Summer Sizzlers
Enjoy Excerpts From These
Best-Selling Romance Authors
Joan Reeves
Cynthia Wicklund
Elaine Raco Chase
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Summer Sizzlers
by
Joan Reeves
Cynthia Wicklund
Elaine Raco Chase
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Please note the excerpts in the following eBook are copyrighted separately to each author.
“Just One Look,” “Still The One,” “The Trouble With Love,” “Jane I'm-Still-Single Jones,” and “Old Enough To Know Better.” copyright © Joan Reeves 2011
“In the Garden of Temptation,” “In the Garden of Seduction,” “In the Garden of Disgrace,” “In the Garden of Deceit,” and “Thief of Souls.” copyright © Cynthia Wicklund 2011
“Video Vixen,” “Special Delivery,” “Designing Woman,” “Calculated Risk,” and “Dare The Devil.” copyright © Elaine Raco Chase 2011
Ahhh…the warm summer sun, the intoxicating smell of coconut tanning oil and a sexy romance—what’s more fun than that!
Why sexy romances from a trio of bestselling authors, of course. Meet eBook bestseller Joan Reeves, eBook bestseller Cynthia Wicklund and Waldenbooks bestseller Elaine Raco Chase—they put their lovely heads together and came up with Summer Sizzlers—an entire book of free samples of romance novels just for you.
Summer Sizzlers makes it easy to pick the perfect romance to take to the beach or on vacation—especially if you're vacationing at home due to our slow-as-molasses economy.
If you want funny, sexy romance, Joan Reeves is your chick with attitude. Read excerpts from her novels: Just One Look, The Trouble With Love, Still The One, Jane I'm-Still-Single Jones, and Old Enough To Know Better.
Prefer emotion-drenched historical romance, Cynthia Wicklund invites you to step into her world. Read excerpts from her novels: In the Garden of Temptation, In the Garden of Seduction, In the Garden of Disgrace, In the Garden of Deceit, and Thief of Souls.
Want to mix love and laughter, the sassy romances of Elaine Raco Chase provide the heat and the steam. Read excerpts from her novels: Special Delivery, Designing Woman, Video Vixen, Calculated Risk, and Dare the Devil.
Summer Sizzlers was designed to be even better than the free sample offered by eBbooks. Joan, Cynthia, and Elaine decided to make a book of nothing but samples—15 book excerpts in one volume. We hope you’ll then want to relax in the sun and enjoy the entire novels.
As Julia Child always said, “Bon appetite!”
Meet Joan Reeves
Hello! I'm Joan Reeves. I write funny, sexy, romance novels because I think the world needs more love and laughter as well as passion and committed relationships!
I guess you want to know a little about me. I never can figure out the best way to write a biography for readers. Should I use third person, as if some unknown assistant were writing it? (I should be so lucky!)
Ms. Reeves is a multi-published novelist who has seen her books published in North America, the United Kingdom, and in many countries of the world. She is known all over the Internet for her freelance writing published under her name, various pseudonyms, and as a ghost. When she discovered eBooks, she became an ardent eBook fan and set a personal goal of publishing her backlist and original fiction as eBooks.
Now, doesn't that seem just a bit pretentious in third person? Trust me on this. I'm the least pretentious person you'll ever meet. I'm just a small-town girl who ended up in a big city in Texas. Yes, I do have that distinctive Texas drawl.
My first eBook Just One Look took off like a rocket, selling thousands of copies within the first few weeks. Now I have three eBooks published and will be publishing many more in the coming months.
I lucked into writing as a profession. I say “lucked into” because when I started, way back about the time they invented sliced bread, I knew nothing about writing as a career. I just knew that I loved to read, and I loved to write stories.
If you'd like to read more about me, or read more of my writing, please visit my blog SlingWords.blogspot.com and my website JoanReeves.com. I'll post information on my websites about my eBooks: what's selling, what's coming up, and what I'm learning from the process.
I'd like to leave you with a witty closing, but all I can come up with is what I laughingly tell everyone is my motto. It's my Vision Statement. I try to live by these words. Maybe you'd like to adopt this as your motto too.
“It's never too late to live happily ever after.”
Happy Reading and Best Wishes!
Excerpt from Just One Look
By
Joan Reeves
Jennifer Monroe shivered and rubbed the goose-bumped flesh of her arms. A meat locker would feel warmer than a doctor's examining room, she thought. Why do they have to keep it so cold? And why do they act as if you have nothing better to do than sit around, clad only in a piece of paper and your birthday suit, and wait?
She drummed her fingers on the paper-covered examination table. The rustling tissue sounded abnormally loud. Abruptly she stopped and checked her watch again. Great! Just great, she thought, crossing her right leg over her left.
Quickly, impatiently, her right foot swung back and forth. When she was finished here, she might as well call Alva and cancel their lunch date. Due to the doctor's lack of punctuality, she'd never be able to make it downtown to meet her friend at the Dallas Epicurean.
Jennifer's sigh in the quiet room sounded resigned, even to her own ears. Alva was going to read her the riot act if she canceled again. But what could she do? This time it wasn't her fault.
Another doleful sigh slipped past her lips. Sometimes, old friends could be a real pain in the neck, she thought sourly. Especially when they decided that they had to save you from yourself. As Alva Hernandez, her best friend, had.
With an irritated mutter, she looked at the silver watch on her left wrist again. I was on time, she thought grumpily. Why isn't he?
Jennifer had spent a half hour in the outer reception area before being taken back to the examination room. She looked around the tiny room. If she hadn't been so irritated, she would have laughed at the room's decor. It looked as if someone had gone crazy with a bottle of America's most popular stomach relief medication. Everything in the room was nauseatingly pink. Even the giggly young nurse wore a hot pink uniform.
The nurse, who looked as if she'd been granted her diploma yesterday, had handed Jennifer a paper gown. The great leveler, Jennifer thought, glaring at the offensive disposable garment. She'd assured Jennifer that Dr. Penrose would be with her in a moment.
