Monday, August 31, 2015

SCOTSMAN OF MY DREAMS Excerpt & Giveaway with Karen Ranney


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SCOTSMAN OF MY DREAMS
MacIain Series #3
Karen Ranney
Releasing Aug 25th, 2015


In USA Today and New York Times bestselling author Karen Ranney’s second novel in her breathtaking series, an unconventional woman and a former scoundrel embark on a daring mission of desire.

Once the ton’s most notorious rake, Dalton MacIain has returned from his expedition to America during the Civil War-wounded and a changed man. Instead of attending soirees, he now spends his time as a recluse. But Dalton’s peace is disturbed when Minerva Todd barges into his London townhouse, insisting he help search for her missing brother Neville. Though Dalton would love to spend more time with the bewitching beauty, he has no interest in finding Neville-for he blames him for his injury.

Minerva has never met a more infuriating man than the Earl of Rathsmere yet she is intrigued by the torrid rumors she has heard about him…and the fierce attraction pulling her toward him.

Dalton does not count on Minerva’s persistence-or the desire she awakens in him, compelling him to discover her brother’s fate. But when danger surrounds them, Dalton fears he will lose the tantalizing, thoroughly unpredictable woman he has come to love.

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Excerpt:
Dalton MacIain, Earl of Rathsmere, stood in the doorway of his library, listening to Howington argue with a harridan. Were there peddlers in Tarkington Square now? He couldn’t hear their words, only the tone. Howington was maintaining his usual calm demeanor. The woman wasn’t, her voice growing louder, vying with the thunder growling overhead for dominance.
Turning back to the room, he dismissed the two of them. Howington would get rid of her, whoever she was.
He shouldn’t have sent his majordomo to Gledfield. If Samuels had remained here he would have opened the door, thereby sparing Howington the duty. Samuels would have also been a buffer between him and Howington. Pity that he hadn’t considered that earlier. Now Howington was always present, forever hovering in that obsequious way of his.
He moved unerringly to the window, reached up and closed the drapes against the storm. He remembered their shade, an emerald color he favored. Everything else about the room was as he recalled it: two wing chairs upholstered in a dark green fabric  sat before the fireplace with a small table between them; enough books in the shelves that he gave the appearance of being a well-read man. His onetime companions would have been genuinely shocked to know that he had read most of them, a good thing now.
Thunder rumbled, the windows shivering in response. The drumming of rain on the street outside sounded like muffled artillery.
He made his way to the sideboard on the opposite wall, a distance of exactly ten feet.
Removing the stopper from the cut glass decanter, he reached for a glass and tried to hold it steady. Another roar of thunder, this one sounding too much like cannon fire, made him put down the decanter and the glass, hearing the chink as they landed on the tray.
He stood with his fingers braced against the sideboard, staring straight ahead and willing his hands to stop their trembling.


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Karen Ranney began writing when she was five. Her first published work was The Maple Leaf, read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and, most of all, a writer. Though the violin was discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained the overwhelming love of her life.


FIRE ME UP Excerpt & Giveaway with Rachael Johns


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FIRE ME UP
Deacons of Bourbon Street #2
Rachael Johns
Releasing Sept 1st, 2015


Can a scorching affair with a bohemian beauty tame a motorcycle man with a dark side? Rachael Johns takes the wheel in the sexy series co-written with Megan Crane, Jackie Ashenden, and Maisey Yates.

Travis “Cash” Sinclair values only two things from his days with the Deacons of Bourbon Street: his prized Harley Davidson and the man who gave it to him. But now Priest Lombard is gone, and Cash has inherited the Deacons’ clubhouse—not to mentions its unexpected tenant. She’s exactly the type of woman he tries to avoid: all incense and art, with a sharp tongue that promises trouble. So why does Cash want to push aside those flowing skirts and lose himself between her legs?

Billie Taylor fled a bad marriage to start a new life among the grit and glamour of the French Quarter. She refuses to let another man distract her from her dreams, especially an outlaw biker with nothing to offer except hot sex and an eviction notice. Cash is dangerous, with an untamed streak he tries desperately to conceal. He drives Billie wild, sending her too close to the edge for her own good. And she won’t fall under his spell—or into his bed—without a fight
.

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Excerpt:

Roommates? Billie gulped, watching as one of the hottest men she’d ever laid eyes on swaggered past her and headed through the alley of paintings into the courtyard, and then opened the door that led inside to her house as if he owned the place. And dammit, apparently he did. That thought made her feel sick to her stomach, just as the way he looked heated other parts of her body.

