May 012014


Jenny Carpenter is the unrivaled pie-baking champion of Last Chance, South Carolina’s annual Watermelon Festival and the town’s unofficial spinster. With her dream of marriage and children on hold, she focuses on another dream, turning the local haunted house into a charming bed-and-breakfast. But her plans go off course when the home’s former owner shows up on her doorstep on a dark and stormy night . . . Mega-bestselling horror writer Gabriel Raintree is as mysterious and tortured as his heroes. His family’s long-deserted mansion is just the inspiration he needs to finish his latest twisted tale, or so he thinks until he learns it’s been sold. The new innkeeper proves to be as determined as she is kind, and soon Gabriel finds himself a paying guest in his own home. As Jenny and Gabe bring new passion to the old house, can she convince him to leave the ghosts of his past behind-and make Last Chance their first choice for a future together?

Read an excerpt

“We have plenty of time for you to tell me your secrets. And I can tell you mine. You don’t have to bear every burden all by yourself, you know.”

He wanted to believe that most of all, so he didn’t move. He didn’t try to leave her. He didn’t open the door and walk away. He sat there and let her seal the deal with a kiss. She leaned over the console and touched her soft lips to his. The kiss started out tentatively, as if she was testing him to see what he might do.

He should have pushed her away like the other times.

But her kiss was like a healing balm. It seemed to work its way into all the endlessly aching places in his soul. It filled him up with something golden and pure, like some miraculous elixir. And so he fell into the kiss as hard as he’d ever fallen into a kiss. He opened his mouth and she moved in and blew all his good intentions and deep fears to smithereens.


Jenny unlocked the two locks on The Jonquil House’s front door. Her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe. This was it. She was taking charge, but holy God she didn’t have the first idea how to actually do that.

It was still kind of amazing that Gabe was here, coming back to the inn knowing that they were not going to say good night and go to their separate bedrooms. And really, she was starting to have a tiny bit of performance anxiety. It had been one hell of a long time since she’d gotten intimate with a man.

More important, if she was crazy enough to buy into what Savannah Randall had suggested earlier in the evening, then there was a boatload riding on this moment. Like her heart and her future. Which explained why her hands were shaking so badly that she was fumbling with the keys.

It seemed to take an eternity to get the door open. She was running out of time to think of something hot and sultry to say that would get him up to her bedroom.

Then, as the door swung inward, Bear came flying down the hall and knocked her back into Gabe’s waiting arms. The dog was probably ruining her green dress with his paws up on her chest, but he was giving her lots and lots of sloppy dog kisses, and somehow that seemed exactly right for the moment.

Because it made Gabe laugh. He was right behind her, holding her up. And he’d used the moment to sneak his big manly hands around her waist while he propped her up against his sturdy chest and hips, where she discovered that Gabe was turned on.

Evidently, he didn’t need any sultry lines. The kisses they’d shared in the car had done the trick. They were some first-class kisses.

His heat penetrated her being and wormed its way into every cell of her body, melting her so that she kind of settled back into him with a vocal sigh.

“Bear. Down. Now.” Gabe could be commanding when he chose to be.

The dog obeyed. And she found herself back on her own two feet while Gabe shut and locked the door.

“He needs to be walked,” she said, suddenly realizing that a dog complicated things. And then something else occurred to her. “You were going to leave Bear behind? With me?”

He turned away from the door and aimed his gaze on her. His eyes seemed even darker, and his look lit a fire in her. “He’s your dog,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, I think he’s our dog.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. She wanted to kiss it and wondered why the heck she was holding back. She needed to break free of these restraints that she’d imposed on herself for all these years.

But before she could act on the impulse, he was striding down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Wait.” She followed after him.

He pulled the dog’s leash down from the hook by the back door. “I’ll walk the dog.”

She didn’t want him to leave her. If he did, she’d lose her nerve. Or maybe he’d talk himself out of it.

She shook her head. “No, we’ll walk the dog after.” And she took a couple of steps toward him, snaked her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for the kiss she’d wanted to give him a moment before.

His mouth met hers, his lips firm and moist and gentle. When he opened the seam of her lips, his tongue proved to be exceptionally talented.

She ran her fingers up into his hair, and he made a noise that made her feel powerful in a way she had never felt before.

His mouth left hers and trailed a string of kisses and half bites along her jaw and down into the hollow of her neck.

Her insides melted, as if some warm being had breathed spring into the desolate, cold places that she’d been guarding. The walls came down. She stopped worrying. She stopped thinking.