A moment? His definition of a moment must be different from hers, Jennifer noted in exasperation. She'd been sitting on the tissue-covered table for thirty minutes. A whole hour wasted, not counting the drive time from her office on Forest Central out here to north Dallas. Didn't this doctor realize that Jennifer had patients also? People waiting to talk to her. Adolescents who wanted, no, needed, to pour out their problems, she thought with a sigh, recalling the afternoon appointments she had scheduled. So many kids. So many problems.
Lately, her thoughts had too often followed that line. Alva complained that Jennifer had turned into a workaholic who had forgotten how to have fun. When questioned about the last time, she'd had a date, Jennifer couldn't even remember the occasion.
“You know what they say, Jen, about all work and no play,” Alva had remonstrated, with a shake of her head which sent her rich brown curls dancing. Alva never seemed to have a problem remembering the occasion of her last date. In fact, she had so many that her only problem was keeping track of all of them. Jennifer half-suspected that her computer-intensive friend probably kept a detailed summary of them on an Excel spreadsheet.
“Maybe you're right, Alva,” Jennifer said aloud, stretching and shifting uncomfortably again. She tried to listen to the soft music coming from the ceiling speaker but the crunch and crackle of the disposable paper gown intruded, reminding her of the passing minutes.
The door popped open and the nurse chirped, “Doctor will be with you any moment now.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes in disgust. That's what bubbly Nurse Giggles had been telling her for an hour now. She started to ask for a blanket, a pillow, and a wakeup call, but the nurse closed the door before she could utter the sarcastic words.
I should have just canceled my appointment when I found out Sylvia was out of town, she thought. Sylvia Haddad, who had been her gynecologist for the last four years, never kept her waiting this long. Today though she was stuck with the new doctor in the office.
Apparently, the new guy who was subbing for Sylvia, a man who'd just moved here she'd been told, wasn't nearly as concerned with his patients' time. Dr. Joseph Penrose was as slow in arriving as autumn had been in chasing away the summer heat from the Metroplex. That was strike one against him.
Strike two was his last name. Penrose. Jennifer grimaced. She'd known only one other person by that name, and her experience with Matt Penrose hadn't enamored her of that particular surname.
For a moment, Jennifer allowed herself to think of the black-haired, blue-eyed king of Lake Grayson High School. She remembered the first time she'd seen the handsome senior. Zing! Love at first sight.
Unfortunately, she also remembered quite clearly the last time she'd seen the dirty snake. Hate at last sight! He'd turned out to be worse than all the boys she'd had to contend with since her chest had gone from flat as a board to fully-inflated in less time than it took to learn how to shave her legs without causing bodily harm.
All those high school adolescent throwbacks couldn't have said what color her hair or eyes were even if they were standing right in front of her because they never raised their eyes beyond her bust line. None of them had hurt her as deeply as Matt had.
Thank heavens that whole situation was another lifetime ago. She hadn't seen Matt Penrose since that December evening fifteen years ago. Her under-employed mom, bless her dear heart, had moved them from Michigan to St. Louis, Missouri, in search of a better job over Christmas break. It hadn't been the first time they'd moved, following opportunity, but this had been the only time that Jennifer hadn't minded. In fact, the move to St. Louis had turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to her and her mom.
Funny, she hadn't thought about her troubled adolescence—nor her first love Matt Penrose—in ages. She tried to picture Matt as he probably looked now. Let's see, he'd be in his early thirties, she thought.
For the first time in the last two hours, Jennifer smiled. Matt, the heartthrob of high school, was probably starting to lose his hair by now. More than likely, he had a beer gut. Poor guy. He was probably still stuck in Lake Grayson, unless he'd had to move to get a job in one of the auto assembly plants. With the way the economy was, the poor guy was probably struggling. Jennifer shrugged. Fortunately, she'd never see him again so it was rather pointless to waste any more energy speculating about him.
Just when she'd decided the doctor had forgotten her existence, the door opened. A whisper of aftershave that brought to mind last summer's tropical vacation teased her senses. Ummm, she thought, breathing deeply. Suntan oil and muscled bodies baking in the summer heat. The scent accompanied the tall man who entered.
The cordial smile on Jennifer's lips froze. The man had Matt Penrose's curly black hair. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. He also had Matt's dreamy blue eyes. And Matt's face. Had she conjured an adult version of him from her over-worked imagination?
Jennifer shook her head to clear it, closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again. The man still looked like a grownup Matt Penrose. Finally, her brain registered the white lab coat he wore. For the first time in her life—no, Jennifer thought, make that the second—she thought she was going to faint. Or maybe throw up. Oddly enough, both times had been caused by the man standing in front of her.
Over the buzzing in her ears, she heard the giggly nurse breathlessly announce, “Dr. Monroe, this is Dr. Joseph Matthew Penrose.”
Just One Look by Joan Reeves
Available now on eBooks
Excerpt from The Trouble With Love
By
Joan Reeves
Every woman makes mistakes.
Susannah Quinn glared at the door to the Sheriff's private office. Yep, every woman makes mistakes, but most women didn't have to put up with a constant reminder of their not so brilliant actions. And most women didn't have their mistake showing up at their office flaunting tanned muscles and polluting the environment with clouds of testosterone and male arrogance.
Of course, mistake didn't quite describe what she'd done. No tiny lapse in judgment for old Susannah Quinn. When she decided to throw common sense out the window, she didn't mess around. Her fair skin flamed at the memory.
Temporary insanity was the only explanation for her behavior. If temporary insanity was a legal defense in criminal court, shouldn't she also be able to escape punishment for her lapse in judgment? Instead, she had her mistake aka D. E. Hogan show up, right on her doorstep. That was cruel and unusual punishment if she'd ever heard of any. That kind of redress might be banned by the U. S. Constitution, but, apparently, in the grand cosmic scheme of things, it was still being dished out. What was even worse was that Hogan turned out to be the new consultant for the Murphy's Cove Police Department down on the coast. To make matters worse, he just had to drop by the Sheriff's office every blasted day.
