over my lashes. She drew them cinched, the skin between them rippled.

“I look pissed.”

“Aren’t you?”

I tried to smile. “No. Just trying not to go blind.”

“Well if you do, at least you’ll have an extra pair.”

I stared at the eyes and they stared back. They didn’t look like mine—dark and narrow, red lines carving into a blue that would rather be grey. They looked alive.

“Do you like it?” she said.

“All of this was there?”

“All of it.”

“It just doesn’t look like me.”

She bit her lip, looking from the sketch to me. “Yes it does.”

I could feel her watching me, still trying to capture all of the things I didn’t want her to see. I turned away and she reached for me. Her hand slid to my face, thumb still tracing the corner of my eyebrow.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“That bothers you?” she laughed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She lowered her voice. “Are you afraid I’ll see something I don’t like?”

I didn’t answer her.

“River?”

I knew she was waiting for me to look at her but I didn’t move.

“I love you.”

And then I couldn’t. I was frozen. Her hand slipped from my face and she slid back down into the sand. Love. Me?

“What?” The words stumbled out.

“Here,” she said, not looking at me. “You can keep it.”

The corner of the page slid between my fingers, those eyes I didn’t recognize staring up at me, waiting.

“Nia.”

She looked at me, shadows peeling the sun from her skin.

“I love you too.”

Progress: Case Notes

Is love an infection or is it a sick addiction, when there's nowhere left to run?

Amy Queau's new novel, Progress, centers around two very different characters as they battle their own demons while falling in love in the process. Follow the story of Charlie and Jesse as they follow two conflicting paths but yet manage to make their paths cross, changing each others lives.

Buy Progress through Amazon HERE

Don't forget to enter our giveaway for a free copy of Progress HERE

Check out an excerpt of Jesse's case notes below!

~

Case File # 121774-3249 

Subject Name: Jesse James Anders (Jesse James Sanborn)

D.O.B.: 17-November, 1987

Address: 1816 Burnsville Parkway, Burnsville, MN  55337

Contact: 953-443-4309 (last known working phone, no longer in service)

Single Caucasian Male

0 children/dependents

No religion specified 

Chief Complaint from patient: “I’m having troubles with time. I can’t remember when I’m scheduled to work. I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel numb. And, I’m drunk.” – Message taken by staff member Shelly Gleason over the phone on September 6, 2012.

Notes: Patient first seen in by Dr. Jackson on August 4, 2003 after complaints of previous doctor not using effective treatment methods. After refusal of psychotherapy, patient has been seen regularly by Dr. Jackson to update his prescriptions.

Initial Diagnosis: ADHD, victim of severe physical abuse by biological parents and two foster fathers before the age of 15. Other Detachment disorders noted, but not specified as patient is reluctant to discuss childhood.

Date of Diagnosis: March 1997 by Dr. Ralph Carlson, MD. before referred to our offices in 2003. (see attached notes from Dr. Carlson)

Current Diagnosis: Bipolar I (initial diagnosis retracted after prescribed medication failures to ease symptoms).

Date of Current Diagnosis: December 2003

History: Born in St. Paul, MN to John and Melinda Sanborn. No known complications with childbirth or mental health history before ten years of age. Father, John worked for a manufacturing plant, and mother, Melinda, a domestic engineer. Mother had a bipolar diagnosis but remained un-medicated throughout patient’s childhood. Have not been able to reach patient’s biological parents for confirmation.

Patient describes his social life before ten as “normal.” Received good grades, had many friends, adjusted well to new situations, etc. Patient refuses to discuss the death of his sister, Mandy, and when asked general questions about his family life through childhood, he chooses not to respond. (see attached interview with father and Dr. Carlson, discussing initial diagnosis and circumstances surrounding “Mandy’s” death.)

Marriage, Education and Occupational History: Patient is single, but dating. One significant relationship to date. Patient is heterosexual with a history of promiscuity with multiple partners.
High school diploma and one year complete of Community College. Social situations through school presented challenges for patient in communication and focus.

Occupational history includes: restaurant industry, warehouse, USA Cycling National Championships cross-country and other competitions, and briefly, The US Marines.

High risk behaviors include: Alcohol abuse, marijuana abuse, aggression, and a history of police confrontation.

Current living/social situation: Lives with friend, Jake, and Jake’s father, Dennis, in a single-family home in suburb of Minneapolis, MN. He rents out a single room in the home. Patient describes social situations as solitary or few friends of note. Patient is highly intelligent (see attached MMPI and Weschler results), but prefers an environment of low risk and low challenge.

Summation and Notes:

Initial visit in 2003: Patient was brought by foster mother, Lily Lamoureaux, to our offices at fourteen years of age. Patient’s overall appearance was clean and appropriate. Eye contact minimal and very few words spoken. Ms. Lamoureaux described patient as “sad, confused and broken.” Patient evasive and bouncing knee with arms folded in front of chest. Posture was slouched and showed ambivalence. Patient was alert, but hostile when asked specific questions of state-of-mind, depression and previous foster care. Ms. Lamoureaux described his past situation as “unfortunate and unloving” and “abusive, neglectful and punishable.” (see enclosed audio recording of initial visit – #A3328)

Anxiety visibly increased in patient as Ms. Lamoureaux described previous foster living arrangements and previous biological parental abuse, along with the death of patient’s sister, “Mandy.”

