Ex Libris

The lucky winner of an ebook copy of  and a signed guitar pick is
The lucky winner of an ebook copy of  is
The lucky winner of their choice of book from Lilly Cain's backlist is
The lucky winner of June's Romance and Me Reading Challenge giveaway and of their choice of book from Kaylea Cross' backlist is


Congratulations winners! I have sent you all an e-mail notifying you of your win, please get back to me within 48 hours or I will have to draw a new winner. Thank you.

Don't forget that a lot of giveaways are still open, so enter while you can, you could win some terrific books! ;-) You can enter them by clicking on their individual links at the top of the blog.

Family secrets must be kept, and painful wounds must be ignored.

After an all-out assault by a vicious terrorist bent on destroying her entire family, a former government agent must break the strict rules she has always lived by when she emerges from hiding to reluctantly accept the help of her all-too-sexy ex-lover. Running a deadly race against time, they rush to rescue her kidnapped sister, find her missing father, and bring the notorious villain to justice. But nothing ever goes as planned. Bullets fly, danger abounds, and their passion reignites even faster than the lies are flowing. But their stubbornly held secrets just might spell the end of their rekindled love and hopes for the future…as well as their very lives.

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I decided to check out the shore excursions, to find out what options were available while we were docked in St. Thomas. At the very least, I could get recommendations for the best beaches and resorts. Certainly there would be hard-bodies on a Caribbean beach.

The tour office was a simple affair; a small counter where cruise personnel answered questions, sold excursion tickets, and processed reservation forms. About twenty people were standing in line, a few asking each other questions about which tour they liked best, and generally complaining about the cost.

I scanned the rack of flyers and pamphlets, looking for anything having to do with a beach. I quickly decided this was going to take some serious study. While many tours offered a beach stop, it came only after hours of bussed sightseeing with detours for shopping. With information in hand, I decided to return to the dining room and review my options over a pot of coffee and a Danish.

I headed for the elevator. And then, in a way so simple and random, and perhaps for no other reason than because fate makes it so . . .

I saw her.

She looked mid-twenties, yet radiated that rare kind of flawless beauty that transcended age. Her angelic features were framed by sparkling sun-blonde hair flowing soft and silky across bare sun-kissed shoulders. Her white, backless sundress hugged the curve of her waist without fold or wrinkle. And a couple of inches below her bottom, the thigh-high hemline revealed shapely, muscular legs, their deep tan contrasting against the light fabric in such a way that questioned her need for clothing at all. She was surely the creation of some godly sculptor, who had no doubt brought her to life as a full-grown woman, ready and willing to delight in everything sensual.

She was earthy. Sexy. Perfect.

I realized I was staring. Had anyone seen me? I quickly looked right, then left. I was safe. In fact, most of the passengers were looking at her. Even some of the women seemed awestruck, marveling at such rare genetic handiwork.

She was reading one of the tour brochures. I had to get closer. The small cappuccino counter on my right would cut the distance in half. I took my place in line, as if waiting to order. Although she was still ten feet away, I had the strange sensation I could actually feel her—her sexual vibrations so strong, she was surely activating seismographic chart recorders on nearby islands.

She glanced up and looked directly at me. Her bangs fell softly forward to touch dusty blue eyes as a smile gently parted her lips. I felt blessed—like waking up after some great catastrophe and finding I had survived, whole and healthy. I started to return her smile, but her attention was already back on the pamphlet.

If it was going to look spontaneous, it had to be done now. I turned, as if changing my mind about the coffee and began walking directly toward her.

Halfway there. She could look up at any time.

Just a few more feet. Get ready to say something.

I can almost touch her. Say it or keep moving. Say something now.

“Have you decided which shore excursion to take?” My voice sounded hollow, impersonal, as if I were a crewmember making obligatory chitchat.

She offered a quick, compulsory smile. Her curious eyes scanned my face, reaching deep, as if deciding whether or not to answer. “I’m not sure,” she said finally, a tiny flash of pink tongue peeking from between brilliant white teeth. “Do you have any suggestions?”

We were talking.

“Well, most people enjoy the sailboat trip and the rafting excursion.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Have you been on either one?”

Careful. Don’t be pushy. Don’t say anything that will give her the impression you’re trying to hit on her. “Yes, I was down here last year and took the rafting trip.”

“Did you like it?” She leaned toward me. She smelled like my second grade teacher—the first woman I had ever loved.

“It was pretty boring. There really wasn’t much to see.” I’d never seen a raft, much less ever been on one.

Just below the fall of her thick satiny hair, tiny straps crossed light and easy over her shoulders, revealing the absence of a bra.

“Oh, so you recommend the sailing?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be really great. Relaxing.” I reached out, offering to support one side of her brochure.

Our arms touched. The contact tightened my chest, and I fought the urge to gasp for air.

“I suppose I could stand a little relaxation,” she said. “But I’ve also heard some of these tours can be a lot of hassle, with late starts and lots of waiting. We only have seven hours in port, and I don’t want to waste a single minute.”

Her nails glistened from a coat of clear polish, setting off the smooth sheen of tiny, nearly invisible blond hairs just above her wrist. I wanted to slide my arm around her and pull her close. I wanted to trace her face with my fingers. The thought of tasting her mouth left me feverish.

It’s love on the high seas for Dean, a thirty-something bachelor taking his first cruise, hoping for a shipboard romance. On the prowl for the elusive hard-body, he quickly becomes disillusioned, wondering if his expectation of a boatload of beautiful sea nymphs is something found only in travel brochures.

Until he meets Angel.

She is the girl of his dreams, brought to life as a bewitching goddess, ready to engage in every sensual delight. Quickly lured into submission by Angel’s seductive charms, Dean is ready to surrender his heart and soul to this provocative beauty.

