Another fabulous 'TIS THE SEASON book from Entangled! 'TIS THE SEASON TO BE KISSED, by Amy Andrews! 

Blurb ~

A down-on-her-romantic-luck kindergarten teacher plans to drown her New Year’s Eve sorrows in a gallon of spiked eggnog, but the arrival of her best friend’s sexy brother threatens to melt the snow piling up outside the tiny Vermont cabin.

Gotta love those sexy brothers, huh? Now here's a bit to entice you!

Excerpt ~ 

Sergeant Luke Jackson had gone straight into combat mode at the sound of the blood-curdling banshee yell, and it took several seconds for the adrenaline spike to release him from its grip long enough to compute the fact that there was no danger. He had no idea who was beneath him, but the landing had been too soft to register it as a threat.

Still holding firm to the attacker’s splayed wrists, his father’s old putter discarded and well out of reach, he looked down into stormy gray eyes. He may only have been able to see an oval cut-out of her face from the confines of the hood she had pulled tight around her head, but it was definitely a woman. No man owned such delicate bone structure and had a nose as cute as that.

“What the hell?” he demanded back at the woman moving ineffectually underneath him. He’d just trudged two miles through a freaking blizzard from the bus depot to be greeted like this?

“Get off me right now you…giant…ass!”

“Who the hell are you?”

The woman stopped struggling and glared at him. “Hey buddy, this is my house. I get to ask the questions and you”—she struggled some more—“are”—more interesting squirming, shoving, and pushing—“squashing me!”

Luke pushed away immediately and stood towering over her. She looked like a felled Eskimo in full winter regalia. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but I think you’ll find that this is my house.”

She gave him an indignant look as she lay there waving her arms and legs like a stranded beetle. “While I appreciate your manners,” the beetle with the elfin nose and pixie cheekbones said, “I’ll have you know that this cabin belongs to the Jackson family.”

Luke nodded. “Yes. Edward and Sophie. My parents. I’m Luke. Luke Jackson.”

He offered her his hand to help her up, fearing that with all those clothes thwarting her attempts she would never make it unaided.

The angry pixie’s eyebrows knitted together as she glared up at him, but reached her mittened hand for his anyway. “Nice try. Luke Jackson is in Afghanistan and I think impersonating a US soldier on active duty is”—she paused as Luke pulled her to her feet—“beneath contempt.”

Luke didn’t bother to look at the portrait of him and Georgia that he knew hung on the wall to his right. He just jerked his thumb toward it and waited patiently for the penny to drop. The woman blinked at the picture as if she was having trouble seeing it. She peered at him, then back at the wall, then back at him, squinting and scrutinizing it carefully, as if she’d been asked to pick him out of a lineup.

The picture had been taken a few years back on his return from his first tour to Afghanistan, but he hadn’t changed that much.

Not anywhere that was visible, anyway.

And then he heard her gasp and watched as her face fell. Yep. Now she was with the program.

“Oh God,” she groaned as she lurched away, heading for the low table next to the couch, picking up a glass, and taking a hefty swig before facing him again. “I’m so, so sorry. I thought you were a looter…or a burglar…or at the very least up to no good. I didn’t know you were home. Georgia was so disappointed you were going to miss her thirtieth birthday party and if I had known, I would never have yelled and attacked you with a golf club. I teach kindergarten…we use our inside voices, we keep our hands to ourselves…”

Luke folded his arms across his chest, amused at the horror on her face. She obviously wasn’t a violent person. Which only made her actions at defending his family cabin that much more endearing. “You’re Tamara, aren’t you?”

The pixie raised her glass in salute. “That would be me.”

“Pleased to meet, you ma’am,” he said.

She nodded then stopped abruptly. “Wait.” She frowned. “How do you know about me? Georgia and I haven’t known each other that long.”

He shrugged, noting the way her gaze traveled over the contours of his shoulders. Interesting. “Georgia writes a lot of newsy e-mails.”

“Ah,” she said and swayed a little.

Luke reached out a hand. “Ma’am?” he asked, looking at her a little closer. Pink cheeks. Red nose. Unsteady on her feet. A waft of …eggnog? “Are you…drunk?”

Bio ~ 

Amy is an award-winning, best-selling Aussie author who has written thirty + contemporary romances in both the traditional and digital markets. She has written for Harlequin Mills & Boon, Entangled, Harper Collins and Momentum.

To date she’s sold over a million books and been translated into thirteen different languages including manga.She loves her kids, her husband, her dogs, cowboys, men in tool belts, cowboys in tool belts and happily ever afters. Please, DO NOT mess with the HEA! Also good books, fab food, great wine and frequent travel – preferably all four together.

She lives on acreage on the outskirts of Brisbane with a gorgeous mountain view but secretly wishes it was the hillsides of Tuscany.

You can find Amy at:

Amy’s Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads


Giveaway ~ 

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I am pleased to have author Inara Scott on today talking about her favorite book!

Which One Is Your Favorite? 

I’ve published eight books, so inevitably I get asked which one is my favorite. Now, I’ve also got two children, and no one asks which one of those is my favorite, and I’ve got two dogs, and no one asks me which one of those I like best, but whatever…I understand. You’re curious. Does one book speak to me more than another? Do I like certain characters best?

The truth is, each book speaks to a different part of me and a different time in my life. I put a little of myself into every book, so re-reading one of my old books is like stepping into a time machine. I can see the life I was living at that time, reflected through the characters I was building.

When I wrote Rules of Negotiation, I was working at a law firm. I also had two young kids at home, so I was looking for fantasy and escapism. In that book, my lawyer heroine falls for a billionaire CEO who sweeps her off her feet and gives her the courage to quit her job at the law firm and go out on her own.