Initial diagnosis of ADHD by Dr. Carlson in question.

Hospitalizations and Interventions: Patient suffered head trauma as a result of a social altercation in 2012. Previous hospitalizations before in my care are noted in Dr. Carlson’s file (see attached).

Medications: (see full history and side effects attached)

Lithium; 2004-2008.

Seroquel 2008-present.

Lorazepam 2008-present.

The Perfect Victim: Excerpt

The Perfect Victim by Natasha Snow follows the story of Rachel, a high school student so desperate to be a part of a relationship that she starts an unhealthy relationship with Dominic, a boy at her school that she meets online. As she begins to become uncomfortable with the horrible way he is treating her she soon turns to drugs and cutting, unable to step out of the vicious cycle she has been drawn into.

Check out an excerpt of The Perfect Victim below!

Excerpt:

December 20

With every encounter I had with Dominic, I knew something was wrong, and as a result I needed to find a release.  Tears were not enough, weed was hard to come by, and difficult to hide, but my razor blade was always tucked away under my alarm clock next to my bed.  I had made it so easily accessible.  I started to cut even on days I wasn’t with Dominic.

Soon my passion for cutting grew and it was harder to discriminate what I was using it for.  If I didn’t do well on a test, I cut.  If I got into a fight with my parents, I cut.  It was always just enough to inflict pain on myself.  Pain that I endured when I was failing at something.  I deserved to be punished, and I deserved to feel pain.  I remembered being spanked as a child or hit for talking back to my parents, but a slap was a sting that lasted for a moment.  I deserved something that lasted longer.

I would only cut at night, when I knew I wouldn’t be interrupted or caught.  I wondered what the consequence of cutting would have been?  Hospitalization?  That would have been one more thing to make me feel like an outcast, to be distanced from the normal people.  I couldn’t risk it.

I knew when I was going to do it, and I made preparations in advance so when it was time for bed I could stay there.  I knew my razor blade was close but I needed other supplies to be prepared, paper towels, medical tape, or sometimes I liked to put the paper towel under medical wrapping tape.  As long as it prevented the blood from reaching my sheets, where my mom would see it, I was okay.

The ritual would always begin with my reflecting on what I felt the problem was and why I needed to be punished.  The tears were always near the surface so it was only a matter of time before I started to cry.  Sometimes, it was only a couple of tears, other times I would be sobbing, but the end result was always the same.  Within minutes my flesh would be torn and blood would be coming from my left arm.

It was punishment, but at the same time I found it enjoyable.  It was fascinating to watch the blood rush to the surface.  The blood and the pain were my punishment, but I can’t say I didn’t get any pleasure from it.  Feeling the pain, and watching the blood made me feel like I was cleansing myself.  It was a symbol of me releasing my “bad blood,” as I called it.  Maybe the bad things would stop if I let all of the bad out of me, maybe I would stop doing bad things if I let the “bad blood” go.

It didn’t matter how much I cut, Dominic would come back and take me from safety almost once a week.  I was no longer curious about what was going to happen.  I no longer hoped he would finally ask me out on a date, or to be his girlfriend.  The excited feeling I once had towards Dominic had completely vanished and turned into sheer anxiety.  If I didn’t feel the stress, I felt the fear.  I was always on eggshells when he was around me.  If I didn’t have to see him I could at least focus on whatever tasks I had in front of me.

I was becoming a master of deception.  To my friends, I was confident and happy.  I was bold and outgoing.  I was smart and dedicated.  My teachers liked me, and I gave them no indication anything was wrong.  The same went for my parents.  I was moody in front of them, but I’m sure it only came across as teenage hormones.  In reality, I was crumbling on the inside.  I should have been given awards for the performances I put on.  They were flawless, and only one person knew I was scared and unhappy.  Phoebe.

I don’t know what Dominic thought about the situation, and I never had the courage to talk about this with him, but what I ultimately decided is that he didn’t care.  If he would have cared, he would have picked up on my lack of interest in the situation, he would have easily seen the way I looked at him now was not the same as it was in the very beginning.  He would have respected my words, and my attempts to avoid him.  He would have realized everything that was once fun about this, had been gone for a long time now.  But what was true for him was that he was still getting exactly what he wanted from me without having to consider my feelings.

If I felt the need to cover up my cuts, I would use an ace bandage to cover it up, and because I was on the computer all the time I would say that my wrist hurt.  They didn’t know the bandage went all the way to the crease in my elbow because it was winter and I was wearing heavier clothes.  Dominic didn’t even know about the cutting because he was only interested in getting what he wanted from me.  He would unbutton my shirt, but he didn’t feel the need to take it off anymore, so, like everyone else he would only see the ace bandage.