Susannah picked up her coffee cup, an oversized white mug emblazoned with red letters: Deputies do it in mirrored sunglasses! She drained the lukewarm black coffee. Muttering beneath her breath at the injustice of it all, she slammed the heavy ceramic mug down.
“What's wrong with you this morning?” asked Grace Collier.
“Nothing.” Susannah didn't look over at the dispatcher for fear of encouraging her. She'd known Grace, her best friend's mom, all her life and loved the outspoken woman, but she wasn't interested in being on the receiving end of one of Grace's well-meaning lectures.
The ringing phone saved her. Grace punched a button. “Dispatch. This is Grace.”
Susannah ignored the conversation, knowing it was Grace's friend Eunice who ran the Courthouse Cafe across the street. The woman called every morning so she and Grace could discuss yesterday's episode of their favorite soap opera. Soap news ranked at the top of the list of excitement here in Vance.
There was never any criminal activity in Alton County. Other than high school seniors climbing the spindly old water tower to spray paint Class of whatever on the rusty tank. Sometimes, a few years passed before a kid got an itch and a can of spray paint along with the desire to immortalize his graduation from the consolidated high school that served most of the small towns in the county. Nothing ever happened in this narrow slice of coastal prairie far west of Houston. That was the way her uncle Barney Drummond, the Sheriff of Alton County ever since Susannah could remember, liked it. Life here moved as fast as a crawling turtle.
Not much occurred even down in Murphy's Cove, the county's richest town. Besides, the resort town had its own overpaid police department to deal with the few year-round residents as well as the many rich divorcees who mobbed the coastal enclave for the rich and perpetually bored.
The only hotbed of activity was over on the four-lane highway that sliced through part of Alton County. That's where the real action was. Susannah sighed. If catching speeders could be considered action. Disgruntled at her lot in life, she tried to return her attention to the report she was typing. Unfortunately, that reminded her of her temporary insanity.
“Just Hogan,” he'd said when her uncle the Sheriff had introduced him. Susannah had shaken his hand as if she'd never laid eyes on him before.
Until Hogan, she'd had only one secret in her life. It had caused her humiliation and anger. Now, she had something else to hide. Ironically, Hogan was the only person on earth who knew anything about her first painful secret. One thing about being hurt, humiliated, and angry. Those emotions sure helped squash the warm tinglies that assaulted certain parts of her anatomy every time Hogan walked through the door. If only those painful emotions had changed her body's instinctive reaction to him.
Another sigh escaped her. There was just something about Hogan. If she'd been a woman given to flights of fancy, she'd have called it love at first sight. But she didn't believe in love. Much less love at first sight. She knew enough about human sexuality to know love at first sight was nothing but pheromones. Calling it smell at first sight would be more accurate. It was just basic primitive sexual response.
Whatever you called it, Susannah would do anything to keep Hogan from learning how susceptible she was to him. Her delicate chin squared in resolve. She might not be able to run away now that he was in her county, but she could stand and fight. Or take cover behind cynicism and sarcasm. Whatever worked.
“Just try to be agreeable, and the day will pass easier,” Grace advised.
“Being agreeable is what got me stuck transforming Hogan's chicken scratch into a report. If this report's for the Mayor of Murphy's Cove, why can't Mr. Hotshot Consultant get someone in that police department to type it?”
“Maybe he likes the way you glow like a red warning light when he hands you his notes.”
“It's the principle involved. I'm a deputy, not a secretary.”
When Grace just chuckled, Susannah frowned. “Well, I am. Or I would be if I were given half a chance. Stop laughing. This isn't funny.”
“You're too danged serious. Lighten up. Be nice to Hogan. After all, he was pretty gracious about that little faux pas as you call it.”
“He was not! He was obnoxious and overbearing. I'll tell you what his initials stand for. D is for demanding. E is for egotistical. To top it all off, he got Uncle Barney to tear up the ticket.”
“Tickets,” Grace corrected. “One for parking. The other was for a cracked tail light on the Suburban he was driving. At least that's what you said.”
“Tickets then. And the tail light was cracked.” Susannah hoped Grace attributed the crimson that stained her cheeks to anger. That day, meeting Hogan again, here in her town, had shaken her. After her uncle had introduced him, Hogan had possessed the nerve to ask her to lunch. Fear had flooded her. Fear that he thought they could have a fling. Fear that he didn't want a fling. Most of all, fear that she might not be able to keep her hands off him.
When she'd declined his offer, his eyes had mocked her. She'd pretended to be absorbed in the fax from the state police that she'd been reading.
In a voice so soft she'd thought perhaps she'd imagined it, he'd said, “Coward.”
Alarmed that he'd nailed it so perfectly, she'd not dared to look up. Moments later, the door had opened and closed. He'd left without challenging her further.
Later, returning from lunch, she'd seen a black Suburban pull up and double park behind the cars filling the diagonal slots in front of the Sheriff's office. She honestly hadn't realized it was Hogan driving until she'd walked over to ask the driver to park in the lot across from the courthouse.
His blue eyes had gleamed with amusement. And with something else. Something that made her breath catch. Suddenly, the heat of the July day intensified. She knew what Hogan was thinking. She could read it in his gaze as clearly as she could feel it in the pulse points of her body. And that really scared her. If only he hadn't looked at her that way. If the corner of his mouth hadn't lifted in that little smile.
All it had taken to send panic chasing after the shiver of sexual awareness was his softly spoken question. “Don't you think we have something to talk about, Susy?”
The timbre of his voice and the heat in his gaze were like flame to dry tinder. Terrified at her body's response to everything about him, Susannah had backed away. She shook her head. “Don't call me Susy.” She knew her quavering voice must have matched her “deer in the headlights” expression.
“No heart to heart talk today? No problem. I'll be here a few weeks. We've got time.”