When I wrote The Boss’s Fake Fiancee, I was watching my daughter build a close friendship with a student on the autism spectrum. Seeing their relationship (which had a hint of romance) left me doing some serious what if-ing, and wondering what might have happened if the two of them had met later in life.

And most recently, when I wrote Falling for Mr. Wrong, I was, as I am now, deeply in love with my husband, who is my own personal happily ever after. He’s also a former football player (like Ross), has a serious alpha male thing going on (like Ross), and yet is a total teddy bear with his kids (like Ross).

So which one is my favorite? You know what they say—Love the One You’re With!

This is so true for me, too! Each time I go to edit a book I'm like, "No, this is my favorite!" Thanks for joining us! Now a peek at Inara's current favorite!

Blurb ~ 

Looking for Mrs. Right…

Single father of three, Ross Bencher, knows the kind of woman he wants: someone predictable, reliable, and safe, who can give his kids the security they deserve. Someone entirely different from high-altitude mountaineer Kelsey. Kelsey bewitches him with her long legs and wild passion and is about as far from his ideal as a woman can get, but try telling that to his body. Or his heart…

Falling for Mr. Wrong…

When Kelsey agreed to fill in as a temporary nanny for her best friend’s agency before a big climbing expedition, she had no idea she’d be working for drop-dead sexy Ross Bencher, a man she can’t seem to keep her hands off. She knows if she wants to bring herself—and her father—back alive from the Himalayan Mountains, she can’t afford second-guessing, attachments, or distractions. But Ross’s blue eyes and strong hands leave her gasping…and questioning everything she’s ever known about love…

Excerpt ~ 

Kelsey swayed. His words sent heat racing through her body, flushing her face and sending a rush of warm honey between her legs. “We decided to forgot about that night, remember? It never happened.”

He finally let go of her of her hand, but instead of stepping away he moved even closer, raising his hand to brush her hair back behind her shoulder and caressing the soft skin along her collarbone. “That’s what I keep telling myself. This is all wrong. You’re all wrong.”

Alarm bells sounded in her head, but they were strangely incapable of forcing motion into her legs. “That’s right,” she heard herself say, as if from some great distance. “Exactly right.”

“I have three kids,” he continued, his eyes pinned on the hollow at base of her throat. “If I’m going to be with someone she needs to be boring. Reliable. Predictable.”

“You have three kids,” she agreed, angling her head back slightly and closing her eyes. He cupped the back of her neck in his palm, and she felt his lips brush lightly, like the wings of a butterfly, against her neck. “You live a life I can barely imagine. I couldn’t invent someone who would be less compatible with me.”

The touch was too sweet, too familiar. Her nipples hardened in an instant. How was it possible to want someone so much, so quickly?

“Damn it, Kelsey,” he continued, breathing against her skin as he kissed her again, this time just below her ear. “Why do you do this to me? Why can’t I walk away from you?”

If you are paying attention guys, this last line is EXACTLY what every girl wants to hear. We want to know that we are the only thing you can't resist. Take notes. ;)

Bio ~

Bestselling author Inara Scott grew up on a steady diet of true love, heaving bosoms, and happily ever after. Romance inspired her first novel, penned at the age of 14, titled A Wild and Stormy Passion. Today, Inara writes anything and everything, including young adult fiction and adult romance. Inara loves to hear from readers, and can often be found avoiding actual work by playing on Twitter (@inarascott) andFacebook.

You can find Inara at:

You can find FALLING FOR MR. WRONG at:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo Books | iTunes

Giveaway ~ 

He let her make the rules…

NYC’s most eligible bachelor, Brit Bencher, is also known as The Slayer for his reputation in the boardroom…and the bedroom. And he’ll do anything to take care of his family, even seduce high-powered corporate attorney Tori Anderson in the hopes of getting her to reveal confidential information about one of her clients. But for the first time in his life, he finds he’s falling for a woman.

…and then he started to break them.
After juggling the demands of her career and the stress of caring for her ailing mother, Tori Anderson doesn’t have time for relationships—but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to feel like a woman. When Brit offers a no-strings attached fling, it sounds like exactly what she needs. But what will she do when Brit decides he won’t take “one night stand” for an answer? When Tori uncovers his lies, will he lose his chance with her forever?

Is she his worst nightmare…

No relationships, that’s billionaire Garth Solen’s rule–especially not with a woman like his new employee Melissa Bencher, who thinks with her heart and not her head. But all bets are off when Melissa’s attempt to make her jerk ex-boyfriend jealous by suggesting that she’s dating Garth. To protect his ailing grandmother, he is forced to play the part of Melissa’s adoring fiancĂ©.

…or a dream come true?

Melissa couldn’t begin to imagine all the trouble one impulsive act could cause. Now she’s trying on rings and posing for the paparazzi with her gorgeous boss. The game is clear: for one month, they play the part of an engaged couple, and then they part ways. No emotions. No entanglements. But when it comes to matters of the heart, Melissa’s never been good at following the rules…

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The third in my ROCKING ROMANCE COLLECTION is due out in early December, so I thought it was time for a cover reveal! 


Heath “Hawk” McGowan is a young, single, cop and father. Jasmine Barrett is the rock star who has just discovered her best friend murdered in her own bed. Jasmine, or “Jazz”, as her fans call her, is not at all what Heath expects when he first meets her. Anticipating having to work with a prima donna, he is surprised to find her sweet and completely unassuming, in addition to being as sexy as her onstage persona. After outlining a number of reasons why he shouldn’t become involved with her—the top reason being he is the lead investigator in the murder of her best friend—Heath finds that he can’t stop himself from falling in love. 

Things heat up between the two, especially after Jazz discovers another body in the condominium’s garage, and her terror drives her closer to Heath. Will Heath be able to solve the murders before Jasmine becomes the next victim? Or will he save Jazz, while, at the same time, losing his heart to her?



