An Excerpt from An Heiress for All Seasons by Sophie Jordan

Feisty American heiress Violet Howard swears she’ll never wed a crusty British aristocrat. Will, the Earl of Moreton, is determined to salvage his family’s fortune without succumbing to a marriage of convenience. But when a snowstorm strands Violet and Will together, their sudden chemistry will challenge good intentions. They’re seized by a desire that burns through the night, but will their passion survive the storm? Will they realize they’ve found a love to last them through all seasons?

His eyes flashed, appearing darker in that moment, the blue as deep and stormy as the waters she had crossed to arrive in this country. “Who are you?”

“I’m a guest here.” She motioned in the direction of the house. “My name is V—-”

“Are you indeed?” His expression altered then, sliding over her with something bordering belligerence. “No one mentioned that you were an American.”

Before she could process that statement—-or why he should be told of anything—-she felt a hot puff of breath on her neck.

The insolent man released a shout and lunged. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. She resisted, struggling and twisting until they both lost their balance.

Then they were falling. She registered this with a sick sense of dread. He grunted, turning slightly so that he took the brunt of the fall. They landed with her body sprawled over his.

Her nose was practically buried in his chest. A pleasant smelling chest. She inhaled leather and horseflesh and the warm saltiness of male skin.

He released a small moan of pain. She lifted her face to observe his grimace and felt a stab of worry. Absolutely misplaced considering this situation was his fault, but there it was nonetheless. “Are you hurt?”

“Crippled. But alive.”

Scowling, she tried to clamber off him, but his hands shot up and seized her arms, holding fast.

“Unhand me! Serves you right if you are hurt. Why did you accost me?”

“Devil was about to take a chunk from that lovely neck of yours.”

Lovely?He thinks she is lovely? Or rather her neck is lovely? This bold specimen of a man in front of her, who looks as though he has stepped from the pages of a Radcliffe novel, thinks that plain, in--between Violet is lovely.

She shook off the distracting thought. Virile stable hands like him did not look twice at females like her. No. Scholarly bookish types with kind eyes and soft smiles looked at her. Men such as Mr. Weston who saw beyond a woman’s face and other physical attributes.

“I am certain you overreacted.”

He snorted.

She arched, jerking away from him, but still he did not budge. His hands tightened around her. She glared down at him, feeling utterly discombobulated. There was so much of him—-all hard male and it was pressed against her in a way that was entirely inappropriate and did strange, fluttery things to her stomach. “Are you planning to let me up any time soon?”

His gaze crawled over her face. “Perhaps I’ll stay like this forever. I rather like the feel of you on top of me.”

She gasped.

He grinned then and that smile stole her breath and made all her intimate parts heat and loosen to the consistency of pudding. His teeth were blinding white and straight set against features that were young and strong and much too handsome. And there were his eyes. So bright a blue their brilliance was no less powerful in the dimness of the stables.

Was this how girls lost their virtue? She’d heard the stories and always thought them weak and addle--headed creatures. How did a sensible female of good family cast aside all sense and thought to propriety?

His voice rumbled out from his chest, vibrating against her own body, shooting sensation along every nerve, driving home the realization that she wore nothing beyond her cloak and night rail. No corset. No chemise. Her breasts rose on a deep inhale. They felt tight and aching. Her skin felt like it was suddenly stretched too thin over her bones. “You are not precisely what I expected.”

His words sank in, penetrating through the fog swirling around her mind. Why would he expect anything from her? He did not know her.

His gaze traveled her face and she felt it like a touch—-a caress. “I shall have to pay closer attention to my mother when she says she’s found someone for me to wed.”

Violet’s gaze shot up from the mesmerizing movement of his lips to his eyes. “Your mother?”

He nodded. “Indeed. Lady Merlton.”

“Are you ...” she choked on halting words. He couldn’t be. “You’re the—-”

“The Earl of Merlton,” he finished, that smile back again, wrapping around the words as though he was supremely amused. As though she were the butt of some grand jest. He was the Earl of Merlton, and she was the heiress brought here to tempt him.

A jest indeed. It was laughable. Especially considering the way he looked. Temptation incarnate. She was not the sort of female to tempt a man like him. At least not without a dowry, and that’s what her mother was relying upon.

“And you’re the heiress I’ve been avoiding,” he finished.

If the earth opened up to swallow her in that moment, she would have gladly surrendered to its depths.

