Perhaps she should speak more slowly.
“We do not have a housekeeper for hire,” she said, pausing between each word. “I am the owner, not one of the employees for hire.”
Now the man’s mouth had closed, but it still seemed as though he did not understand.
“I do not understand,” he said, confirming her very suspicion. “This is an employment agency, and I have an employer who wishes to find an employee. And if I do not find a suitable person within . . .” and at this he withdrew a pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned at it, as though it was its fault it was already past tea time, and goodness, wasn’t she hungry and had Caroline left any milk in the jug? Because if not, well, “twenty-four hours, my employer, the Earl of Selkirk, will be most displeased, and we will ensure your agency will no longer receive our patronage.”
That last part drew her attention away from the issue of the milk and whether or not there was any.
“The Earl of . . . ?” she said, feeling that flutter in her stomach that signaled there was nobility present or being mentioned—or she wished there were, at least. Rather like the milk, actually.
“Selkirk,” the man replied in a firm tone. He had no comment on the milk. And why would he? He didn’t even know it was a possibility that they didn’t have any, and if she did have to serve him tea, what would she say? Besides which, she had no clue to the man’s name; he had just come in and been all brusque and demanded a housekeeper when there was none.
“Selkirk,” Annabelle repeated, her mind rifling through all the nobles she’d ever heard mentioned.
“A Scottish earl,” the man said.
Annabelle beamed and clapped her hands. “Oh, Scottish! Small wonder I did not recognize the title, I’ve only ever been in London and once to the seaside when I was five years old, but I wouldn’t have known if that was Scotland, but I am fairly certain it was not because it would have been cold and it was quite warm in the water. Unless the weather was unseasonable, I can safely say I have never been to Scotland, nor do I know of any Scottish earls.”
An Excerpt from
THE WEDDING BAND
A Save the Date Novel
by Cara Connelly
In the latest Save the Date novel from Cara Connelly, journalist Christina Case crashes a celebrity wedding, and sparks fly when she comes face-to-face with A-list movie star Dakota Rain . . .
Dakota Rain took a good hard look in the bathroom mirror and inventoried the assets.
Piercing blue eyes? Check.
Sexy stubble? Check.
Sun-streaked blond hair? Check.
Movie-star smile?
Uh-oh.
In the doorway, his assistant rolled her eyes and hit speed dial. “Emily Fazzone here,” she said. “Mr. Rain needs to see Dr. Spade this morning. Another cap.” She listened a moment, then snorted a laugh. “You’re telling me. Might as well cap them all and be done with it.”
In the mirror Dakota gave her his hit man squint. “No extra caps.”
“Weenie,” she said, pocketing her phone. “You don’t have time today, anyway. Spade’s squeezing you in, as usual. Then you’re due at the studio at eleven for the voice-over. It’ll be tight, so step on it.”
Deliberately, Dakota turned to his reflection again. Tilted his head. Pulled at his cheeks like he was contemplating a shave.
Emily did another eye roll. Muttering something that might have been either “Get to work” or “What a jerk,” she disappeared into his closet, emerging a minute later with jeans, T-shirt, and boxer briefs. She stacked them on the granite vanity, then pulled out her phone again and scrolled through the calendar.
“You’ve got a twelve o’clock with Peter at his office about the Levi’s endorsement, then a one-thirty fitting for your tux. Mercer’s coming here at two-thirty to talk about security for the wedding . . .”
Dakota tuned her out. His schedule didn’t worry him. Emily would get him where he needed to be. If he ran a little late and a few people had to cool their heels, well, they were used to dealing with movie stars. Hell, they’d be disappointed if he behaved like regular folk.
Taking his sweet time, he shucked yesterday’s briefs and meandered naked to the shower without thinking twice. He knew Emily wouldn’t bat an eye. After ten years nursing him through injuries and illness, puking and pain, she’d seen all there was to see. Broad shoulders? Tight buns? She was immune.
And besides, she was gay.
Jacking the water temp to scalding, he stuck his head under the spray, wincing when it found the goose egg on the back of his skull. He measured it with his fingers, two inches around.
The same right hook that had chipped his tooth had bounced his head off a concrete wall.
Emily rapped on the glass. He rubbed a clear spot in the steam and gave her the hard eye for pestering him in the shower.
She was immune to that too. “I asked you if we’re looking at a lawsuit.”
“Damn straight.” He was all indignation. “We’re suing The Combat Zone. Tubby busted my tooth and gave me a concussion to boot.”
She sighed. “I meant, are we getting sued? Tubby’s a good bouncer. If he popped you, you gave him a reason.”
Dakota put a world of aggrievement into his Western drawl. “Why do you always take everybody else’s side? You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”
“Sure I do. It’s October, isn’t it? The month you start howling at the moon and throwing punches at bystanders. It’s an annual event. The lawyers are on standby. I just want to know if I should call them.”
He did the snarl that sent villains and virgins running for their mamas.
An Excerpt from
RIOT
by Jamie Shaw
Jamie Shaw’s rock stars are back, and this time wild, unpredictable Dee and sexy, mohawked guitarist Joel have explosive chemistry—but will jealousy and painful memories keep them apart?
“Kiss me,” I order the luckiest guy in Mayhem tonight. When he sat next to me at the bar earlier with his “Leave It to Beaver” haircut, I made sure to avoid eye contact and cross my legs in the opposite direction. I didn’t think I’d end up making out with him, but now I have no choice.
A dumb expression washes over his face. He might be cute if he didn’t look so. freaking. dumb. “Huh?”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
I curl my fingers behind his neck and yank him to my mouth, tilting my head to the side and hoping he’s a quick learner. My lips part, my tongue comes out to play, and after a moment, he finally catches on. His greedy fingers bury themselves in my chocolate brown curls—which I spent hours on this morning.