She simply was. Alive.

Hope Ramsay grew up on the North Shore of Long Island, but every summer Momma would pack her off under the care of Aunt Annie to go visiting with relatives in the midlands of South Carolina. Her extended family includes its share of colorful aunts and uncles, as well as cousins by the dozens, who provide the fodder for the characters you’ll find in Last Chance, South Carolina. She’s a two-time finalist in the Golden Heart and is married to a good ol’ Georgia boy who resembles every single one of her heroes. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia, where you can often find her on the back deck, picking on her thirty-five-year-old Martin guitar.
Connect with Hope at these sites:





Flying is Theo Jacobson’s passion. Soaring above the clouds, he’s on to the next adventure . . . and the next woman. So when he comes home to Everson, Texas, for his big brother’s wedding, it’s nothing but a pit stop. He’ll act as best man, cover the family business while the happy couple honeymoons, and be on his way before the champagne goes flat. But all that changes when he comes face-to-face with the wedding planner-the very same woman who broke his heart without a backward glance years ago.  Irene Cornwell started I Do I Do with a wing and a prayer. Now, with two weddings under her belt, it’s a piece of cake . . . until Theo lands back in town. Just seeing his twinkling blue eyes and infuriatingly sexy smile turns her world upside down. For the sake of her business, she proposes an uneasy truce. But when the wedding is over-all bets are off!

Read an excerpt
If he was smart he’d follow her suggestion. Get the hell out of here, go home, and take a cold shower. But he’d never been smart about Ree, and it was hot. Summer in Texas hot. And her swimming pool was just sitting there waiting to be of some use. He put his tools away and headed for the bath house. An odd assortment of suits hung from hooks on the wall, and he picked a pair that looked like long plaid walking shorts. They fit just fine, so he grabbed a towel and walked out to the pool.
Ree must have still been in the house, but he didn’t wait for her. He dove into the deep end of the pool, letting the cool water shock his system. He stayed under water, swimming with his eyes open until he reached the shallow end of the pool, and then he turned around without surfacing and swam the other direction. His lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen, so he was finally forced to come up for air. Good God. The sight before him nearly knocked the breath out of him all over again.
Wearing a purple bikini and nothing more, Ree walked out of the back door gliding toward him like a model on one of his fantasy runways.
Irene walked out the door just as Theo was rising from the water like a sleek water god. Neptune’s warrior. Or some mythical creature. His black hair was slicked back from his face. Water cascaded down his bulging arms, across his broad chest, and ran over his flat stomach. He’d gained more muscle since she’d first known him and the result was extraordinary. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, he was gorgeous. Absolutely. Undeniably the epitome of male perfection. A beautiful boy grown into the manliest of men. Damn it all and a box of rocks.
She put her eyeballs back in their sockets and tried to act casual. If she didn’t want to make a fool of herself she’d have to keep things light –act unaffected. Working with him this afternoon had already put her into a state of unbridled ditziness. She kept sneaking peeks at the way the muscles in his arms bunched as he swung the hammer, or the way he used his long legs, lifting the thick boards over his head before putting them in place. The hot Texas sun must have baked her brain because he suddenly seemed even more attractive than usual. She was supposed to be immune. But the way his dark hair artfully curled around the top of his ears seemed designed to make her blood thicken with need. Those eyes. Cool blue and watching her, calculating her responses, but she’d lost track of what he wanted from her years ago, and the time she’d spent with him the last few days had done nothing to clarify anything at all. Especially what and how she felt about this man.
It had taken her way too long to decide what bathing suit to wear. Like it mattered. It wasn’t like she was going on a date, for goodness sakes, but his remark about her not wearing a suit made her self-conscious, and resentful, and turned on all at the same time. She was letting the man screw with her head, and that was the one thing she’d promised she wouldn’t do. First she started to put on a black one piece racing suit that covered as much skin as possible, but it felt like she was being manipulated into wearing it. Like she was ashamed that he’d seen her naked on his arrival into town. Then she grabbed a two piece that had a little skirt. Modest, but showing a little more flesh. She held it up in the mirror and frowned at the polka dot design. It looked like something a clown might wear. To hell with it. She picked up her favorite purple bikini, slipped it on, and marched outside with her head held high.
The impact of seeing him all wet and bare-chested was like taking a shot of tequila on an empty stomach. Hot quivers ran through her veins. Intoxicating. She’d been without a man for much too long if he could make her feel so out of control just by taking his shirt off. It took all of her mighty concentration not to stop and gawk. But she was proud of herself. She made it to the side of the pool, but then stopped having no idea what to do next. Conversation was way beyond her power. As a kid she’d always liked to make a splashy entrance, so she let out a yell and executed the perfect cannon ball, rocking the pool, and hoping he might be gone when she surfaced for air.