An Excerpt from

INTRUSION

An Under the Skin Novel

by Charlotte Stein

I believed I would never be able to trust any man again. I thought so with every fiber of my being—-and then I met Noah Gideon Grant. Everyone says he’s dangerous. But the thing is ... I think something happened to him too. I know the chemistry between us isn’t just in my head. I know he feels it, but he’s holding back. He’s made a labyrinth of himself. Now all I need to do is dare to find my way through.

An Avon Red Novel

He said no sexual contact, and a handshake apparently counts. I should respect that—-I do respect that, I swear. I can respect it, no matter how much my heart sinks or my eyes sting at a rejection that isn’t a rejection at all.

I can do without. I’m sure I can do without, all the way up to the point where he says words that make my heart soar up, up toward the sun that shines right out of him.

“Kissing is perfectly okay with me,” he murmurs, and then, oh, God, then he takes my face in his two good hands, roughened by all the patient and careful fixing he does and so tender I could cry, and starts to lean down to me. Slowly at first, and in these hesitant bursts that nearly make my heart explode, before finally, Lord; finally, yes, finally.

He closes that gap between us.

His lips press to mine, so soft I can barely feel them. Yet somehow, I feel them everywhere. That closemouthed bit of pressure tingles outward from that one place, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. I think my hair stands on end, and when he pulls away it doesn’t go back down again.

No part of me will ever go back down again. I feel dazed in the aftermath, cast adrift on a sensation that shouldn’t have happened. For a long moment I can only stand there in stunned silence, sort of afraid to open my eyes in case the spell is broken.

But I needn’t have worried—-he doesn’t break it. His expression is just like mine when I finally dare to look, full of shivering wonder at the idea that something so small could be so powerful. We barely touched and yet everything is suddenly different. My body is alight. I think his body is alight.

How else to explain the hand he suddenly pushes into my hair? Or the way he pulls me to him? He does it like someone lost at sea, finally seeing something he can grab on to. His hand nearly makes a fist in my insane curls, and when he kisses me this time there is absolutely nothing chaste about it. Nothing cautious.

His mouth slants over mine, hot and wet and so incredibly urgent. The pressure this time is almost bruising, and after a second I could swear I feel his tongue. Just a flicker of it, sliding over mine. Barely anything really, but enough to stun me with sensation. I thought my reaction in the movie theater was intense.

Apparently there’s another level altogether—-one that makes me want to clutch at him. I need to clutch at him. My bones and muscles seem to have abandoned me, and if I don’t hold on to something I’m going to end up on the floor. Grabbing him is practically necessary, even though I have no idea where to grab.

He put his hand in my hair. Does that make it all right to put mine in his? I suspect not, but have no clue where that leaves me. Is an elbow any better? What about his upper arm? His upper arm is hardly suggestive at all, yet I can’t quite bring myself to do it. If I do he might break this kiss, and I’m just not ready for that.

I probably won’t be ready for that tomorrow. His stubble is burning me just a little and the excitement is making me so shaky I could pass for a cement mixer, but I still want it to carry on. Every new thing he does is just such a revelation—-like when he turns a little and just sort of catches my lower lip between his, or caresses my jaw with the side of his thumb.

I didn’t think he had it in him.

It could be that he doesn’t. When he finally comes up for air he has to kind of rest his forehead against mine for a second. His breathing comes in erratic bursts, as though he just ran up a hill that isn’t really there. Those hands in my hair are trembling, unable to let go, and his first words to me blunder out in guttural rush.

“I wasn’t expecting that to be so intense,” he says, and I get it then. He didn’t mean for things to go that way. They just got out of control. All of that passion and urgency isn’t who he is, and now he wants to go back to being the real him. He even steps back, and straightens, and breathes long and slow until that man returns.

Now he is the person he wants to be: stoic and cool. Or at least, that’s what I think until he turns to leave. He tells me good--bye and I accept it; he touches my shoulder and I process this as all I might reasonably expect in the future. And then just as he’s almost gone I happen to glance down, and see something that suggests that the idea of a real him may not be so clear--cut:

The outline of his erection, hard and heavy against the material of his jeans.

An Excerpt from

CAN’T WAIT

A Christmas Novella

by Jennifer Ryan

(Previously appeared in the anthology All I Want for Christmas Is a Cowboy)

Before The Hunted Series, Caleb and Summer had a whirlwind romance not to be forgotten ...