As I continued to cut, I became more creative with the things that appeared on my arm.  It started as simple slash marks that looked like I battled a cat, but I started putting words and pictures to my pain, and sometimes the location of the cutting would change.  I carved ugly words into my arms, “Dominic,” “hate,” and “evil,” made appearances on my skin.  The skin art I took most pride in, was the perfectly symmetrical heart I spent hours carving into my ankle with nail scissors.  I loved my bleeding heart so much that when it began to fade I would carve into it again.

Punishment shouldn’t be enjoyable, but what I felt was enjoyable was not only the release I received for it, but that I was also trying to make right all the wrongs I lived.  I took comfort in the pain that I woke to the morning after I cut.  And when I went days without cutting, I provoked my wounds so I would continue to feel the pain.

As much as I enjoyed my extended punishments, there was one thing I craved more.  I loved the sedated feeling I would feel every day after I ripped my flesh.  It was finally an opportunity where I was able to forget the things that usually stressed me out, and live my life in the carefree way a child does.  Every day after I cut was the same.  I was tranquil, I was focused, and I was peaceful.

While I was cutting, and while the endorphins were in my body I wasn’t worried about anyone finding out what I was doing.  After my “calm” had left me I did feel a bit paranoid about it.  Every once in a while I would see the scratches peeking out from my sleeve, and this would make me even more fearful someone would learn my little secret.  The only person that knew about it, was Phoebe.

I learned I wasn’t the only one cutting and found another lost soul in my French class.  He sat directly behind me, and we had gotten to know each other over the year.  He was releasing his pain as well, and overtime we compared the misery of our nights by showing each other what carvings we created the night before.  He would tell me why he cut, rejection, fight with his mother, the list went on.  I would tell him I did it for the same reasons, and sometimes it was true, but I never told him about Dominic.

We both shared another passion.  Writing.  It was an outlet we could participate in at school and contribute to the school through The Dragon.  Mrs. Stewart believed in artistic freedom and probably realized that we as teenagers had many things we were working through.  I tried to incorporate things that were humorous that the readers might enjoy, but I received a lot of poetry that spoke of depression for a multitude of reasons.  The student body had extreme expectations placed on them and knew they were too young for some of them, many were lost souls who felt no one else understood them, they had troubles with their parents, with their teachers, girlfriends, boyfriends, friends.  There was talk of betrayal, rejection, failure.  This is why the publication was beautiful.  All of those lost souls could take comfort in knowing there was someone else out there who felt the same way they did.  I may not have known who they were, but they were feeling the same things I was feeling, and used the paper as an outlet to vent their frustrations.

This was a healthier alternative than the road I was heading down.  Looking back I wish I could have worked harder on my poetry, allowing myself to process the things that were happening in my life, but I never found this to be enough of a release.  I take comfort in knowing that it was probably enough for the other people who contributed.  The publication was one thing I didn’t have to shed blood over.  I was proud of this accomplishment.

I hadn’t heard any rumors floating around about me, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being hidden from me.  Some of Dominic’s friends started to act strangely friendly towards me, and occasionally I would get a slap on the ass.  I handled it by laughing but resented the fact they were taking their liberties with me as well.  I brushed these things off, only later, did I realize Dominic was probably talking about me which is why I was receiving this attention.

Dominic’s disregard for my feelings became increasingly obvious when my menstrual period was no longer a deterrent for engaging in activities.  My hands and mouth still worked, and my breasts and ass were still available for him to grip onto and fondle to his satisfaction.  It did however mean that I was safe from attempted sex.

Every time something happened between us I promised myself it would be the last time, but another week would go by, and he would be back, and I would go.  I didn’t know how to stop him or myself.  I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t getting bored with me.  He was constantly changing his girlfriends, so why was I the place he found consistency?  I hated that he gave me more questions than answers.  I resented him for that.  I resented him for the liberties he took with my body without listening to my objections, and sometimes I didn’t even object.  Sometimes I was sick of trying to fight it and thought if I just let it happen it would be over sooner.

How did I get here?

Dear readers,

It is clear that other people knew something was going on, and I know at the time I would have been really angry with my friends for reporting what was happening to me, but maybe my friends should have reported these things for my safety, even if it meant losing my friendship forever.  The more I wrote about the situation the more I realized that people did know bits and pieces of what was happening to me.  They didn’t know the severity of the situation, but they could have reported us because the things we were doing were wrong.  Friends and acquaintances out there, maybe without knowing it, you could stop a rape.

If the educators were paying closer attention, I could have been identified as having a problem.  I created a magazine for the entire school that consisted of depressing topics, with blips of humor in the middle.  After school, if someone was watching me, they would have noticed I was frequently gone and unaccounted for.  When I came back from wherever I was, I came back a different person.  There are cameras in schools now, there weren’t back then, but even now, unless there is a reason to look at them, the videos are never watched.

I wrote pieces for my classes that clearly reflected depression, and I will admit I put it out there to see what others would say.  In my personal work I was consistently writing about the darkest topics I could because they fascinated me.  Normal people don’t consistently find their way to the miserable corners of the world.  When someone does, and you notice, you should pay closer attention to what the child is trying to say.

                        Love,

                                    The wiser you