Good morning! Today I am featuring Aimee Carson's 'TIS THE SEASON TO BE TEMPTED! Check it out--->


After the worst year ever, free-spirited Evie Lee rings in the New Year alone, swearing off men forever. So when her brother’s childhood friend, the perfect man with the perfect life, winds up on the same plane home, she’s determined to ignore him. Wes is determined not to take her seriously. Unfortunately a snowstorm traps them at the airport with no way to finish their commute, and his perfect body is tempting her to break her vow—if only for one hot night!

CEO Wes Campbell is famous for always doing the right thing, and running into Evie again is torture. He’s determined to continue his hands-off attitude. But he wasn’t counting on the little hellion’s infectious smile, her killer body, or the vulnerability in her eyes. For the first time in his life, Wes is tempted to do the wrong thing…


Chapter One

The urgent ping of the call button broke through the first-class cabin as the airline passengers prepared for takeoff, some bringing their ongoing New Year’s Eve revelry attitudes on board, others clearly nursing hangovers from the night before.

The last to board, Wes Campbell handed his winter coat to the waiting flight attendant. Ringing in the New Year with his newest client hadn’t been his first choice. Neither had the multiple rounds of Dom Perignon.

He sank wearily into his leather seat, grateful that the nasty winter weather had cleared long enough for his flight home. The second call-button ping came just as he closed his eyes. Determined to catch some much-needed z’s, he ignored the male flight attendant as he passed to assess the problem.

Until Wes heard a female voice address the man from a few seats back.

“I hate to complain, dude.” The vaguely familiar tones reached through the sleep-deprived, muddled mess of Wes’s mind as the woman continued. “But I think we have a problem.”

“The name is Bob,” the airline employee said. “And how can I help you?”

“Well, Bob, my seatmate still has his cell phone on,” she said.

Wes cracked a lid open. He definitely recognized the voice.

An outraged male, undoubtedly the rule-breaking neighbor, said, “Hey, look lady—”

“If having all electronics turned off means the difference between living and dying in a fiery crash,” the woman pushed on, “shouldn’t you have been confiscating them as we came on board?”

Full comprehension finally hit, and Wes sat up straighter in his seat. He’d recognize that enticingly husky, frustratingly persistent voice anywhere. Because Evie Lee Burling rarely stopped for anything, including red lights. But beneath the hint of sarcasm in her voice, Wes detected a note of panic.

“Surely that would be the safest plan?” she said, as if the idea made total sense.

And despite the determined tone and the sliver of fear beneath, the sexy voice resurrected never-quite-forgotten memories. The remembered desire shimmied down Wes’s back and settled in, as if determined to stay, competing with the fatigue for his total attention.

Bob sounded less than appreciative of Evie’s help. “Miss, you have to buckle your seat belt.”
Wes sympathized with the man. Evidently Dan’s free-spirited little sister hadn’t changed much since high school, offering her opinions freely.
Whether they were welcome or not.
“How do you know all the electronics have been powered down?” The panic in Evie’s voice grew a bit stronger. “I mean, I don’t think you should be leaving our safety up to the cooperation of the passengers.”

Amused by the soundness of her logic, Wes leaned in to look down the aisle, anticipating catching a glimpse of the woman he hadn’t seen in ten years. But all he could see was an irritated, balding passenger in the aisle seat five rows back—no doubt the cell-phone offender—and the less-than-stimulating view of the backside of Bob. From the airline employee’s posture, it was obvious he was irritated, too.

“I can assure you, Miss,” Bob said, “you are quite safe.”

The scoff that followed sounded unconvinced. “Really?” Evie said, and Wes was disappointed the seat in front of her blocked his view of her face. “We all know how inherently uncooperative most people are.” Her voice took on a reasonableness that communicated she was about to spell out her point. “Just look at Congress—”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Bob said firmly, and Wes doubted the man’s blatantly annoyed voice was triggered by a need to defend the elected members on Capitol Hill. “You need to buckle your seat belt,” he said. “Now.”

Evie ignored the escalating tension and plowed on, the hint of panic growing thicker. “But I think I saw that lady over there with her iPod on.”

Wes bit back the smile. Evie never could keep her mouth shut. Wouldn’t take direction, either. As a matter of fact, the word contrary came to mind. Deliciously, delectably contrary. Not that Wes had ever done more than secretly appreciate the sassy mouth he had found both frustrating…and fascinating.

But Evie Lee had been off-limits from day one.

She went on. “You should check to make sure—”

“Seat belt,” Bob bit out before signaling his female colleague in the galley. “Marge, can you get this lady a drink?” He turned back to Evie, his smile tight, his voice deceptively smooth. “What would you like?”

The fear in Evie’s voice was briefly replaced with doubt. “I downed two drinks just to screw up the courage to board the plane, and I don’t think another one is a good idea—”


“I’m pretty sure the suit in 5A still has his laptop on, so I’m not really in a celebrating mood—”

“Vodka and tonic?” The attendant spoke in a tone that made it clear he was about two seconds away from grabbing a drink for himself, pulling the emergency slide, and shoving the annoying passenger out the door.

After a brief pause, Evie said, “Fine.”

Wes’s amusement abruptly died, and he suppressed a groan. Ever since he’d woken for this morning’s flight, he’d longed for more sleep. A few minutes of relaxation. After the whirlwind business trip, and being forced to celebrate his latest coup for his company with a champagne-guzzling client, all he wanted was to snooze in peace. Up until now, staying out of the current Evie Predicament—a phrase her family had coined years ago—had been easy to do. But her agreement to the vodka and tonic was sure to end in a disaster.

He knew that from personal experience.