Molly Cannon lives a charmed life in Texas with hernearly perfect husband and extremely large cat Nelson. When she’s not writing, she spends her days reading, taking dance classes with the hubby and watching all kinds of sports. 
Connect with Molly at these sites:





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I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
I do not have any affiliation with or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.


Mar 012014



Kate Brady is a RITA Award winning author, choral director, university professor, wife, mother, and caretaker of a variety of furry, feathered, and scaly pets. She lives with her family in Georgia, where she is currently at work on her next novel.
Connect with NAME at these sites:


Q&A with Kate Brady

Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?

Both.  Thankfully, my personal experiences aren’t nearly as tragic as the horrific events my characters endure.  That is, I haven’t been fired or stalked, I haven’t lost a child or sibling, and I haven’t experienced parental rejection, familial hatred, divorce, murder, or the host of other traumas I force upon my characters.  So the personal experience comes to play in more subtle ways… I do know what it’s like to suffer loss, to fight disease, to fear for a child, to fall in love, to have needs and fears and yet want to stay strong.  Things like that.  And many real-life events, sayings, and characters (or character traits) do make it into my manuscripts here and there.  Current events also factor in, though more and more, I realize that I couldn’t possibly write many of the shocking things I see on the news: No one would buy it as a plausible premise.

Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I’m not a plotter.  But in romantic suspense, let’s face it—we all know the end before we crack open the first page: The villain will be vanquished and true love will prevail.  As for the specifics of how we wind up there, I do better when I let it happen organically than when I try to control things. So I create some character backstory, figure out what the villain is up to, decide on wounds and goals for the hero and heroine, and then turn them all loose together and see what happens.  It’s usually the end of the book before I really find out what it was all about.  Then I go back and weave in the things that make it work and take out the things that may have once seemed relevant to the story, but wind up not really mattering.  The most enjoyable part of the process for me is being surprised by what happens next.  I know that sounds strange, but that’s the way it happens for me.

Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
Routine? I have no routine, though I wish I could.  My days are only minimally routine, so I’m one of those writers who carries my laptop at all times and squeezes out words whenever and wherever I can… While waiting to pick up my children at school, during intermission of a concert, between classes, in the waiting room of a dentist’s office.  When I do have big chunks of time at home to write, the kitchen island or any comfy chair will do.

We have a zoo of animals, so there’s almost always a dog on the sofa beside me, cats trying to snooze on my laptop, and/or cockatiels climbing around on my shoulders.  (Is that idiosyncratic, or just weird?)  And maybe because my house is so full of distractions, one thing I love to do is take my laptop to a cozy restaurant, order something-wonderful-that-I-didn’t-have-to-make, and read or write there.  I know some people don’t like to go to restaurants alone, but it’s one of my favorite ways to treat myself and still get some work done.

Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
I’m a professor of music and choral conductor: I teach two or three courses every semester at a large state university and I’m the choral director at a church.  So writing is my third job, though both of the other jobs are now part-time positions.

In addition, I have two teenagers and a hubby.  Enough said.

What are you reading now?
I’m currently on the judges’ panel for the International Thriller Writers (ITW) annual awards so I’m reading a ton of different authors just now, all of them vying for Best Thriller 2014!  It’s a wonderful experience.

Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
Right now I’m working on my fifth book, which is the third novel in this set.  The first two featured brothers Nick and Luke Mann as heroes, and now I’m writing their sister, Alayna.  Every time I write a psycho-killer, I think I’ve reached the limit for what kinds of twisted psyches can drive a story, then I launch into another and find there’s someone even creepier chasing my heroes and heroines.  In the third book (following WHERE ANGELS REST and WHERE EVIL WAITS), a villain known as The Sandman has haunted the coasts for decades, burying his victims alive beneath the sand.  WHERE DANGER HIDES will come out in 2015.

Manuscript/Notes: hand written or keyboard?
Keyboard.  There’s something about the action of typing that gets my brain going and feeds the creative process.  Hand-writing just leads to doodling.

Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
I love to cook.  And I spend way too much time watching cooking shows, surfing recipes, and reading foodie magazines.  I figure anything that gets my kids’ friends to say, “Hey, let’s go hang out at YOUR house” is good, so I like having good eats around for the area teenagers.  It’s not conducive to quiet writing time, but I figure it’s better having them at our house than at…er…many of the other places they’re prone to hanging out.