Susannah had felt all the blood drain from her face. She'd felt hot and cold all in the same moment. She could find no words to counter what she viewed as a threat. To be honest, there was a traitorous part of her that wished she could leap into his arms. Into his bed. But that would be disastrous.
All she'd had to do was make a joke about that night. Pretend that she was sophisticated. Unfortunately, she'd lost the ability to put together a coherent sentence, much less a smart, hip response to defuse the situation. So she'd taken refuge from his searching gaze and husky voice by whipping out her ticket book from her khaki shirt pocket. Gruffly she'd explained he was illegally parked. She'd only intended to write a warning. But Hogan had flirted. He'd winked and softly said, “Are you sure you don't want to go someplace private and talk about this, Deputy? Maybe we can work something out?”
That had just increased her panic. In a flash she saw a future she dreaded. He'd finish his job at Murphy's Cove and shake the dust of this small town. If she yielded to her emotions, he'd leave her with nothing but regret. She'd ripped the ticket out and handed it to him. He'd laughed.
The sound was the match to her fuse. She seared him with a glance and walked around the Suburban, making a pretense of inspecting the lights on the rear of the Burb just to buy her panicked brain more time. In her most official voice, she said, “Your right rear tail light is cracked.”
“Well, gee whiz, Officer,” he said in a parody of a Texas drawl. “You sure as shootin' better write that up. Can't let a lawless desperado like me get away with anything.”
His mocking voice spurred her on. Retribution was a bitch with a ticket book in hand. Ripping the second ticket from the book, she handed it to him with a flourish. “As you wish.”
“You must not have been in uniform longer than a nano second, or you'd know you don't give tickets to other law enforcement personnel. It's not professional.”
His jeering words burned her. She'd wanted to smack him with her ticket book.
Fortunately, her uncle had arrived just then. It hadn't taken the Sheriff long to get the picture. He'd tsk tsked a bit, taken the tickets from Hogan, and stuffed them in his pants pocket. She'd known her uncle would tear the tickets up. And he had.
Battle lines were drawn that day. When Hogan dropped by, he alternated between flirting outrageously and treating her like a child. She countered with whatever put-down fit the occasion. She was just counting the days until he packed up and went back to wherever he'd come from. Until then, her best defense was a good offense.
Still, it hurt that her best friend's mother seemed to side with Hogan. “Grace, you don't think it's right for Hogan to act as if he's above the law, do you?”
“Oh, pish. You're too young to be such a stickler for rules. Just once I'd like to see you thumb your nose at responsibility.”
Grace's outburst surprised Susannah. “You make me sound like a, well, like a stick in the mud. A pompous stick in the mud at that.”
“Kids should be kids, but you skipped over that and went straight to adulthood. You're too serious to moralize like this.”
Surprised, Susannah asked, “Do I really sound so self-righteous?”
“No, hon, no.” Grace smiled and held her thumb and index finger close together. “Well, maybe just a teeny bit. You gotta quit judging people and how they should or shouldn't act. And quit assuming responsibility for other people. You've been doing that since you were seven. It's time to live your own life. Let others live theirs. Good golly. Have some fun. Stop being as unyielding as a clod of sun-baked mud.”
Grace's assessment hurt. A lot. Susannah blinked to dispel the sudden moisture that threatened to turn into tears. “I was just saying that Hogan, as a hotshot consultant, should set an example for others.”
“It's not as if he robbed a bank. All he did was double park.”
“That's illegal. He was impeding traffic flow. He could have caused a traffic jam.”
“Oh, come on. Not only is this the smallest dang county in Texas, it's also got the smallest towns. The closest thing to a traffic jam here in Vance was when Cici Rojas's pet sheep got loose and rammed the plate glass window at the bank.”
Susannah smiled at the memory. She'd been fifteen when the massively overweight Ruffles had made his great escape.
“Now that assault sheep impeded traffic when everybody jumped out of their cars to try to catch him. Would you have written tickets for all of them or joined in the effort to catch Ruffles? I'm just saying that sometimes there might be mitigating circumstances to consider.”
Resignation seeped through Susannah. “You should have been a preacher the way you keep at a person until she admits her sins. All right. Maybe he wasn't impeding traffic. I'll even admit, I should have let him off with a verbal warning.”
“You've got a bad case of Rookie Cop. Ever hear about pride going before a fall?”
The phone rang again. Susannah decided it was better that Grace thought she was a gung ho rookie than to have her learn the truth. She listened to Grace's side of the conversation, hoping someone, somewhere, needed a deputy. But the call was from another of Grace's friends. No escape. The only thing more boring than this job was the small town she couldn't escape from either. And the only thing more boring than that was her personal life.
In college, she'd had friends. And dates. Though she'd never let any relationship slide into the perilous waters of romance. She sure didn't have to worry about that here. Eligible men were as scarce as unbroken sand dollars on a Gulf coast beach. Not that she cared, she silently affirmed. She'd decided long ago that all she wanted was a career. She'd be a good cop. If her uncle would give her a chance. She didn't want romance, but a social life would be nice.
Unfortunately, her high school friends had deserted Vance for the bright lights of Houston or San Antonio. She didn't blame them. She'd have done the same if it hadn't been for her mother. Luke Orland, her high school boyfriend, was now a cop down in Murphy's Cove, but they hadn't hooked up when she'd come home. To Luke, women were divided into two groups. Those good for sexy fun and games, and those he'd never get between the sheets. She still fell into the latter category.
Boring job. Boring town. Boring personal life. The triple threat was about to do her in.
Maybe it would be more bearable when Paula came home. Grace's daughter taught at Sam Houston State, the college they'd both attended. When the summer semester ended next week, she'd be home. That might save her sanity.
To Susannah's annoyance, after Grace finished the latest call, she picked up where she'd left off. “You've always been a rule follower, but in law enforcement, professional courtesy is as important as protecting and serving. You don't write the Mayor's pal a ticket. Especially when the Mayor runs the richest town in the county. And you sure don't ticket a cruiser from another police department.” Then Grace spoiled the whole effect of her professional courtesy lecture by giggling like a school girl. “There's easier ways to get a stud muffin like Hogan to notice you.”