Damn, he didn’t want to feel responsible. He didn’t want to get involved. He just wanted a couple of hours of shut-eye. But she was still the little sister of his best friend and former Harvard University roommate. Hell, Wes had practically grown up at the Burling house, especially during the terrible teen years stained by his father’s embezzlement scandal. Not only had Dan been the only friend to remain true throughout the ordeal, Wes also owed Evie’s brother an enormous debt for loyally signing on as his client during the infancy of Campbell Investments, Inc.

Not that Wes had a clue how to handle Evie Lee; the black sheep had perplexed her family for years.

Blowing out a breath, Wes stood and finally spied Evie, his gaze meeting her dark chocolate eyes. Long, brunette hair framed her misleadingly delicate features adorned with a small eyebrow piercing, and the vibration that had been pulsing through his body gained strength. Apparently her affection for grunge fashion hadn’t changed. She wore an ugly knit hat with a tiny brim in front and a white T-shirt with the words “Conformity: the surest form of death.”

The pretty, rebellious teen had matured into a beautiful maverick.

Wes stepped down the aisle to address Bob with a smile. “Light on the vodka, please,” he said. Ignoring the exasperating, and wholly inappropriate, attraction dogging him since his teens, he glanced at Evie meaningfully. “She doesn’t hold her liquor well.”

The soft snort from Bob as he passed by was barely audible, and Wes’s brow crinkled in restrained amusement at Evie’s expression, memories of his senior prom filling his mind. From the look on her face, it was obvious she was remembering, too.

Wide brown eyes locked with his as Evie hiked her chin a touch. And the wild, glossy waves of dark hair were just as tempting as he remembered. “Hello, Harvard Boy,” she said drily. “I see your pointless habit of bossing me around hasn’t changed.”

He bit back a smile. “Neither has your annoying need to be bossed.”

“And how do you figure that?”

He leaned an arm against the back of a seat. “I told you eleven years ago that you don’t handle your liquor well.”

Her balding neighbor glanced at Evie with concern.

“Lots of people drink too much at their first prom,” she said, pointedly ignoring her seatmate.

“Yes,” Wes said wryly. “But most don’t attend simply to protest the event.”

He suppressed a smile at the memory. Being elected Prom King had been a noteworthy turn of events that evening, but nothing compared to the memory of the attendees filing past a seventeen-year-old Evie in grunge attire holding a Down With the Monarchy sign.

“We fought a freakin’ war to overthrow royal oppression,” she said. “Why should we subject high school students to a royal court? Most people hate the exclusionary tradition.”

He lifted a brow. “And I’d venture to say that most prom-goers don’t end the evening vomiting on the chief of police’s desk as she’s telling the man to go to hell.”

Evie’s chin hiked higher, the sudden color on her cheeks bringing out the lovely olive tones of her mother’s distant Italian ancestry. She’d inherited the passion in spades.

And an impulsiveness that had worried her brother sick.

“I had every right to be on that sidewalk,” she said. “It was all just a…” She paused, as if searching for the right word. “It was simply a miscommunication.”

Wes couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh. “Oh, I think you communicated your displeasure well enough.”

During the pause that followed, Wes realized Evie had stopped arguing. Which was a change. But the spirited spark in her eyes remained the same—the very look that had set him on fire during his youth. Wes was never sure which had attracted him more, her beauty or her spunk. Whenever she was near, the air snapped with the charge of a pending electrical storm. He suspected her off-limits status had lent an air of the forbidden, increasing her appeal. And yet now, years later, the same prickle of energy spread up his spine and across his neck.

Staring at her lovely face, the buzz of awareness grew stronger, leaving him on edge. Feeling restless.

He’d warned the flight attendant to go light on the vodka. His duty was done. So he should be returning to his seat, catching up on the sleep he’d been craving for days. But it had been years since he’d had the pleasure of admiring her delicate features, the mesmerizingly smoky eyes, and the wide, impertinent mouth. So he allowed himself one more question before returning to his seat.

“What brings you to Boston?” he asked.

“My parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary party.”

He’d received an invitation to the event himself, so the news wasn’t a surprise. That she’d decided to go was.

He cocked his head. “I’m amazed you elected to make an appearance.”

Something flashed across her face, angst or an ache or a fragment of fear, and she dropped her eyes to her hands. “Of course I’m going,” she said. “They’re my parents.”

He patiently waited for her to return his gaze again, leaving his knowledge of her tumultuous history with her family unspoken. Fate had played a cruel joke on Evie Lee, the free-spirited nonconformist born into a traditional, upper-crust family heritage that reeked of old money. And she’d resented the silver spoon her family had repeatedly, and insistently, tried to stuff into her mouth.

“You haven’t been home in years,” he said.

She blinked, and Wes finally recognized the emotion brimming beneath her usual bravado. Although the set of her chin still screamed stubborn, there was a new hint of vulnerability in her eyes. Which only made her all the more alluring.


“My father bought me a ticket,” she said simply.

“First-class seats, too,” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t insist on going coach.” When she didn’t respond he studied her distressed jeans, the holes offering an enticing glimpse of creamy skin. The white T-shirt clung to breasts he diligently ignored as he went on. “Maybe you’ve finally learned to appreciate the finer things in life.”

Evie let out a delicate snort. “I hate to disappoint you, but I haven’t changed. My affections still can’t be bought. And I refuse to participate in the Burling sibling race for my father’s approval.” Her expression briefly reflected the earlier fear in her voice. “I hate flying,” she said before letting out a quiet sigh. “I just figured if I puke in first class I’d spray fewer people.”

Evie’s neighbor bolted upright and into the aisle—forcing Wes to step back and make room lest the man land on his feet—and said, “Would you like to switch seats and sit with your friend?”