Caleb Bowden has a lot to thank his best friend, Jack, for—-saving his life in Iraq and giving him a job helping to run his family’s ranch. Jack also introduced Caleb to the most incredible woman he’s ever met. Too bad he can’t ask her out. You do not date your best friend’s sister. Summer and Caleb share a closeness she’s never felt with anyone, but the stubborn man refuses to turn the flirtatious friendship into something meaningful. Frustrated and tired of merely wishing to be happy, Caleb tells Jack how he feels about Summer. With his friend’s help, he plans a surprise Christmas proposal she’ll never forget—-because he can’t wait to make her his wife.

Caleb opened his mouth to yell, Where the hell do you think you’re going?

He snapped his jaw shut, thinking better of it. He couldn’t afford to let Jack see how much Summer meant to him. He’d thought he’d kept his need for her under wraps, but the too--observant woman had his number. Over the last few months, the easy friendship they’d shared from the moment he stepped foot on Stargazer Ranch turned into a fun flirtation he secretly wished could turn into something more. The week leading up to Thanksgiving brought that flirtation dangerously close to crossing the line when he walked through the barn door and didn’t see her coming out due to the changing light. They crashed into each other. Her sweetly soft body slammed full--length into his and everything in him went hot and hard. Their faces remained close when he grabbed her shoulders to steady her. For a moment, they stood plastered to each other, eyes locked. Her breath stopped along with his and he nearly kissed her strawberry--colored lips to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

Instead of giving in to his baser need, he leashed the beast and gently set her away, walking away without even a single word. She’d called after him, but he never turned back.

Thanksgiving nearly undid him. She’d sat alone in the dining room and all he’d wanted to do was be with her. But how could he? You do not date your best friend’s sister. Worse, you do not have dangerous thoughts of sleeping with her, let alone dreaming of a life with a woman kinder than anyone he’d ever met. Just being around her made him feel lighter. She brightened the dark world he’d lived in for too long.

He needed to stay firmly planted on this side of the line. Adhere to the best--bro code. This thing went beyond friendship. Jack was his boss and had saved his life. He owed Jack more than he could ever repay.

“Can you believe her?” Jack pulled him out of his thoughts. He dragged his gaze from Summer’s retreating sweet backside.

“Who’s the guy?” He kept his tone casual.

Jack glared. “Ex--boyfriend from high school,” he said, irritated. “He’s home from grad school for the holiday.”

“Probably looking for a good time.”

Caleb tried not to smile when Jack growled, fisted his hands, and stepped off the curb, following after his sister. He’d counted on Jack’s protective streak to allow him to chase Summer himself. Caleb didn’t want anyone to hurt her. He sure as hell didn’t want her rekindling an old flame with some ex--lover.

He and Jack walked into the park square just as everyone counted down, three, two, one, and the multicolored lights blinked on, lighting the fourteen--foot tree in the center of the huge gazebo, and sparking the carolers to sing “O Christmas Tree.”

Tiny white lights circled up the posts and nearby trees, casting a glow over everything. The soft light made Summer’s golden hair shine. She smiled with her head tipped back, her bright blue eyes glowing as she stared at the tree.

His temper flared when the guy hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her close, nearly spilling his beer down the front of her. She laughed and playfully shoved him away. The guy smiled and put his hand to her back, guiding her toward everyone’s favorite bar. Several other -people joined their small group.

Caleb tapped Jack’s shoulder and pointed to Summer’s back. Her long hair was bundled into a loose braid he wanted to unravel and then run his fingers through the silky strands.

“There she goes.”

“What the ... Let’s go get her.”

Caleb grabbed Jack’s shoulder. “If you go in there and demand she leaves, it’ll only embarrass her in front of all her friends. Let’s scout the situation. Lie low.”

“You’re right. She’ll only fight harder if we demand she come home. Let’s get a beer.”

Caleb grimaced. Hell yes, he wanted to drag Summer home, but fought the compulsion.

He did not want to watch her with some other guy.

Why did he torture himself like this?

An Excerpt from

THE LAWS OF SEDUCTION

A French Kiss Novel

by Gwen Jones

In the final fun and sexy French Kiss novel, sparks fly as sassy lawyer Charlotte Andreko and Rex Renaud, the COO of Mercier Shipping, race to clear his name after he’s arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.

Center City District Police Headquarters

Philadelphia, PA

Monday, September 29

11:35 PM

In her fifteen years as an attorney, Charlotte had never let anyone throw her off her game, and she wasn’t about to let it happen now.

So why was she shaking in her Louboutins?