Horrified, Susannah stared at Grace. Surely the woman couldn't know. “I did not write him a ticket so he'd notice me. Even if the governor declares D. E. Hogan heaven's gift to womankind, I wouldn't be interested. He's not even what I'd call handsome.”
“Well, Susy Q,” a male voice drawled. “I'm mortally wounded. Are you sure you don't find me appealing?”
The Trouble With Love by Joan Reeves
Available now on eBooks
Excerpt from Still The One
By
Joan Reeves
Ally Fletcher had waited six years for this opportunity. Six long years. There was no way a mere thunderstorm was going to stop her. Of course in Texas, calling this a mere thunderstorm was like saying a Texas tornado was a mere puff of wind.
She peered anxiously through the river of rain that washed down the windshield. The sluggish wipers just couldn't keep pace with a downpour that reduced visibility to zero.
Where was the church? It had to be around here somewhere. Had she already crept past the old limestone block building? In this storm, it would be easy to miss just about anything through the curtain of falling rain.
Suddenly, the church loomed out of the early evening fog like the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic. Ally slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel of the rental car sharply to the right in an effort to execute the turn into the parking lot.
Big mistake.
The little blue car made the turn into the drive, but it kept on turning, spinning in a three hundred sixty degree circle. Ally didn't even have time to scream. She fought the steering wheel, but she lost. The little rental car concluded its acrobatic performance by smashing into a sleek black Jaguar parked in the line of cars along the curving driveway. The impact jarred Ally from the top of her too-tight chignon to the toes of her black patent pumps.
The rental car shuddered as if it had the chills and wheezed like an asthmatic in desperate need of an inhaler. Then the engine died without further ado. Ally released the breath that had caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat and slumped over the steering wheel. She ached all over, but she figured it was more from the stress of driving through the storm than the impact of the low-speed crash.
What a perfect ending to a perfectly horrible day!
With shaking hands, she shoved the gear shift into low and turned the ignition key to off. Even though the engine seemed as dead as last year's round-toed pumps, she yanked up the handbrake just in case. The way her luck was running, the damn car might come back to life like some kind of post-apocalyptic zombie.
Ally squared her shoulders. She didn't have time to waste on hysterics. Her flight from Dallas Love Field had landed thirty minutes late at Houston Hobby Airport due to the storm.
Desperate to get to the small town of Brookwood, thirty miles southeast of Houston, she had taken the only available car at the rental agency even though that meant contorting her five feet nine inches into a car obviously engineered for someone built more like one of the inhabitants of Munchkin Land.
Belatedly, the clerk at the rental car counter had warned her that the car's air conditioner was a little tricky. Tricky? Inoperable would have been a more accurate label.
Somehow, she'd negotiated Houston's flooded streets, and, in record time, for rush hour traffic, that is, she'd reached her exit.
By the time Ally had skirted through the Clear Lake area and turned onto the two-lane, black-top road leading to Brookwood near the bay, the rainy June evening had become a steamy experience in the confines of a car about as roomy as a can of tuna. The so-called tricky air conditioner had conspired with Houston's humidity to melt her carefully applied makeup. And now this!
Disgusted, Ally smacked the steering wheel with her palms. She'd just leave the darn car where it was, right front fender smack dab up against the left rear fender of the Jag. She'd take care of this problem, and the sure-to-be irate owner of the Jag, later.
Ally yanked the door handle upward. Nothing happened. The door didn't budge. She groaned. “I don't have time for this,” she complained aloud. Exasperated, she pulled hard and shoved with her shoulder at the same time. The door flew open. With a startled cry, Ally fell out into the rain.
Instinctively, she broke her fall with her hands. The asphalt was cold, hard, and wet. She earned herself two abraded palms for her efforts. Her arms felt as if they'd been slammed into, well, cold, hard asphalt. Really angry now, at the lousy car, the rain that drenched her, the rush hour traffic, and the phone call that had started this insanity, she scrambled to her feet. Cursing, she impulsively kicked the offending door with her right foot.
“Owww!” She yelped. But the door slammed and stayed that way. Hopping on her left foot, she realized that cursing in front of a church would have had her grandmother washing her mouth out with soap. Ally moaned, “Can this day possibly get any worse?”
As if the universe answered her, the rain intensified, pelting her with even greater force. Ally blinked and shielded her eyes. This was all Burke's fault. She hadn't seen the blasted man in six years. Six years of a quiet, orderly life. But from the moment her grandmother had mentioned his name today, her world had begun to tip crazily on its axis.
“You're going to pay for this Burke Winslow!” She muttered, shivering in the pouring rain. Limping to the church steps, she winced with pain each time her right foot made contact with the pavement.
Her expensive black silk sheath offered no protection from the weather. She thought longingly of the dress's matching jacket, lost somewhere during the mad dash from Dallas to Houston. And her shoes! Her beautiful, sexy black patent pumps that she'd paid way too much for were ruined. It was all Burke Winslow's fault.
When she'd conceived this plan, Ally had pictured herself arriving at the church and looking as if she'd stepped off the pages of Vogue. Instead, she probably looked like a newspaper photograph of someone who'd been caught in a mudslide.
With her foot throbbing and rain dripping from her hair and her dress, she shoved open the iron-hinged double doors of the church.
This wasn't how this scene was supposed to play out. She should be looking sophisticated and gorgeous in her best outfit. On the plane, she'd envisioned herself strolling down the center aisle of the church, with every man's eye on her. Especially Burke's intense hazel eyes. In her daydream, she'd been calm and collected, and oh, so cool. Well, she was cool, all right, she thought, trying to control her chattering teeth.
For a moment, Ally considered abandoning her impulsive plan. But, maybe, she rationalized, she didn't look as bad as she thought. The moment of sanity flitted by.
When this was over, Ally decided, she was going to have a nice nervous breakdown. Right now, she just didn't have the time. The wedding may have already started without her.