Every muscle in Wes’s body tensed. Briefly speaking with Evie was fine, but sitting next to the woman was a bad plan. How could he rest while seated beside the tempting, off-limits blast from his past?

Wes said, “Thanks, but that’s not necessary—”

“No problem at all,” the balding man said as he reached for his briefcase under the seat. He forced his way past Wes, not giving him time to protest further. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your reunion.”

Before Wes could say another word, the man plopped himself into Wes’s assigned spot, shoving his briefcase beneath the seat in front of him. It appeared that the mention of vomit had been the straw that cracked the camel’s back. Wes swung his gaze back to Evie, who was looking at him warily. And, for a moment, all he could see was the alluring swell of her breasts beneath the defiant shirt and the attractive flare of her hips. All features he’d regularly admired while growing up.

How could he get any sleep with that tempting body only an arm’s length away?

Unfortunately, his seat was now taken by a man who looked as if he’d sooner be tossed off the plane at ten thousand feet—minus a parachute—than be parked next to Evie.

Wes cocked an eyebrow. “I guess we’re sitting next to each other.”

The twisted smile she sent looked less than pleased. “Lucky me,” she said as Wes dropped into the seat and buckled his belt. “Now you can spend the next two hours engaging in one of your favorite pastimes.”

He simply hiked an eyebrow higher in question.

She shot him a brilliantly false smile. “Telling me what to do.”

Wes couldn’t restrain the ghost of a grin.

Her gaze clashed with his until the prerecorded message boomed over the PA system, beginning the routine safety instructions. Instantly, Evie’s stubborn expression faded. And Wes swore she lost a little color in her face. Marge, the female attendant, arrived with Evie’s drink and shot him a grateful look, as if he could somehow control the wacky passenger who was driving the staff crazy.

When had he been assigned caretaker of Evie Lee?

As Bob demonstrated how to put on the oxygen mask, Evie’s face grew paler. She tossed back the vodka and tonic as though a crash were imminent and she planned on feeling no pain on impact.

Evie handed her glass to the passing female attendant. “Another one, please.”

Marge’s smile was tight. “Of course.”

Wes’s heart sank. But the desperation in Evie’s face must have convinced the lady it was best to comply or risk ruining their chances for an on-time departure, all because of one uncontrollable, freaked-out passenger.

He sent Evie a look, ignoring the big Bambi eyes. “Don’t you think you should slow down?”

“I’m not a teen anymore, Wes. I know how to drink responsibly.”

“The odds of the plane crashing are incredibly slim.”

She blew out a breath. “If you were familiar with the year I just had, you’d be running over little old ladies to escape.”

Against his will, his heart softened a touch. “Tough one, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she murmured.

Actually, he did. Dan had told him about her breakup with her heavy metal guitarist boyfriend of ten years. Rumor had it, Chuck had cheated. Wes’s chest hitched in sympathy. Unconventional relationship or not, she’d remained a steadfast supporter of her boyfriend’s dreams until he’d succeeded, so it was a lousy way for things to end.

Evie seemed relatively calm until the announcer gave instructions in the event of a water landing and Bob placed the life vest over his head. Her face took on the color of the undead.

Marge returned with Evie’s refill, and the safety demonstration continued with the two methods for inflating the life vest, including the manual option in case the automatic system didn’t work. Evie muttered something about the inevitability of her equipment failing and tossed back her second drink without pausing to breathe.

And suddenly, despite himself, Wes felt sorry for the petrified Evie. “There aren’t any oceans between Minneapolis and Boston.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of lakes,” Evie said, clutching her empty glass as if desperate for a refill.

Unfortunately, the obliging Marge returned to exchange the empty glass for a full.

“The odds of a water landing are almost nil,” Wes tried again.

“Which is just far enough away from zero to make me nervous.” She sent Marge an overly bright smile before downing the entire contents of her glass.

Wes bit back the groan, sensing the situation slipping further out of control.

Safety demonstration complete, the flight attendants took their seats, and the plane taxied across the tarmac. A few seconds later and they were hurtling down the runway. The plane lifted off, pulling Wes’s heart and stomach more firmly into his body.

“You know, I’m an enlightened woman,” Evie said, her tongue sounding thick, her voice radiating sheer terror. But now, her words were slightly slurred.


“I’m sure you are,” he said with a sigh, gently tightening her seat belt.

“I change the oil in my car. Well, I did until it died on me. I squish my own spiders—”

Another stomach-dropping swoop occurred.

“I’ve always admired women who slay their own bugs,” Wes said, hoping to distract her.

She turned those heavily lined, heart-melting eyes toward him, her words sloppy. “I even take charge of my sexuality.”

Wes’s heart shifted to somewhere around the level of his groin. But this time, the adjustment had nothing to do with their rapid ascent and everything to do with the erotic images her words brought to his already primed mind.

He gripped his armrest, his pulse escalating. “I’m sure you do.” He was proud he managed his best businesslike voice, as if not aroused by her fantasy-inducing words. “You’ve never been the type to take direction,” he said, praying the woman wouldn’t take the current topic any further.

But apparently her bad luck was catching.

Her honest yet slightly glassy eyes on him, she said, “And I certainly don’t need a man to have an orgasm.”

The heated flush in Wes’s body burned higher, and he longed for a cool drink. He’d even partake of the dreaded champagne. Anything to douse the fiery blood now coursing through his veins. She studied him closely, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat, amused. Disturbed. And incredibly turned-on.

He cleared his throat and aimed for a noncommittal tone. “Good for you.”

And he wondered how his peaceful, worry-free commute had descended into the flight from hell. Being delegated keeper of the frustratingly tempting Evie Lee, unwillingly reassigned to sit next to the only woman he’d ever considered off-limits. Made worse by a fresh vulnerability that would worry her brother more. But it was a simple three-hour flight.