Also, in the spring, I love to spend time in my gardens.  Though I will admit that by August, the Atlanta heat has usually sapped me of that desire and I spend the second half of the growing season cursing myself for having planted so much back in April!

Favorite meal?
Except for the fact that I won’t eat anything that swims, I’m not picky.  My favorite is probably something with a Caribbean or tropical flare:  Jerk-anything, something along the lines of pineapple-mango-pepper salsa, fire-roasted fresh veggies or grilled plantains.  Yum!


Special prosecutor Kara Chandler is very good at her job, so good that a homicidal mastermind vows to kill her and everyone she cares about. Desperate to save herself and her son, Kara seeks out cartel hit man Luke Varón. The last time she dealt with Luke, she saw him beat the system and escape prison. But now, the most dangerous man she’s ever met is the only one who can keep her alive.

Luke Varón isn’t who he appears to be. After spending years in the criminal underworld, he seeks redemption . . . and revenge. Yet when he sees the fear in Kara’s eyes, he can’t walk away. People around her are being murdered, and only he can help uncover the killer’s motive. Now as danger closes in, Kara and Luke must trust each other with their darkest secrets – before the evil in their lives destroys them both.

Read an excerpt

It was an odd place to find Kara Chandler, at an odd time: a squalid alley in the armpit of Atlanta, nearly midnight. The air sweltered like August—code orange, said the news, with dramatic warnings for asthma sufferers and the elderly to stay inside—and here, in an alley off Vine Street, the odors of urine and smog and rotten trash clung to every surface like a film.

Luke Varón inched to his left, peering past a Dumpster to the sidewalk. An odd place indeed for Kara Chandler, yet there she was, looking nothing like he’d expected. The heels were gone, her normally businesslike bun now falling in gold waves over her shoulders. In place of the usual classic suit, she wore jeans and a short-sleeved blouse, and instead of a fashionable purse, a shapeless macramé sack hung over one shoulder with her right hand buried deep inside.


“Mr. Varón?”

Her voice stroked the night and every fiber of Luke’s body tightened. Damn, he shouldn’t be here. In two days, eight-and-a-half tons of cocaine would arrive, and with it, frank Collado. Luke had spent the last week securing the route from Colombia. He’d returned to the States a few hours ago, longing only for a clean bed and about sixteen hours to languish in it.

What he’d found was a message from Kara Chandler: Assistant District Attorney for Fulton County and Andrew Chandler’s wife. As either identity, she could threaten the security of the shipment. As both, she was downright dangerous.

“Mr. Varón?” she said again.

Luke strung the silence out another inch then said, “Here.”

She whirled, a bulge forming in the canvas of her bag. “Where? Come out, damn it.”

He did, leading with a G18. Her gaze dropped and he watched the details of the weapon register in her eyes: a lightweight, 9mm shooter with a threaded barrel to accommodate a silencer, and just now sporting an extra magazine that held thirty-three rounds. Tonight, he’d added the extra clip just for show, but in fully-automatic mode, the G18 could fire all thirty-three bullets in less than two seconds. It was legal only among law enforcement and the military.

Luke Varón was neither.

He didn’t know what she was carrying, but it didn’t take her long to determine she was out-classed. The bulge in the bag slackened.

Luke tipped his Glock skyward. “Your turn,” he said, but Kara Chandler didn’t move. “Lady, pull your fucking hand out. I’d hate to fill you with bullets and then learn you were going for lipstick.”

An inch at a time, she withdrew her hand—empty. Luke lifted the edge of his Armani suit coat and tucked his gun in the holster. He took two steps to his left so when she angled to keep her eyes on him, the frail light caught her face. Not that he needed any reminders what she looked like: hair the color of sunlight, bottle-green eyes dulled by tragedy, pale skin with two, teasing little tucks in her cheeks that flashed like lightning when she was angry and perhaps—Luke could only speculate here—when she smiled. Without her heels, she stood only a few inches above five feet, but she carried herself as if meeting him eye to eye.

On her turf, in a courtroom trying to convict him of murder, for example, Kara Chandler was the definition of cold control. Out here, she was wired so tight Luke thought she might snap if she so much as took a deep breath.

“You called?” Luke asked.

“Yes,” she said, but beneath the steel nerves, Luke caught a quaver in her voice. “I have a proposition for you.”

Luke feigned delight. “Now, what could a faithful public servant like you want with a common criminal like me?”