Still The One by Joan Reeves
Available now on eBooks
Excerpt from Old Enough To Know Better
Prequel to The Good, The Bad, and The Girly Series
By
Joan Reeves
You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men going astray? Well, Stormy Clarkson decided, the best-laid plans of women old enough to know better didn't just go astray. They went into some kind of hyperspace wormhole, and, when they came out the other end, they landed on your unsuspecting head like Dorothy's house crushing the wicked witch.
What was she going to do? She was in over her head, and she knew it.
Her hands shook as she pulled the shimmering red silk dress from the hanger. She stepped into the dress and pulled it up, slipping her arms through the straps. A lot of women her age avoided showing their arms, but sagging triceps was the least of her problems tonight. Besides, she'd made exercise her addiction of choice years ago. Not only was it a way to deal with stress but also it helped fill the empty hours of the life she'd chosen.
Chosen?
No. Stop it!
With fierce determination, Stormy reminded herself of certain truths. Now was not the time to fall into that old mental debate. Not tonight. She owned her decisions. She'd moved on. She liked the person she'd become when she'd finally grown up.
You're just scared, she told herself. When she got scared, the temptation to brand an L for loser on her forehead was overpowering. Put a sock in it, she scolded herself.
Stormy zipped her dress then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror. She was lucky. Sure, she had some tiny lines around the corners of her eyes, but her throat was still firm, as were her legs, and the aforementioned arms. Her boobs didn't droop. Yet. And her stomach was still flat. Not bad for a woman who turned fifty today. But was it good enough to be naked later with a man younger than she?
No, she couldn't do it. She was insane to even be thinking about it.
Her hands shook as she pulled the pins from her hair. If only she hadn't let Libby talk her into this Wine Country Weekend. If only she was at home, alone. Like all the other nights for as long as she could remember. If only she could stop thinking about sex. Sex with him. With his large hands touching her. Everywhere.
If only she hadn't kissed him. But the heat in his eyes had drawn her. She felt like a moth that had already made the acquaintance of the flame and was over-heated from the encounter.
Stormy groaned. Heaven help her, but she wanted to be naked in his arms.
What was she going to do? If she had a brain in her head, she'd pack up and leave. Or at least stay in her bungalow and not answer the door.
Run away or stay?
The mirror reflected her indecision. Stormy sighed and smoothed the red silk over her breasts and down her body. A body that seemed to have grown a few million more, ultra-sensitive, nerve endings since she'd met Jack Butler, the owner of the winery. What would it feel like if Jack touched her like this? A shiver of sexual awareness raced up her spine. The dress made her look as blatantly sexual as she felt.
A knock on the door made Stormy jump. A heavy pulse beat between her legs. Decision time.
Hide or open the door?
Old Enough To Know Better
Prequel to The Good, The Bad, and The Girly Series by Joan Reeves
Available on eBooks June 15, 2011
***
In the immortal words of American actress Ethel Barrymore: “That's all there is. There isn't any more.”
Meet Cynthia Wicklund
Cynthia Wicklund is a former Golden Heart finalist who writes Historical and Gothic romance and Urban Fantasy with romantic elements. She is currently published with Blush, the mainstream imprint of Ellora's Cave Publishing.
Cynthia has been “writing” stories long before she put pen to paper—or fingers to keyboard. A voracious reader, her earliest love was fairy tales—until she read her first Georgette Heyer novel and fell in love with the Historical romance. She admits to a fondness for Urban Fantasies and things that go bump in the night. Now, when she’s not writing either Historicals or Paranormals, she’s creating stories that combine the two. She makes her home in Texas with her family and a tribe of rat terriers, rascally fur babies who could use a little quality time with the Dog Whisperer.
Please enjoy these examples of her published novels and excerpts from novels coming in the summer of 2011. Visit her at:
Website: www.cynthiawicklund.com
Email: cynthia@cynthiawicklund.com
Excerpt: In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4, The Garden Series)
by
Cynthia Wicklund
They rode for the next thirty minutes without speaking. Amanda chanced a peek at James and found him watching her moodily. There was an indolent quality to his posture, arms folded casually over his chest, not reflected in his penetrating blue eyes. Her stomach dropped. Secluded in a large townhouse with her husband was one thing, alone with him in the closed quarters of a traveling carriage was something else entirely.
“Yes?” she managed after a moment.
“I find the silence hurts my ears.”
“It does? You are welcome to speak if that is what you want. I hadn’t yet thought of anything to say.”
“I see. Am I the only one who feels we have much to discuss? We’ve avoided what lies between us since the wedding, Amanda. I think it’s time to brave it out.”
“Perhaps you would like to open the discussion,” she said tightly, “since I haven’t a clue where to begin.”
“What I would like, really like, is to pretend nothing has happened, that Derrick did not fill your mind with poison, and you do not believe the very worst of me. Is that possible?”
“You ask too much.”
James sighed. “I ‘spose so.”
“But it seems that is what you believe I ought to do.”
“It would be the practical course,” he agreed.
“Really? What would you do in my place?”
For a moment he looked startled. “Touche,” he said softly. “But I think you have pinpointed where we should start.”
“I have?”
“Tell me my sins, with no holding back, and I will address them to the best of my ability. Then I will tell you what I would do in your place.”
“For heaven’s sake, you make it sound as if we are striking a bargain. It’s not as if you aren’t biased. Can I really expect a fair answer?”
“Think of it as a game then. If we solve nothing, what have we lost?”
Amanda humphed, pulling at her skirts while she thought. She had already decided what she wanted to do, how she was going to handle the situation. Just like a man to take over and change the rules. Unfortunately, she was curious.
“Oh, all right. Only one sin, but it’s a very bad one,” she said primly.
James leaned his head back, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. “Go on.”
“You should have told me about your straitened circumstances, and I should have been given the opportunity to decide whether or not I wanted to be part of resurrecting them.”
“True.”