He could handle anything for a short three hours. Couldn’t he?

Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d pass out soon.

The color on her cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being tipsy. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”


“Sleeping with you.”

Wes froze, his libido pounding out its approval as Evie went on. “Tell me, Harvard Man,” she said. “Do you make love with your dress shirt on?”

Evie leaned closer, her breast pressed against his arm, short-circuiting his brain and sending his heart rate higher. Her scent was rich, like a decadent dessert, and her eyes simmered with a heat that was impossible to ignore. If she’d had full command of her faculties and wasn’t on the rebound—and had been anyone other than Dan Burling’s sister—he’d have been hard-pressed to refuse the offer in her gaze.

But sex with Evie couldn’t get any more wrong. He owed his friend that much. “Even in high school you had an authoritative air.” Her words were more slurred than ever, but her tone betrayed both awe and sympathy, as if his personality was something to be both admired and pitied. “So tell me, Mr. Responsible…”

Gaze now dreamy, she plastered her soft body against his. Wes’s heart paused along with her as he studied the liquid brown eyes and the beautiful, flushed face, waiting to hear what she’d say next. The words weren’t reassuring.

“Is there was a wild man beneath that do-right exterior?”

And suddenly, three hours with a tipsy Evie sounded like a lifetime in temptation hell.


The summer she turned eleven Aimee left the children’s section of the library, entered an aisle full of Harlequin Mills and Boon, and pulled out a book. That story sparked a love affair that has followed her from her life in Florida to Alaska, Seattle, and finally South Dakota.

Armed with a fantastic job working part-time as a physician in the Alaskan Bush (imagine a combo of Northern Exposure and E.R., minus the beautiful mountains and George Clooney), she enjoys being home in the gorgeous Black Hills, riding her dirt bike with her three wonderful kids and beyond-patient husband. But every morning she gets to play God and flirt vicariously through her characters, who all just happen to reside in one of her favorite vacation destinations . . . South Beach, Miami.

Her motto? Life is too short to do anything less than what you absolutely love.

You can find Aimee at:

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads




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Ahem, down here. If you could tear you eyes away from those abs a minute. :) Welcome author Heidi Rice to the site today with her new release, 'TIS THE SEASON TO GET LUCKY! Hmm...wonder what this one's about... Well, I need wonder no more--->


Unlucky-in-love PR manager Kate Braithwaite doesn’t think her Christmas could get any suckier. Until a trip into work on Christmas Day leaves her snowbound in the Fifth Avenue department store with her boss’s far-too-tempting playboy son Ryder Sinclair. Ryder’s rugged, reckless and none too pleased to be stuck in a place he hates with an uptight workaholic like Kate—but as the night draws on, the lights go out and the temperature rises, until they’re both wondering is this the season to get lucky?


Snowed into the empty department store overnight. Kate has just explained where her fear of the dark has come from, and waits for Ryder to say something derisive about it.

He didn’t say anything for the longest time, but his forehead furrowed as if he were thinking hard about what she’d said. And he didn’t look too pleased about the information.

She felt the tangle of nerves tie up in her stomach. He probably thought even less of her now than he had before. She should never have told him the truth. Why hadn’t she simply refused to answer the question? Why had she willfully exposed her most embarrassing secret to a virtual stranger? He’d accused her of being a princess, vain and selfish and superior, and he had even more ammunition now to support that theory.

But just as her anxiety reached breaking point, he slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.

“Okay, look,” he said, the tone a little stiff but not remotely contemptuous. “We should head up to the electrical department first for a couple of flashlights. So we’re all set if the generator goes again.” He led her toward the stairwell. “Then we need to find you some dry clothes.” He glanced down at her attire. “Unless of course you want to wear the lap-dancing elf outfit again. I certainly wouldn’t object.”

“I’m not putting that on again,” she said, so relieved at the change of topic she felt almost giddy. “I looked ridiculous.”

Giddy relief turned to giddy shock when his arm tightened and he murmured, “Katherine, you did not look ridiculous. You looked seriously hot.”

The blush shot up her neck and set fire to her ears.

“But if you’re dead-set against giving me any more cheap thrills,” he added, apparently oblivious to her embarrassment, “which I personally think is a little small of you, then I suggest we check out the lingerie department and find a compromise we can both live with as a fallback position.”

“Um…” She stammered, her wits having completely deserted her.

Was he flirting with her? And if he was, why was it making the giddy shock turn into a giddy thrill? “I’m not sure that’s appropriate…” She continued trying to find her indignation. Or at least a tiny iota of her usually very reliable common sense.

“Katherine, we’re stranded in the middle of a major weather event here. Forget appropriate. The only benefit to a situation like this is that appropriate no longer applies.”


USA Today bestselling author Heidi Rice lives in London and is married with two teenage sons (which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche). She also works as a film journalist but loves being a romance writer because it involves sitting down at her computer each day and getting swept up in a world of high emotions, sensual excitement, smart feisty women, sexy tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist … Not bad, eh.

Then she gets to turn off her computer and do chores (usually involving laundry!)

You can find Heidi here:
Heidi’s Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads | Pinterest

You can find 'TIS THE SEASON TO GET LUCKY here:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo Books | iTunes

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Today I am featuring Mark Patton's historical fiction book AN ACCIDENTAL KING!


79 AD.

As he approaches the end of his life, Tiberius Claudius Cogidubnus, the native-born but loyally pro-Roman client king of Britain, looks back on the thirty-six years of his reign.

He recalls how, as a young man, he was seduced by the grandeur of Rome and the beauty of the written word; how he was befriended by the Emperor Claudius, and by the Roman General, Vespasian, later to rule as Emperor himself.