Until he meets Marcie . . .

Robert’s hands were clenched. Even in the dim light, Hester could make out the whitened knuckles, stark and taut.

Without allowing herself to reconsider, she stripped off her gloves and took his tight fist between her palms. She stroked his skin, letting her fingers trace the back of his hand.

One fingertip traced a scar that meandered across his knuckles. It was fresh, still tender, and she wondered what misadventure had prompted the injury. She massaged his long fingers and ministered to the tender, pink skin beneath his iron manacles. These nimble fingers, that could transform cloth into works of art, that had always been so neat and kempt, now sported ragged fingernails, the dirty half-moons testifying to his life behind the thick stone walls of Newgate.

These were her brother’s hands. She had held these hands, touched them, seen them her entire life. Yet had she ever really looked at them?

These were the hands that had clutched her own childish one as they’d torn over the wild downlands. And when she’d cried, “Wait, Robbie, wait. You’re too fast!” these were the hands that had swept her onto her back and carried her, with boyish strength, across the fields, while she’d clutched at his neck and laughed with delight at her brother’s speed and daring.

These were the winter-chapped hands that bobbled countless hot conkers, snatched from glowing coals, peeling back the scorched skins before offering up the tender nutmeat. “Here, Hessie, a treat for you.” On how many nights had they sat thus, telling tales and laughing? Too many to count.

These were the gloved hands that had led her through her first bourées and country dances. He’d coaxed and encouraged her, made her laugh when she’d stumbled or made a wrong turning. He’d been an apprentice then, and she’d never questioned his appearance but now she knew how much effort it must have taken for him to secure those free evenings.

These were her brother’s hands, and she knew them as she knew her own.

And soon, in a fortnight or so, these were the hands that would be clenched round the prisoner’s rail, awaiting the judge’s verdict. These were the hands that could very well clutch and claw at a hangman’s noose, for the crime he had committed was one that could not be forgiven or overlooked.

At least not by the courts.

“I will be there, Robert. At the trial. Every minute of it, I will be there.”

“I don’t want you there.”

“I know, and I love you for that. But I will be there all the same.”

The dispute had attracted a crowd of onlookers. There were jeers and muttered deprecations when Hester followed Stroud into the street. In her anger, she’d forgotten the state of her clothes but now she was mortifyingly conscious of them. She darted to and fro, trying to recover her brother’s stock but was rebuffed again and again.

She tried one last time to persuade Stroud to reconsider. “Please, sir,” she begged, heedless of what it might cost her, thinking only of the need to preserve the means of her brother’s release. “You will condemn him to prison, with no means of support, if you take these things. You will condemn me to a life without a livelihood. Please, I am begging you, sir.”

Her pride decimated, she pleaded without shame. The catcalls escalated but she closed her ears to their insults. All of her energies were for the man before her, who held her small family’s future in his hands. “If you have any mercy in you, if you have the slightest spark of human goodness in you, please do not do this.”

Stroud shook off her hand with an irritated gesture. “We are done here,” he announced. “You and your brother deserve every punishment that will be meted out to you, in this world and the next. I take no leave of you. You do not deserve any such notice.” He stalked towards the heavy cart, giving curt directions to the driver. Around her, the crowd grew noisier and she heard their slurs.

Jezebel.

Whore.

Molly’s piece.

There were no friendly faces. She took a slow step back and then another, her arms wide in supplication. A clod of dried dung hit her shoulder, shattering on impact. Another missile—a turnip?—narrowly missed her head.

She reached behind her, groping for the comfort and reassurance of Jeremy’s arm, but she felt nothing. She turned in a panic and saw that the young apprentice had fled. Why had he left her now? She wanted to cry out. Fear, real and black, churned her gut. She was all alone. There was no one to help her.

In the ordinary course of things, Hester would never have found herself contemplating engaging in a relationship of the most irregular nature.

But nothing in her life was ordinary anymore.

She could continue as she had, circumscribed, dissatisfied and proper. Doomed to never taste Thomas’s kisses again. Certainly, it was the safest course and one that would shield her from a goodly degree of censure.

Or she could forge a different path.

Today, waiting in Newgate for her brother to appear, she had realized something vital about herself.

She could live without many things but she could no longer live without passion. And it was passion that Thomas offered her. In her shame and her grief, she had cut herself off from so much of her own nature. Worst of all, she had almost convinced herself that it was enough.

It was not enough.

She wanted more.

But more importantly, she deserved more. She had asked her brother to trust her to make the right choices for him but she had not extended that same trust to herself. She and she alone was the person who could decide her fate. Happiness was entirely a matter of chance. She had to make a decision for herself in this matter. No one else’s could count.

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Book #3 in The Confederacy Treaty series

Sarina is scarred. Her L'inar, the curving nerve lines that enable Inarrii to experience their full sexuality, were severed in battle and she can no longer reach completion. Until she accepts a job as bodyguard to the human ambassador John Bennings, and is astonished to discover that they share a mental bond--a mirrored pathway of thoughts that will allow Sarina to climax.

When John's the target of an attack and they are forced into hiding, he's not sorry to be in close quarters with the compelling Sarina. They explore their erotic connection, and John is happy to demonstrate that humans have more sexual skills than Sarina thought.

To prove that she is whole and rejoin her Inarrii clan, Sarina needs John to bring her to climax in public in accordance with tradition. With a roomful of Inarrii and humans watching, will John be willing to perform as Sarina needs--and will their public display make John vulnerable to another attack?

The Confederacy Treaty Series:

 - Read my review

(released on June 25th)

Buy at - Carina Press