Sophie, the previous landlord’s daughter, had told Billie when her father died last month that she had nothing to worry about, that it wouldn’t affect her or her gallery at all. But today’s unwelcome visitor told her otherwise. Having Mr. Arrogant Sinclair getting under her skin 24/7 was very, very worrying indeed. And that was even before she considered what would happen to her and the gallery she’d worked so hard to set up if he decided to increase her rent or, worse, sell the building from under her feet. Just when she’d finally started to get her life on track something like this happened. Something like Travis bloody Sinclair.

And she’d been naïve enough to think she’d broken free from controlling men.

Trying to ignore her racing heart, Billie looked down at Baxter, who was looking up at her as if to ask What the hell happened? She bent to ruffle his fur, thankful that he’d at least tried to protect her from this arrogant jerk. Then she glanced around the gallery and gave thanks there were no potential customers lingering, before marching over to the steel entrance gates to close and lock them.

No matter that his dark gaze made her heart pound; the last thing she wanted was Travis getting the better of her. She hated that he was the reason for shutting up shop in the middle of the afternoon, but she wasn’t going to leave that wanker in her house alone just yet. She’d noticed the way he’d looked her over as if she were a piece of meat, and she didn’t trust him not to look through her underwear drawer. She didn’t trust him, period.

Whistling to Baxter to follow, she retraced Travis’s steps through the courtyard and into the building. Her dog might be small, but he had a lot of bite, and she felt more confident with him at her side. If Travis tried anything, she had no doubt that Baxter would sink his teeth into the guy’s leg, and the idea of him squealing in pain gave her a tiny bit of joy in what was turning out to be a very crappy day. Although more than likely he’d just kick Baxter in the teeth.

She stepped inside—he hadn’t bothered to shut the door—and although there was no immediate sign of him besides his backpack on the kitchen floor, her home already felt different. It felt . . . compromised.

The rooms at the back of the gallery were far too many for just Billie. In theory there was plenty of room for a housemate, but that wasn’t the point. She hadn’t advertised for one, and if she had, a guy like Travis would be the last person she’d get. She got the feeling that even if they were sharing one of the mammoth French Quarter mansions, she still wouldn’t be able to relax with him around. He’d stalked inside like a tiger, and the sensations he sparked inside her were not at all unpleasant, despite her head telling her to be on guard.

The sound of doors opening and closing had her heading down the corridor in search of him. She found him, much to her annoyance, in her bedroom, staring into her wardrobe. And although she should have told him to get the hell out, she took her sweet time in announcing herself, choosing instead to take a moment just to look. Her earlier assessment of “hot” didn’t really do him justice. He had dark hair—not short, but by no means long, either—and dark stubble to match. Never before had she found a beard attractive, but his wasn’t long and bushy, and on him, it worked. So much so she had to swallow to stop from drooling. The dark leather jacket only enhanced his appeal, perhaps because it was so far from anything her ex-husband would ever have worn.

Pity he was such an ass. Not in the same way as her ex perhaps, but an ass just the same.





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Rachael Johns is an English teacher by trade, a mum 24/7, a supermarket owner, a chronic arachnophobic, and a writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. She writes contemporary romance for HQN and Carina Press and lives in rural Western Australia with her hyperactive husband and three mostly-gorgeous heroes-in-training. Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website at www.rachaeljohns.com


Friday, August 28, 2015

The Lost Promo & Giveaway with Cole McCade


The Lost by Cole McCade

Date of Publication: August 25, 2015

Blurb


She's known it her whole life. She knows it every time she spreads her legs. Every time she begs for the pain, the pleasure, the heat of a hard man driving deep inside. She's a slave to her own twisted lusts--and it's eating her alive. She loves it. She craves it. Sex is her drug, and she's always chasing her next fix. But nothing can satisfy her addiction, not even the nameless men she uses and tosses aside. No one's ever given her what she truly needs.
Until Gabriel Hart.
Cold. Controlled. Impenetrable. Ex-Marine Gabriel Hart isn't the kind of man to come running when Leigh crooks her pretty little finger. She loathes him. She hungers for him. He's the only one who understands how broken she is, and just what it takes to satisfy the emptiness inside. But Gabriel won't settle for just one night. He wants to claim her, keep her, make her forever his. Together they are the lost, the ruined, the darkness at the heart of Crow City.
But Leigh has a darkness of her own. A predator stalking through her past--one she'll do anything to escape.
Even if it means running from the one man who could love her...and leaving behind something more precious to her than life itself.