“Put your briefcase and purse on the belt, keys in the tray, and step through,” the officer said, waving her into the metal detector.

She complied, cold washing through her as the gate behind her clanged shut. She glanced over her shoulder, thinking how much better she liked it when her interpretation of “bar” remained figurative.

“Name ... ?” asked the other cop at the desk.

“Charlotte Andreko.”

He ran down the list, checking her off, then held out his hand, waggling it. “Photo ID and attorney card.”

She grabbed her purse from the other side of the metal detector and dug into it, producing both. After the officer examined them, he sat back with a smirk. “So you’re here for that Frenchie dude, huh? What’s he—-some kinda big deal?”

She eyed him coolly, hefting her briefcase from the belt. “They’re all just clients to me.”

“That so?” He dropped his gaze, fingering her IDs. “How come he don’t have to sit in a cell? Why’d he get a private room?”

Why are you scoping my legs, you big douche? “It’s your jail. Why’d you give him one?”

He cocked a brow. “You’re pretty sassy, ain’t you?”

“And you’re wasting my time,” she said, swiping back her IDs. God, it’s times like these I really hate men. “Are you going to let me through or what?”

He didn’t answer. He just leered at her with that simpering grin as he handed her a visitor’s badge, reaching back to open the next gate.

“Thank you.” She clipped it on, following the other cop to one more door at the other side of the vestibule.

“It’s late,” the officer said, pressing a code into a keypad, “so we can’t give you much time.”

“I won’t need much.” After all, how long could it take to say no fucking way?

“Then just ring the buzzer by the door when you’re ready to leave.” When he opened the door and she stepped in, her breath immediately caught at the sight of the man behind it. She clutched her briefcase so tightly she could feel the blood rushing from her fingers.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Andreko,” Rex Renaud said.

Even with his large body cramped behind a metal table, the Mercier Shipping COO had never looked more imposing—-and, in spite of his circumstances, never more elegant. The last time they’d met had been in Boston, negotiating the separation terms of his company’s lone female captain, Dani Lloyd, who had recently become Marcel Mercier’s wife. With his cashmere Kiton bespoke now replaced by Gucci black tie, he struck an odd contrast in that concrete room, yet still exuded a coiled and barely contained strength. He folded his arms across his chest as his black eyes fixed on hers, Charlotte getting the distinct impression he more or less regarded her as cornered prey.

All at once the door behind her slammed shut, and her heart beat so violently she nearly called the officer back. Instead she planted her heels and forced herself to focus, staring the Frenchman down. “All right, I’m here,” she said en fran?ais. “Not that I know why.”

If there was anything she remembered about Rex Renaud—-and he wasn’t easy to forget—-it was how lethally he wielded his physicality. How he worked those inky eyes, jet--black hair and Greek--statue handsomeness into a kind of immobilizing presence, leaving her weak in the knees every time his gaze locked on hers. Which meant she needed to work twice as hard to keep her wits sharp enough to match his, as no way would she allow him the upper hand.

An Excerpt from

SINFUL REWARDS 1

A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—-just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing. But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.

An Avon Red Novella

I’d told Cyndi I’d never use it, that it was an instrument purchased by perverts to spy on their neighbors. She’d laughed and called me a prude, not knowing that I was one of those perverts, that I secretly yearned to watch and be watched, to care and be cared for.

If I’m cautious, and I’m always cautious, she’ll never realize I used her telescope this morning. I swing the tube toward the bench and adjust the knob, bringing the mysterious object into focus.

It’s a phone. Nicolas’s phone. I bounce on the balls of my feet. This is a sign, another declaration from fate that we belong together. I’ll return Nicolas’s much--needed device to him. As a thank you, he’ll invite me to dinner. We’ll talk. He’ll realize how perfect I am for him, fall in love with me, marry me.

Cyndi will find a fiancé also—-everyone loves her—-and we’ll have a double wedding, as sisters of the heart often do. It’ll be the first wedding my family has had in generations.

Everyone will watch us as we walk down the aisle. I’ll wear a strapless white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed for my shorter height. My hair will be swept up. My shoes—-

Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.

I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t positioned in the same way as it was last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for dramatic effect, with her stern, serious dad—-or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.

I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule was about my clothes and this will center on the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth, and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.

I have to return the telescope to its original position. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.

Last night, my man--crazy roommate was giggling over the new guy in three--eleven north. The previous occupant was a gray--haired, bowtie--wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.

According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy—-tattooed, buff, and head--to--toe lickable. He was completing armcurls outside, and she enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.

I resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner, Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.

Three--eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right, but then, the imitation UGGs I bought in my second year of college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.

Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on “about right,” I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like...

Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.

I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.

No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me ...

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 available now!

An Excerpt from

SWEET COWBOY CHRISTMAS

A Sweet, Texas Novella

by Candis Terry

Years ago, Chase Morgan gave up his Texas life for the fame and fortune of New York City, and he never planned on coming back—-especially not for Christmas. But when his life is turned upside down, he finds himself at the door of sexy Faith Walker’s Magic Box Guest Ranch. Chase is home for Christmas, and it’s never been sweeter.

Chase had come up to stand beside her and hand her more ornaments. While most of the influential men who visited the ranch usually reeked of overpowering aftershave, Chase wore the scent of warm man and clean cotton. Tonight, when he’d shown up in a pair of black slacks and a black T-- shirt, she’d had to find a composure that had nothing to do with his rescuing her.

She’d taken a fall all right.

For him.

Broken her own damn rules is what she’d done. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Men with pockets full of change they threw around like penny candy at a parade weren’t the kind she could ever be interested in.

At least never again.

Trouble was, Chase Morgan was an extremely sexy man with bedroom eyes and a smile that said he could deliver on anything he’d promise in that direction. Broad shoulders that confirmed he could carry the weight of the world if need be. And big, capable hands that had already proven they could catch her if she fell.

He was trouble.

And she had no doubt she was in trouble.

Best to keep to the subject of the charity work and leave the drooling for some yummy, untouchable movie star like Chris Hemsworth or Mark Wahlberg.

Discreetly, she moved to the other side of the tree and hung a pinecone Santa on a higher branch. “We also hold a winter fund--raiser, which is what I’m preparing for now.”

“What kind of fund--raiser?” he asked from right beside her again, with that delicious male scent tickling her nostrils.

“We hold it the week before Christmas. It’s a barn dance, bake sale, auction, and craft fair all rolled into one.” She escaped to the other side of the tree, but he showed up again, hands full of dangling ornaments. “Last year we raised $25,000. I’d like to top that this year if possible.”

“You must have a large committee to handle all that planning.”

She laughed.

Dark brows came together over those green eyes that had flashes of gold and copper near their centers. “So I gather you’re not just the receptionist--slash–tree decorator.”

“I have a few other talents I put to good use around here.”

“Now you’ve really caught my interest.”

To get away from the intensity in his gaze, she climbed up the stepstool and placed a beaded--heart ornament on the tree. She could only imagine how he probably used that intensity to cut through the boardroom bullshit.

As a rule, she never liked the clientele to know she was the sole owner of the ranch. Even though society should be living in this more open--minded century, there were those who believed it was still a man’s world.

“Oh, it’s really nothing that special,” she said. “Just some odds and ends here and there.”

When she came down the stepstool, his hands went to her waist to provide stability. At least that’s what she told herself, even after those big warm palms lingered when she’d turned around to face him.

“Fibber,” he said while they were practically nose to nose.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know what I do for a living, Faith? How I’ve been so successful? I read -people. I come up with an idea, then I read -people for how they’re going to respond. Going into a pitch, I know whether they’re likely to jump on board or whether I need to go straight to plan B.”

His grip around her waist tightened, and the fervor with which he studied her face sent a shiver racing down her spine. There was nothing threatening in his eyes or the way his thumbs gently caressed the area just above the waistband of her Wranglers.

Quite the opposite.

“You have the most expressive face I’ve ever seen,” he declared. “And when you’re stretching the truth, you can’t look someone in the eye. Dead giveaway.”

“And you’ve known me for what? All of five minutes?” she protested.

One corner of his masculine lips slowly curved into a smile. “Guess that’s just me being presumptuous again.”

Everything female in Faith’s body awakened from the death sleep she’d put it in after she’d discovered the man she’d been just weeks away from marrying, hadn’t been the man she’d thought him to be at all.

“Looks like we’re both a little too trigger--happy in the jumping--the--gun department,” she said, while deftly extricating herself from his grasp even as her body begged her to stay put.

“Maybe.”

Backing away, she figured she’d tempted herself enough for one night. Best they get dinner over with before she made some grievous error in judgment she’d never allow herself to forget.

She clapped her hands together. “So ... how about we get to that dinner?”

“Sounds great.” His gaze wandered all over her face and body. “I’m getting hungrier by the second.”

Whoo boy.