He remembers the difficulties he encountered whilst trying to mediate between the British aristocracy and Roman officials who were often cruel and frequently corrupt.

Most significantly he reflects on the Boudiccan revolt of 60/61 AD, which he tried to prevent, and in the course of which Britain was almost lost to Rome.

Roman Britain. One man. His fate.


“Although this tale can never be told in public, I feel that I must share it with you, for it is the story of who you are, though not, perhaps, of the person you thought yourself to be. It is the story, also, of the land in which we live, but it is not the history of the land it believed itself to be in the dazzling sunshine of the springtime of my youth …

I sought to promote peace and prosperity on these islands, and to avoid the bloodshed that others tried to incite. There was just one moment when I failed, and almost failed completely …

It was a year of madness that, in my darkest moments, I feared might extend even to the gods …

The chaos and bloodshed of that year would have spread much further, and lasted far longer, if your father and I had not acted as we did. But such is the glory of kings, like that of butterflies, that we are masters of the moment. The colours on my wings are already fading faster than my eyesight. Those powers that I have exercised, along with all the influence I have flourished, and the wealth I have accrued, were never truly mine, but merely lent to me by the gods. Unlike your other grandfather, it will never fall to me to be numbered amongst them …

Your loving grandfather, Tiberius Claudius Cogidubnus.”


Mark Patton was born and brought up on the island of Jersey. He studied Archaeology and Anthropology at Cambridge and completed his PhD at university College London. He has taught at various universities in the Netherlands, France and the UK, and currently teaches for The Open University. His first novel, Undreamed Shores, was published in 2012, and his second, An Accidental King, in 2013, both of them by Crooked Cat Publishing.

You can find Mark at:

You can find AN ACCIDENTAL KING at:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Crooked Cat Books


I'm welcoming back, with open arms, one of my favorite peeps, Cait O'Sullivan! I know y'all are gonna love her as much as I do so why don't I just step back and let her take the stage. Cait?

Big thanks to darlin’ MJ for having me on her blog today!!

I love the Gothic era, dating from mid-to-late eighteenth century and on into the nineteenth. Classic Gothic novels are well known, Dracula, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hide, The Monk, anything by Edgar Allen Poe. Lesser well known novellas enthralled me, The Yellow Wallpaper by American author Charlotte Perkins Gillman has forever remained in my mind.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, what a fabulous read. What instantly captured my attention about Frankenstein was the reason it was written. Both she and her husband, Percy were in the Alps with Lord Byron and John Polidori and they had a bet to see who could write the best horror story. How totally fabulous. She then dreamed about a mad scientist and hey presto, Frankenstein was born. She safely won that bet. And it’s not as if female authors were the norm for the time either! Kudos to Mary Schiller oooh sorry, Mary Shelley. [:)]

Elements of Gothic writing include haunted houses, fainting heroines, dark secrets and various oddball goings on. It was also the first example of the supernatural creeping in. What a gloriously fun genre to write in…and so I did!! In order to keep the pace fast, both stories take place over two days thus producing two novellas under 50 pages.

First I wrote Sefton Manor, a country house that has somehow withstood the ravages of time, holds the key to Martha Kendall’s dysfunctional family. Asked by her grandmother to uncover the truth about her missing Aunt, Martha comes to Buckhurst Village. Despite unsettling occurrences upsetting her sensibilities, she starts asking questions.

Questions that lead her to Will Fellowes, a man whose family tended the grounds of Sefton Manor for centuries. Amidst whispers of pacts with the Devil, they pair up to wrestle the secret from the house.

Or will Sefton Manor consume them all?

Buy from Amazon or Musa Publishing

And I so very much enjoyed writing it, that I followed it up with Mugs & Monasteries. 

When orchid hunter, Evie Bourke stumbles across a near deserted monastery deep in the Burren, she has no idea she’s the first person alive to have seen it. All she knows is that life went a bit strange and was getting more bizarre by the minute.

Meeting alpaca farmer Aiden Dunne over a pint of Guinness, she is struck by his resemblance, yet to whom, she can’t quite remember. Aiden is searching for Munster Abbey for his family was connected to it for generations, culminating in the disappearance of his relative, the then Prior.

What happened all those years ago? Who or what is ‘the Wanderer’ and, more to the point,

what does he want?

Buy from Amazon or Musa Publishing

What’s next? I do have another short story three quarters finished but zombies have crept in here. Not sure what Mary Shelley would think of that. Could I tout it as a modern Gothic, I wonder?!


Cait O'Sullivan has a deep abiding love of words and magic, having had the good fortune to grow up in Ireland. The wanderlust in her blood sent her out to travel the world and now, residing in a leafy suburb of London, it is her thoughts and memories that journey far and wide in order to create her stories.

Learn more about her at


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I'm so excited to have out my first Christmas novella! I love the holiday season and it is a great time for hearts to find each other, like Dylan's and Keira's. Discover more as you follow the UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR Blog Tour and win prizes!

Monday, November 11th - Dottie Taylor's blog- http://myblog2point0.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, November 12th- Lola Karn's blog- http://lolakarns.wordpress.com/blog/

Wednesday, November 13th- Andrea Cooper's blog- http://andrearcooperauthorblog.wordpress.com/

Thursday, November 14th- T.F. Walsh's blog- http://www.tfwalsh.com/blog/

Friday, November 15th- Sharon Clare's blog- 

So forget the Thanksgiving feast grocery list for a minute, take a load off, and start dreaming about Christmas magic...and murder! UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR!

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As I've said before, I love the sheer variety of books available in the market today, and being able to share that here with you. I've had an author on my blog before whose book was about romance on the Scottish Highlands, one who wrote about The Witness Protection Program, one who had Edgar Allan Poe as a character...it goes on and on! But I've got to say...I don't believe I've ever featured a book about a were-leopard, didn't in fact know that such a thing existed, until now. Please welcome the writer of our guest post today, author P.J. Schnyder!