“I want to hire you,” she said, and he almost blinked. He caught himself and arched a dark brow instead.

“I’m not a stockbroker or private chef, Ms. Chandler.”

“I know what you are. You’re a drug cartel hit man, an arsonist and cold-blooded killer. So this job should be right up your alley. I want you to blow up a boat and make sure its owners die in the fire.”

Luke was flabbergasted. Christ. “Why me?”

“Because you can get away with it. You proved that when you walked out of court a month ago. You can get away with anything.”

“Flattery,” he said. “But you must know dozens of good criminals.”

Her gaze might have melted steel. “Besides you, the criminals I know are behind bars.”

“Ah, yes,” Luke said, letting the hint of a smile show. “You aren’t accustomed to a checkmark in the LOSS column. I’m sorry I tarnished your record.”

She took a step toward him. “It wasn’t a loss, it was a mistrial. You should be in prison for the rest of your life.”

“Lucky for you I’m not. Who would you call to commit your felonies?” He cocked his head. “Is the District Attorney really so desperate that he’s sending you into dark alleys?”

“I told you, this is personal.”

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

He skimmed down her blouse buttons. “Show me you aren’t wearing a wire.”

Her eyes blazed, but Luke could see that she was thinking about it. Considering stripping her clothes in a lonely, dark alley with a hit man for the Rojàs cartel, just to prove she wasn’t wired. Proof enough, Luke thought, and couldn’t quite believe his eyes when her fingers rose to her blouse and the first disk slipped through the hole. Jesus, she was going to do it. He felt like a twelve-year-old who’d just stumbled on a Playboy on a magazine under a mattress, watching her cleavage and the upper swells of her breasts come into view, her flat, pale belly revealed an inch at a time. His blood drained from his brain as she slid the blouse from her arms and let it drop to the pavement with her bag.

You don’t have to do this. The words rose to mind but didn’t make it past his lips. She unzipped her jeans and shimmied the denim over her hips—an unconsciously seductive move from any woman in any circumstance, and almost unbearably so in the heat of night with a woman of Kara Chandler’s lithe curves and unexpected mystique. Luke’s mouth went dry and she stepped from the jeans, then straightened and squared her shoulders.

The notion of sixteen hours in bed took an unexpected turn. Luke swallowed and took his time looking. Long, slender limbs and gently flaring hips, lace-edged underwear cut high enough and low enough to accentuate soft curves usually encased in power-suits. Her breasts strained against pale satin cups, and Luke’s fingers curled into fists with the desire to trade the bra for his hands.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

“Hardly,” Luke said, with more honesty than he intended. He stepped toward her, noting a trickle of perspiration trail between her breasts even as a shiver drew her nipples tight. “You and I both know transmission devices can be almost imperceptible, except upon close inspection.” He circled around her, stopping at her back to brush a hand beneath her hair and lift it from her shoulders, fanning his fingers through the waves. A sweet scent rose to his nostrils from the pulse point on her throat, an incongruous touch of elegance in the fetid alley.

But there were no electronics. If she was wearing a wire, it was installed someplace that would require exploration to find. That thought sent a surge of blood against his zipper, but a wave of anger flowed right behind it. Kara Chandler was no blushing virgin. She was a widow and a mother, an Assistant District Attorney in a major metropolis, a woman who’d taken Luke to court once for murder.

And she was playing a game. Luke didn’t like games when he didn’t know the rules.

He coiled the mass of gold around his hand and tightened the slack, tipping her head back to expose a pale stretch of throat. “You think it’s a good idea, presenting yourself to me like this? Perhaps you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I know exactly what you’re capable of,” she said, through clenched teeth. “It’s the reason I called you. And I’m fully aware that you have Gene Montiel’s resources at your disposal, and that you can disappear on a moment’s notice to a nation without extradition. But understand that if I am murdered here tonight, nothing short of that will keep you from being arrested.”

Luke tightened his grip on her hair, pulling her nearly-naked frame against him. “Murder wasn’t what I had in mind,” he whispered. A bit of bald truth in a tangle of lies. He waited for a shiver of fear, but instead she jerked away, teeth bared.

“Do it, then.”

Luke stared.

“You think I don’t know what kind of man you are? That I didn’t know before I came here what you might demand?” Her voice vibrated with anger, maybe even with disgust, but at the same time, tears bloomed in her eyes. “Your mistake is in thinking I care,” she shot. “If sex is the currency you want, then get it over with. It’s hot out here and it stinks.”