Peeking out of the corner of my eye, I spot Joel Gibbon stroll past me, a bleach-blonde groupie tucked under his arm. He’s too busy whispering in her ear to notice me, and my fingers itch to punch him in the back of his stupid mohawked head to get his attention.
I’m preparing to push Leave It to Beaver off me when Joel’s gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I bite Beaver’s bottom lip between my teeth and give it a little tug, and the corner of Joel’s mouth lifts up into an infuriating smirk that is so not the reaction I wanted. He continues walking, and when he’s finally out of sight, I break my lips from Beaver’s and nudge him back toward his own stool, immediately spinning in the opposite direction to scowl at my giggling best friend.
“I can’t BELIEVE him!” I shout at a far-too-amused-looking Rowan. How does she not recognize the gravity of this situation?!
I’m about to shake some sense into her when Beaver taps me on the shoulder. “Um—”
“You’re welcome,” I say with a flick of my wrist, not wanting to waste another minute on a guy who can’t appreciate how long it took me to get my hair to curl like this—or at least make messing it up worth my while.
Rowan gives him an apologetic half smile, and I let out
a deep sigh.
I don’t feel bad about Beaver. I feel bad about the dickhead bass guitarist for the Last Ones to Know.
“That boy is making me insane,” I growl.
Rowan turns a bright smile on me, her blue eyes sparkling with humor. “You were already insane.”
“He’s making me homicidal,” I clarify, and she laughs.
“Why don’t you just tell him you like him?” She twirls two tiny straws in her cocktail, her eyes periodically flitting up to the stage. She’s waiting for Adam, and I’d probably be jealous of her if those two weren’t so disgustingly perfect for each other.
Last semester, I nearly got kicked out of my dorm when I let Rowan move in with me and my roommate. But Rowan’s asshole live-in boyfriend had cheated on her, and she had nowhere to go, and she’s been my best friend since kindergarten. I ignored the written warnings from my RA, and Rowan ultimately ended up moving in with Adam before I got kicked out. Fast forward to one too many “overnight visitors” later, I still ended up getting reported, and Rowan and I got a two-bedroom in an apartment complex near campus. Her name is on the lease right next to mine, but really, the apartment is just a decoy she uses to avoid telling her parents that she’s actually living with three ungodly hot rock stars. She sleeps in Adam’s bed, his bandmate Shawn is in the second bedroom, and Joel sleeps on their couch most nights because he’s a hot, stupid, infuriating freaking nomad.
“Because I don’t like him,” I answer. When I realize my drink is gone, I steal Rowan’s, down the last of it, and flag the bartender.
“Then why is he making you insane?”
“Because he doesn’t like me.”
Rowan lifts a sandy blonde eyebrow at me, but I don’t expect her to understand. Hell, I don’t understand. I’ve never wanted a boy to like me so badly in my entire life.
An Excerpt from
ONLY IN MY DREAMS
Ribbon Ridge Book One
by Darcy Burke
From a USA Today bestselling author comes the first installment in a sexy and emotional family saga about seven siblings who reunite in a small Oregon town to fulfill their brother’s dying wish . . .
Sara Archer took a deep breath and dialed her assistant and close friend, Craig Walker. He was going to laugh his butt off when she told him why she was calling, which almost made her hang up, but she forced herself to go through with it.
“Sara! Your call can only mean one thing: you’re totally doing it.”
She envisioned his blue eyes alight with laughter, his dimples creasing, and rolled her eyes. “I guess so.”
He whooped into the phone, causing Sara to pull it back from her ear. “Awesome! You won’t regret it. It’s been waaaaay too long since you got out there. What, four years?”
“You’re exaggerating.” More like three. She hadn’t been out with a guy since Jude. Easy, breezy, coffee barista Jude. He’d been a welcome breath of fresh air after her cheating college boyfriend. Come to think of it, she’d taken three years to get back in the game then too.
“Am I? I’ve known you for almost three years, and you’ve never had even a casual date in all that time.”
Because after she and Jude had ended their fling, she’d decided to focus on her business, and she’d hired Craig a couple of months later. “Enough with the history lesson. Let’s talk about tonight before I lose my nerve.”
“Got it. I’m really proud of you for doing this. You need a social life beyond our rom-com movie nights.”
Sara suspected he was pushing her to go out because he’d started dating someone. They seemed serious even though it had been only a couple of weeks, and when you fell in love, you wanted the whole world to fall in love too. Not that Sara planned on doing that again—if she could even count her college boyfriend as falling in love. She really didn’t know anymore.
“I was thinking I might go line dancing.” She glanced through her clothing, pondering what to wear.
“Line dancing?” Craig’s tone made it sound as if he were asking whether she was going to the garbage dump. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in a country-western bar. “If you want to get your groove on, Taylor and I will come get you and take you downtown. Much better scene.”
No, the nearby suburban country-western bar would suit her needs just fine. She wouldn’t be comfortable at a chic Portland club—totally out of her league. “I’ll stick with Sidewinders, thanks.”
“We wouldn’t take you to a gay bar,” Craig said with a touch of exasperation that made her smile.
“I know. I just don’t want company. You’d try to set me up with every guy in the place.”
“I’m not that bad! Taylor keeps me in line.”
Yeah, she’d noticed. She’d been out with them once and was surprised at the difference in Craig. He was still his energetic self, but it was like everything he had was focused on his new boyfriend. She supposed that was natural when a relationship was shiny and new. “Well, I’m good going by myself. I’m just going to dance a little, maybe sip a lemon drop, see what happens.”
Craig made a noise of disgust. “Don’t ass out, Sara. You need to get laid.”
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 Impulse 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 origina
l 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 . . .