Simple as that he agreed with her. With one word he had taken the wind from her sails. Was he being honest or merely humoring her?
“If you believe that—”
James came forward in his seat. “Archie Campbell is a difficult man to say no to. Your father felt you would turn me down. I should not have listened to him.”
“You know this makes you a fortune hunter, don’t you?”
All the hurt she had felt came rushing back, and Amanda had to clamp her teeth to control the quivering of the muscles in her face. She hadn’t mentioned what hurt most of all. She had thought he loved her. As she loved him. Realizing that their marriage was essentially a sham was torment to bear.
“A fortune hunter,” James said slowly. “That’s a lowering thought.”
“I should think so. Now, it’s your turn. What would you do if suddenly you discovered that I married you because of, oh say, your title?”
He smiled wryly. “Not my fortune?”
“It seems unfair to present a scenario you can’t identify with. We’ll adhere to something you understand.”
“Ouch. Aiming for something vital, my dear?”
“Do you object?”
James shrugged, a smirk still playing about his mouth. “Marrying me for my title, eh? Hardly a novel idea. Men of rank have been fielding such proposals since forever. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“Even if,” she swallowed over a lump in her throat, “I had made you believe that I had married you for another reason?”
He glanced away, and Amanda attributed his sudden unease to a guilty conscience. It was as she had thought. James had married her out of necessity, nothing more.
“You are ending the game?” she said with false brightness. “Seems it’s only amusing when I’m the one who feels uncomfortable.”
His gaze shot back to hers, his blue eyes narrowing, taking her measure. “We’re not going to get through this thing easily, are we?”
Unable to maintain the pretense any longer, Amanda wanted to cry. She wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and weep her pain and beg him to ease her misery. But how could she take comfort from him when he was the source of that pain? the very reason this much awaited trip was now a journey into an uncertain and frightening future.
She made a small sound, a pitiful mewling that escaped her unintentionally, and shifted away from him to look out the window. The landscape blurred through her tears, colors washing together like paints on a palette. She was embarrassed to have revealed so much. With a monumental effort she stemmed the flow, slowly gaining control of herself.
The carriage rocked and James joined her on her seat.
She turned to him, alarmed. “What are you doing?” she asked shrilly.
“Manda,” he said, his voice dropping intimately as he moved his hip next to hers and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Talk to me.”
James was so close, his face next to hers, warm breath dusting her cheek, intense blue eyes boring into hers. She could smell his crisp linen and the enticing masculine scent of shaving soap. His hand curled around her neck, his thumb slipping into her hair. A longing so intense took hold of her, for a moment she could only stare at him, lips parting in wonder.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
It was a tentative kiss, contact that was almost no contact at all, back and forth softly with just a hint of his tongue. Something inside her melted and, despite her reservations, she did not pull away.
Emboldened, James deepened the kiss, easing her back on the seat as he did so, gripping her hair gently. She could feel his fingers massaging her scalp, and her entire body instantly pebbled with goose flesh.
He eased his other hand beneath the jacket of her traveling gown, feeling his way slowly.
“Stays,” he murmured hotly. “Damn them!”
His voice sounded far away, but vaguely she agreed with him. Damn them, indeed.
He grasped her breast, rolling the soft flesh beneath his palm, stimulating the tip until she could feel it pucker. His breathing intensified, and he moved his mouth to her jaw and down her throat.
Amanda’s contribution to the exercise was passive, too overcome by a sensual lethargy that crept over her limbs but left every cell in her body tense with expectation. She was back on her feather bed on the night of her wedding, experiencing sensations completely and enticingly new to her, flushed with excitement and the joy of being held by someone she loved, someone who loved her…
Pain like acid rained on her senses, all the more agonizing because she was aroused. She wanted him to make love to her even now, even though he had fooled her, most likely was fooling her again. How quickly he had seduced her, brought her to the point of capitulating. Now whom was she fooling? To the point of begging was more accurate.
A sob caught in her throat and she rolled away from him, falling to the floor of the carriage. Her crinoline popped up exposing her drawers.
“What the hell did you do that for?” James gasped, his eyes bright with lust.
He reached for her, but Amanda scrambled off the floor and onto the seat across from him.
“I’ll not do it, do you hear?” she cried, pulling at her skirt.
“Why not? We’ve put this off for two days. We are married, Amanda. I want to make love to my wife.”
“I don’t feel like your wife.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he barked.
Amanda felt like wringing her hands. Instead she clasped them tightly in her lap. All she wanted was to fling herself back into his arms and a let him ease the burning ache that his lovemaking had started. But what was she to do with the ache in her heart? If she gave in to him now, she would never forgive herself. Her pride, what little there was left of it, was all she had.
“I feel used and soiled because of it.”
“Used?” He sounded incredulous. “Have I treated you with less than respect?”
“Respect is only a part of it, can’t you see that?”
“What are you talking about? I know you’re angry with me—”
“If only it were as simple as anger,” she whispered.
That stopped him. “Then what are we to do?” he asked at last.
“I need time…”
“The longer we wait the more difficult it will be.”
Amanda lifted one shoulder irritably. “It’s difficult for me right now.”
“How much time do you need?” Was that frustration in his voice?
“I don’t know. Until I feel better about all this.”
For a long while he merely watched her and, as the moments ticked by, her heart began to thump erratically. He was angry, that much she sensed.
“A marriage is a contract,” he said. “And the marriage bed is part of that contract. I am fair to have certain expectations.”
“Since when did fair begin to matter?” Only when it pertained to him, it seemed. Now she was angry, also.
“I want children, Amanda.”
Amanda averted her gaze, annoyed that the mention of children made her blush. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t give a fig what he wanted, but that was not entirely true. She did care, and they did have a contract. Strange how an impersonal business agreement could have such intimate conditions.
“I was not speaking of forever, James. I simply wanted to come to terms with this union, to align my expectations to reality, before…”
James leaned back against the squabs, his expression turning mulish. “So we are to put our lives on hold until you decide to decide?”