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About Cole McCade



Corporate consultant by day, contemporary romance author by night.
Mid-thirties. Coffee addict. Cat lover. Bibliophile. Technophile. Definite sapiophile. Native Southerner. Runner. Country boy turned city suit. Shameless collector of guitar picks, vinyl records, and incense holders. Aficionado of late-night conversations over live music in seedy bars. Browncoat with a secret crush on Kaylee Frye.
Fascinated by human sociology, and particularly by the psychology of sex and gender – and their effect on relationship expectations, the culture of dating, and what it means to fall in love.
Non-smoker. The picture's just a stock photo. A rather broody, dark one for someone who isn't all that broody or dark, but sometimes forgets to smile even when he means to.

Find Cole McCade Online

Teaser

Note: This book contains material that may be triggering for some readers
PROLOGUE
"State your name."
Cold, clipped words, blending into the noise of the police station. Leigh lifted her head from a fixed study of her clenched fingers. Colors whirled around her in a lurid carnival nightmare, too bright, too blurry. On a bench on the far side of the room, a wasted and broken scarecrow woman picked at a scab on her wrist with a certain habitual listlessness, oozing diseased red-brown blood over liver spots. Her tendons were rails under her skin, and the dull gleam of cuffs chained her to the bench. She raised her head and stared at Leigh with yellowed eyes that captured her with a sort of empty, terrifying promise.
Across the desk a policewoman waited, with that compassionate impatience only a half-step from pity and shoulder-to-shoulder with disgust. Her flat blue eyes said she'd been trained to care, but couldn't be bothered anymore. Leigh swallowed and tugged her hoodie close against the tinny air-conditioned chill. Her mouth had dried to a tacky, sticky mess, gummy pills of lipstick beading on her lips, and her tongue was a bloated and useless organ, this swollen pink thing pushing pointlessly against her teeth.
"Leigh," she ground out. "Clarissa Leigh…" Her married name scratched sandpaper syllables against her throat. "…van Zandt."
"And Miss van Zandt, do you know why you're here?"
She nodded, her neck a creaking wooden puppet-hinge. "I do."
"Your family's been worried about you."
"I know."
She knew what she should do here. Bow her head in shame and contrition, maybe even sniffle. But she looked for the emotions and they weren't there; just scraps and tatters, clinging to the empty place where they belonged. She had no feeling left, hollowed out and lost and wondering how she'd ended up here. This didn't feel real. Instead it was a dream where everyone leered in fisheye close-up, their smiles all teeth and stretched red lips and manic glee. She wanted to run, but somehow she'd gone too numb to do anything but sit here surrounded by the stink of fear-sweat, stale beer, and that particular police-station smell of urine soaked into concrete for decades on end.
"What happened to you?" the officer asked. Leigh didn't answer, and the officer's pen tapped against the forms on her desk, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat, Morse code for I'd rather be anywhere but here with this spoiled little runaway princess. "It's been four years. You were declared legally dead."
"That's all right." She closed her eyes with a laugh that ripped her guts up into her mouth, and buried her face in her hands. Dead. Dead.
Yeah, that was about right.
"Miss van Zandt?"
Stop calling me that.
"Miss van Zandt. I need you to focus on my voice."
Stop calling me that!
Leigh took a measured breath and opened her eyes. Her shoulders squared. The bolts on the back of the hard, ass-biting chair dug into her shoulder blades. "I am focused. I can hear you just fine."
"Eyes are dilated." The officer—her nametag read Maroni, could there be a more clichéd name for a Crow City cop—leaned across the desk, peering at her face. Then she beckoned to the aide hovering over them like a mannequin. "I've seen this too many times. Drugs and prostitution." She talked about Leigh like she wasn't even there. "We'll have to clean her up before her husband gets here."
"I'm not on drugs. I've never been on drugs."
Maroni's pen-clicking stopped. Her disbelief was a heavy thing, push-push-pushing until Leigh nearly laughed.
"You're not on drugs."
"No."
"Then what happened?"
There it was. The first hint of exasperation. Of frustration, stitched into knitted brows and the purse of lips in just the right shade of I can't be a woman, I'm a cop mauve. Because like anyone normal, anyone who wasn't fucking broken to pieces and liked being that way, Maroni needed to make sense of this. Needed to quantify it in a world where the rules worked as normal and everyone wanted to chase that dream of happiness that wasn't anything but desperation painted over of a frantic tally of things. Things of plastic, things with value created by people whose upper lips curled when they looked down at little girls like Leigh, and demanded she account for herself in sane, rational ways that made proper sense.
Sorry, Officer Maroni.
I'm not the kind of thing that makes much sense.
Maroni pushed a harsh sound through her teeth. "You had a job, a husband, a newborn son. You had a life other people would kill for, and we find you here on the streets. Were you pressured? Kidnapped?"
"No. None of that." Leigh shook her head.
"You'll have to explain, then."
"I left." She trailed off, lips parted; no words came for long seconds, until she managed, "I…I was afraid."
"Of what?" Maroni tried to catch her eye, but Leigh looked down at her hands, at her chipped pink fingernails dipped in the sparkles of shooting stars. "Miss van Zandt. If someone was hurting you, you need to tell us now so we can take appropriate steps to protect you."
"No. No one hurt me. Not like that."
"I'm afraid you'll need to be more clear. What were you afraid of?"
"Of…"
She struggled for an answer. Struggled for something this woman would accept, something that would make her sigh with sympathy and pity and relieved disdain that said there, but for the Grace of God…
But again, she found nothing. Nothing but the truth, and Leigh shrugged as she looked up at the policewoman and wondered if she had daughters who might one day be like Leigh, daughters who would cut stark red lines of fingernails in the walls of flesh that caged her in the shape of pop culture's perfect woman.
"Of the inevitable monotony of it all," she said.
And smiled.
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BROKEN PLAY Excerpt & Giveaway with Samantha Kan