Things I Do When Writing

Authors multi-task sometimes while they’re writing and I’m no different. A pretty common thing is to have a load of laundry going while in the midst of a word sprint. Sometimes there’s something baking in the oven or bubbling in the slow cooker.

While I was writing Sing for the Dead, I did all these things. I also did a couple of unusual things.

One that might have sports fans irritated with me was attending a baseball game. Yup. Roomie has season tickets at Camden Yards. Good seats too. I keep him company sometimes and get word sprints in during slower innings. I’ve gotten a lot of looks and one particularly passive aggressive lady saying unkind things about my general appearance and how I didn't deserve to be sitting next to roomie. Hey, roomie likes having me with him even if I’m writing some of the time. That’s all that matters.

Possibly the oddest thing I’ve done though is break in new shoes. Seriously. I pull on the cute new heels and let them stretch a tiny bit around my feet as I sit with legs outstretched on my couch and write. Aside from the practical outcome of heels broken in, I also feel a bit sexy while I’m writing. Not a bad thing. ;)

Do you multitask while writing or reading?

Play find the PJ around the Internetz:

Website: http://pjschnyder.com

Twitter: @pjschnyder

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorPJSchnyder

YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/pjschnyder


Kayden, a lone were-leopard allied with the London werewolf pack to keep the zombie infestation in check, is used to working solo—until he discovers a beautiful fae woman surrounded by the aftermath of battle. He’s immediately drawn to Sorcha, but quickly discovers she’s much more than a pretty face.

Half Bean Sidhe and half berserker, Sorcha trained over centuries to become the perfect warrior. She agrees to work with local weres to investigate a new type of zombie capable of coordinated attacks—and is partnered with Kayden. He’s strong, darkly handsome and completely unafraid of her. And his kiss fills her with insatiable desire instead of bloodlust.

As Kayden and Sorcha work together, their attraction grows and their deepest scars are bared to each other. But with the force behind the deadly new zombies poised to overwhelm the city, Sorcha can only pray that the next time her bloodlust strikes, Kayden isn’t among the fallen…



Chapter One

Sorcha ran.

Taking the Serpentine bridge helped speed her along, man-made though it was. Crossing running water posed no deterrent for her. Others of fae blood might have paused in the hunt, but the zombies shambling through the bare trees in these parks were not her quarry.

No. Pursuit was not her purpose. Rescue was. The feeling of wrongness, the taint of spoiled magic, worsened as she crossed from Hyde Park into the Kensington Gardens. Perhaps the lake separating the two parks kept some of it from spreading. What humans called the Long Water remained relatively clean of the pall of death exuding from the land.

The trees in Kensington Gardens were bare skeletons this deep into winter in London—sleeping, but restless, tugging at her heart. Would the trees be too sickened to bring forth new life after their roots had bathed in blood? Parks like these provided sanctuary for the lesser fae and Fair Folk living in cities such as London. Without them, the fae who’d made the city their home, braved cold iron, would fade. And for every city lost, the Under Hill shrank as well.

Even if mortals ruled the world, the fae needed to maintain a presence in order to keep the balance of things or their world would fade from existence. She’d been sent to investigate why the fae of London were disappearing, and she’d found death walking. Stupid humans, coming in after dark, to hunt and be overwhelmed, to loot and be taken by surprise. Perhaps such short lives made for stunted memories. Though the zombies found prey too often in these gardens, the humans kept coming. She didn’t Sing for those, the ones who’d done humanity a favor by taking themselves out of the gene pool.

No. Her Songs aided the passing of worthier souls. A tortured cry rang out in the night, sending ripples through the magic saturating the land, tainted as it was. She ran harder. Perhaps she could be savior this time, and not simply witness to death.

The zombies were gathering, called not only by the sounds of struggle, but also by the disturbance. Like sharks drawn to an injured fish in water, it was as if the zombies could sense easy prey. Unnatural as they were, she’d no doubt zombies were animated at least in part by magic of some kind. The parks used to be the reservoirs of old magic in the city. They’d become death traps.

As she broke through the trees, a brownie stood atop a mound in the children’s playground, a curved dome with tunnels for children to crawl through in play. Good that he’d chosen higher ground, bad that he’d allowed himself to be surrounded away from any trees or route of escape. Maybe the mound had reminded him of a hollowed hill, the way the tunnels led beneath it.

Gentle in nature, brownies like him tended places and buildings, their magic sympathetic to home and hearth. They weren’t bred to fighting, weren’t trained as soldiers the way she’d been. While he could turn boggart and create minor havoc, he wasn’t meant for true violence and was no match for the dead trying to eat him. But she was.

Red haze encroached on her vision. Sorcha reached for her swords, drawing them free without slowing her pace, embracing the sweet song of savagery rising in her blood.


Sing for the Dead Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Bio ~

PJ Schnyder - Author PictureBorn and raised in the North East, PJ Schnyder spent her childhood pretending to study for the SATs by reading every fantasy and sci-fi novel she could borrow from the local and school libraries. She scored fairly high in the verbal portion.

She was introduced to the wonderful world of romance a decade later by her best friend at an anime convention in Seattle.

She now lives somewhere temperate watching the seasons go by with her two dogs and super stealthy ninja kitty, writing her stories and gaming.

Giveaway ~

Awesome Prizes: A Sing for the Dead spiral notebook, PJ pen, signed cover flats for Sing for the Dead and Bite Me, and a custom bookmark with one of my favorite quotes from Sing for the Dead, plus a PJ Schnyder USB flash drive.

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