She had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that he wouldn’t push her when she wasn’t ready. So be it. She would dredge up her little plan and see if her cooperation was worth the price.
“Since you are adamant, waiting won’t be necessary. However, ah—” Amanda stumbled, the words like lead in her throat now that it was time to say them “—I’ll not be participating in any…significant way.”
“Are you saying what I think you are saying?” he bit out.
“There’s only so much of me you can demand, James. You can’t make me respond. The contract says I have to warm your bed, but it doesn’t say I have to like it.”
“Is that so?” James said cynically. “Seems to me you were responding only minutes ago and liking it just fine.”
Amanda felt the blood surge to her face. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“What is the matter with you, woman? I’d be a fool to agree to such nonsense.”
“Those are the terms for my cooperation.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then perhaps it would be best if I went home and ended this farce before there is no turning back.”
Even as she spoke, Amanda feared his answer, whether he said yes or no. Yes meant he cared for her not at all, and no meant he had too much to lose—financially speaking. She held her breath as he digested her ultimatum.
“We are not giving up so easily, Amanda,” he said darkly. “I am not a shirker and, I suspect, neither are you. To quit before we’ve even begun seems cowardly at best.”
The air she was holding whooshed from her mouth in a gust of relief—and misery. It was the money. But as long as he took her with him, she had hope. Hope that one day he would love her, hope that he would not regret being saddled with a wife not of his own choosing. Perhaps he might even forget to be ashamed of her pedigree.
“I’ve decided not to press you,” James continued.
“Thank you. I—”
“But—” he put up his hand to stem her gratitude “—I reserve the right to change my mind.”
“Pardon?”
“Your ‘I need time’ pronouncement is rather open-ended. Doesn’t give me much to work with, makes no promises. So…” he prolonged the agony of waiting, his gaze now hard and inscrutable, “I propose to take this thing a day at a time. If tomorrow I decide to accept your offer, you will of course oblige me, correct? No feminine hysterics or reneging?”
“Well, I…y-yes, of course,” she managed after a moment. “As long as you are satisfied with, uh…”
“Your lack of participation? Certainly. It is understood.”
“Good,” she stated nervously. The situation was getting out of control—her control—although she would be a fool to believe she’d ever had any.
“Just so we understand the rules.” Casually he glanced at his hand, studying his nails as if they were discussing nothing more profound than tomorrow night’s supper. “My participation is not to be—shall we say—impeded in any way?”
For the life of her Amanda did not know how to respond. It was one thing to talk intimacies while doing intimate things, but sitting across from one another in a moving carriage while they clinically negotiated the terms of their lovemaking had taken on a bizarre quality.
“I’m not certain what you mean.” Her speech was breathless now and high-pitched.
James settled back more deeply against the cushions, still watching her. His lazy attitude continued unabated.
“Lovemaking entails more than…the basic act,” he said. “There is the need to enhance the mood. For a man this is particularly important.”
“I-it is?”
“Most definitely. That requires kissing and touching—not for your sake, you understand—but for mine.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, indeed, I don’t want to feel that I must hold back. Are we in agreement on this?”
“I see no reason why not,” she blustered. “I won’t be the one affected.”
A strange smile played around his mouth. “No, you won’t be the one affected.”
“You say that as if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you, but it occurs to me that we perhaps should take this by degrees.”
Truly appalled, she said, “Now, what are you talking about?”
“Just a kiss here, a touch there, nothing that requires a finish, if you understand my meaning. We can work up to it. That should reduce the pressure on you.”
Certainly, as if she were not feeling the pressure at this very moment, his husky words like an aphrodisiac, working on her senses. Amanda was warm under her jacket, sweating she would admit, if ladies admitted that they sweated. She wished she could take the jacket off, but taking anything off right now seemed ill-advised.
“You think you are very clever, don’t you?” she said. “By degrees—are you certain you can live with that?”
James waved a nonchalant hand. “Gives me the opportunity to decide if I really want to pursue…well, you know, given the conditions you’ve stipulated.”
“You think me unfair?”
“I think you unwise, Amanda.”
A crash of thunder overhead saved her from having to answer. The rain that had been threatening for most of the day burst from the sky in an angry deluge. Wind buffeted the carriage, rocking the vehicle violently. A steak of lightening lit up the landscape, and another loud crash filled the air around them.
James pounded on the roof. Moments later the driver pulled over and stopped, the carriage lurching when he jump to the ground. James opened the door, hanging tightly to the handle as the wind tried to wrench it from his grasp.
The driver was soaked—and demoralized by the looks of him. “M’lord?” he shouted, rain flowing off his lips and down the front of his slicker.
“We can’t travel in this weather, Benton. We’ll be stuck in mud in no time if we do. First inn you see we have to stop.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Once again James and she were alone in the carriage, but it was dark due to the storm, and all she could see was the fuzzy outline of his body, the glint of an eye, the flash of his teeth. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and Amanda was now glad for the warmth of her jacket.
“Are you frightened?” he asked.
“Not by a little rain, I’m not.”
“I see.” And perhaps he did.
They rode in silence after that, just as they had begun their trip. Shortly thereafter they pulled into the yard of an inn and, to their relief, the feel of cobbled stones beneath the wheels of the carriage instead of dirt quickly turning to mud. James negotiated the downpour, making the arrangements then he came for her.
Her husband, now soaked himself, helped her into the inn and up a rickety flight of stairs. Her skirt was wet several inches above the hem, making it heavy and dangerously clumsy. He escorted her into a small chamber—a bed, a rocking chair, and a night table—just as Benton arrived with their luggage. Only then did the import of those bags strike her. As the door closed behind the servant, she turned on James.
“We’re not sharing this room!” she hissed.
“Do you prefer to sleep in the stables?” he asked in an awful voice. “I can tell you, I do not.”
“Of course, not. Just obtain another room.”
“There are no other rooms, Amanda. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the middle of a storm, and we are not the only travelers seeking shelter. We’re fortunate this room was still available. It was the last one.”
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