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BROKEN PLAY
Birmingham Rebels #1
Samantha Kane
Releasing Sept 1st, 2015


Perfect for fans of Shayla Black and Lexi Blake, the deeply sensual new Birmingham Rebels series introduces an unforgettable team of chiseled football gods—and the daring, provocative games they play behind closed doors.

Birmingham Rebels offensive linemen Beau Perez and Cass Zielinski are inseparable, on and off the field. Cass, the captain with the cowboy swagger, is a loose cannon. Beau, the veteran tight end, is cool under pressure. And ever since they were caught on tape in a steamy threesome, their exploits have fueled more than a few tabloid headlines—and naughty fantasies.

Marian Treadwell knows all about the video. And now that she’s the Rebels’ new assistant offensive coach, she can’t look at Beau and Cass without picturing their hard, naked bodies—with her pressed in between. Marian would like nothing more than to indulge those impulses, but she knows better than to get too close to her players, a bunch of adrenaline-fueled alpha males who don’t always follow the rules.

Just the thought of sharing the gorgeous yet guarded Marian drives Cass wild. At first, Beau isn’t sure she’s right for them . . . and lately, all he desires is a little alone time with Cass to explore their new intimacy. But it’s only a matter of time before Cass breaks through both of their defenses. Because when seduction is the game plan, he always plays to win.

Broken Play is intended for mature audiences.

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Excerpt:
“Get. In. Here.” Marian spoke in that one-word-sentence staccato that had become so popular on television and that she’d sworn she’d never imitate. Now she knew it wasn’t a choice. She was simply so mad she couldn’t get more than one word out at a time. Beau didn’t argue. He simply slid sideways in through her office door, past where she stood holding it. She started to close it, but a hand grabbed it from the hallway and pushed it open again. Cass. Of course. “Can’t I even yell at him without your presence?” she asked coldly.
“Nope. Team captain. Got to be here.” Cass turned and closed the door behind him, then leaned against it, his arms crossed, that damn cowboy hat in one hand.
“Fine,” Marian said. “Since you piss me off, too, you can share the punishment.”
“I don’t take punishment,” Cass said, his usual charming smile gone as he gave her a heated stare that made sweat pop out along her spine. “I give it.”
It took Marian a moment to get past the images that flashed through her head at that outrageous claim. “On the field, not in my office,” she said a little unsteadily.
“Anywhere I choose,” Cass told her calmly.
“Maybe I should go,” Beau said from behind her.
Marian jumped and spun around to face him. She hadn’t been paying attention. She couldn’t believe she’d let him flank her like that.
“Settle,” Cass said quietly but firmly. “There’s no threat here.”
“You just made threats,” she countered, backing up until her back hit the wall a few feet off to Cass’s left.
“No,” he said, the charm back in his voice, a sexy little drawl making it sound like Naw. “Those were promises.”
She actually felt a bead of sweat slip down her cleavage, and she shivered.
“Stop it,” Beau said. “You’re scaring her.” She glanced at him and he looked a little sad, his eyes big and golden brown, and soft with some emotion she couldn’t name. Instinctively she knew he wasn’t the threat here, which threw her into confusion. Wasn’t he the one in charge?
“I’m not scared,” she said. It was a knee-jerk reaction, something she’d said so often in the past few years—to others and to herself—that it was second nature.
Cass sort of rolled himself along the wall toward her until he was leaning over her, not quite pressed against her, his hands on either side of her head, one still holding his hat. “Good,” he said, his voice rough and heavy with wanting. “I don’t want you scared.”
She was breathing too fast. “Move your arms,” she said, and she winced at the panic in her voice.
“Cass,” Beau said. She saw his hand on Cass’s shoulder and her heart nearly beat out of her chest. She had to put her hand up to her chest and press against it to make sure it didn’t.
“You know I’d never hurt you,” Cass said softly. He turned and tossed his hat onto the couch, against the opposite wall. Then he dropped both arms to his sides. He didn’t move back, though. He stayed close enough that she could feel his heat and smell his cologne and a hint of his sweat and deodorant and laundry detergent and shampoo, all the things that combined to be Cass’s scent. She hadn’t realized she knew his smell so well. It was an odd thought and made her frown at him. He frowned back. “Don’t you?” he asked.
It took a moment to remember what he’d said. “Yes.” She did know it. But that didn’t make her heart slow down, because she wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of herself, and what she’d let him do if she let go.
“Yell at me.” Beau’s soft words were lost in Cass’s gaze for a second and then they sank in.
“I should,” she said, standing straighter and tugging on the hem of her shirt nervously. “What in the hell do you think you were doing out there?” She pushed on Cass’s chest, but he wouldn’t budge, so she stood on tiptoe and glared at Beau over his shoulder.
“Speaking my mind,” Beau said. He walked over and dropped down on the couch, easily within her sight, making sure not to crush Cass’s hat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do that.”
“So you decide to do it on my watch?” Marian said in a strangled voice. “Gee, thanks.”
“On your watch?” Beau asked, obviously getting angry. “Now you’re my babysitter, too? Jesus, how many do I need?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cass said, turning to glare at Beau, hands on his hips.
“Don’t try to distract me with a lovers’ quarrel,” Marian warned them. “I’m still pissed about Beau’s big mouth.”
Cass slowly swung his head back around and pinned her to the wall with his stare. He had the bluest eyes, and they could go cold and hard as fast as they could turn hot and heavy-lidded. “Lovers’ quarrel?” he asked quietly. Too quietly. Marian tried to slide sideways along the wall, out of his reach.
“That’s right,” she said, full of false bravado. She thought for a second that this must be what the canary felt like before the cat pounced.
Suddenly Beau laughed loudly, a harsh bark that sounded more incredulous than amused. It broke Cass’s stare and Marian quickly moved over to lean against her desk, facing them on more solid ground. “What’s so funny?”
“We”—he gestured between him and Cass—“are not lovers. We’re friends and we fuck women together. That’s it.” He didn’t sound happy about it. Or was he unhappy that people thought they were?
“Beau.” This time it was Cass trying to yank on the leash with a warning in his voice.
“Forget it,” Beau said flatly. “I’ve come out of my shell today. I’m not crawling back in.”




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Samantha Kane lives in North Carolina with her husband and three children, two boys and one girl. With a master’s degree in American history, she spent seven years as a high school history teacher before becoming a full-time writer and mom.


Cover Reveal: KEEPING WHAT'S HIS & Giveaway with Jamie Begle

Hide Your Daughters,
The Porter's are Coming...


KEEPING WHAT'S HIS
Porter Brothers Trilogy #1
Jamie Begley
Releasing Fall 2015
Young Ink Press


The Porter Brother's were raised to live and die by Three Rules 
One, a Porter stands his ground 
Two, a Porter leaves no enemy standing
Three...

Sutton Creech was a cheat and a liar. Tate Porter had found that out when he was eighteen, and he had no intention of letting her make a fool out of him again. He didn’t care how much pain he saw in her eyes or how old memories tugged at his unforgiving heart until, the night a hidden secret is revealed and everything Tate had believed about their past is shattered, proving he had let the woman he loved get away.

Between trying to protect his family and running their pot growing business, Tate doesn't have time to play the "Nice Guy". He'd just have to remember the most important rule his father had given them: A Porter always keeps what's his.



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"I was born in a small town in Kentucky. My family began poor, but worked their way to owning a restaurant. My mother was one of the best cooks I have ever known, and she instilled in all her children the value of hard work, and education.
Taking after my mother, I've always love to cook, and became pretty good if I do say so myself. I love to experiment and my unfortunate family has suffered through many. They now have learned to steer clear of those dishes. I absolutely love the holidays and my family puts up with my zany decorations.
For now, my days are spent writing, writing, and writing. I have two children who both graduated this year from college. My daughter does my book covers, and my son just tries not to blush when someone asks him about my books.
Currently I am writing five series of books- The Last Riders, The VIP Room, Predators MC, Biker Bitches, and The Dark Souls.
All my books are written for one purpose- the enjoyment others find in them, and the expectations of my fans that inspire me to give it my best.”