Warning bells went off. Walk away. A tumble with Kara Chandler wasn’t worth losing the shipment. Or Frank Collado.

Walk away.

Luke stepped back, scooped her clothes from the ground and fired them at her chest. “Count yourself lucky that I’m partial to brunettes,” he said, but didn’t bother turning away while she hurried back into her clothes. He tried not to notice the sense of loss in his gut as she covered herself, tried not to wonder what—besides a set-up—would drive a woman of the law to such extremes as to try to hire a hit.

That thought was more than Luke could ignore. She bent down to pick up her bag and just before she would have walked away, he stopped her with his voice. “Ms. Chandler,” he said, “you never told me: Whose boat and whose death?”

She looked him straight in the eyes. “Mine.”


Publisher: Forever
Publication Date: February 25, 2014
Number of Pages: 426 pages
ISBN: 1455502065





a Rafflecopter giveaway


I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
I do not have any affiliation with or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.


Dec 102013



Once Upon a Highland Christmas by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

Warrior Grim Mackintosh understands why his friend Archibald MacNab has decreed there be no trace of Christmas in his castle. After a devastating attack destroyed everything-and everyone-in Archie’s life, he prefers to stew in his own misery until the holiday passes. But Duncreag has seen enough tragedy. Grim decides to throw a grand Yuletide feast, one that the bards will sing about for years to come, one that will remind his laird how beloved he is. He can’t do it alone, though. Grim needs an accomplice . . .

There’s nothing Breena O’Doherty won’t do for Archie, so she’s thrilled to help Grim with his plan. Yet she has a Christmas wish all her own-to win Grim’s heart-and this might be her only chance to make it come true. As Breena and Grim work together to bring the joy of the season to the cold, gloomy castle and to the heart of the cantankerous chieftain, an undeniable passion ignites between them. But when a shocking secret about Breena’s past comes to light, threatening everything she holds dear, will it ruin Christmas in Duncreag forevermore?


Sue-Ellen Welfonder is a Scotophile whose burning wish to make frequent trips to the land of her dreams led her to a twenty-year career with the airlines.

Now a full-time writer, she’s quick to admit that she much prefers wielding a pen to pushing tea and coffee. She makes annual visits to Scotland, insisting they are a necessity, as each trip gives her inspiration for new books. Proud of her own Hebridean ancestry, she belongs to two clan societies: the MacFie Clan Society and the Clan MacAlpine Society. In addition to Scotland, her greatest passions are medieval history, the paranormal, and dogs. She never watches television, loves haggis, and writes at a 450-year-old desk that once stood in a Bavarian castle.

Sue-Ellen is married and currently resides with her husband and Jack Russell terrier in Florida.



Read an excerpt

Several of the younger garrison lads had tried to court her, wooing her with pretty words, gifts of woven cloth, and once—or so he’d heard—an armful of loveliest heather. Talk among the men was that she pretended not to hear the compliments, passed on the cloth to young mothers who needed it more, and placed the heather on graves of Duncreag’s fallen.

A few more persistent lads claimed she’d declined their attentions by saying her heart belonged to another.

And that she’d gazed wistfully into the distance when telling them so.

The lads said she looked toward Ireland.

Grim was sure she did. He was also certain the young man who held her affection ached for her as well.

It was a notion that pierced him to the core.

No saint, he swore beneath his breath, his blood heating all the same. Passion raged, fierce and demanding as he held her fast, claiming her lips with a bold roughness he just couldn’t help.

She was in his arms now.

And she tasted sweeter than the nectar of the gods.

When she lifted up on her toes and parted her lips to flick the tip of her tongue against his own, his agony was complete. Never before had a woman returned his kiss with such ardor. He believed most lasses feared him, big and rough-hewn as he was, without courtly manners. Breena was an angel beyond compare, a prize so rare he was stunned to have her in his arms, so soft and pliant.

He didn’t want to desire her.

Someday her Irish lover—if he’d survived the raid on her village—would ride up to Duncreag’s gates to claim her, taking her back across the sea. Grim certainly would if she were his. And he doubted Donegal men were any less possessive. He shouldn’t lay a finger on her.

Yet she set him aflame.

Knowing he was leaping into an abyss he could never escape, he nipped the lush curve of her lower lip and then deepened the kiss, letting his tongue glide into the soft velvet-warmth of her mouth. She kissed him back, her own tongue tangling with his, tantalizing and intimate, making him forget every reason he shouldn’t be touching her.

He pulled her closer, not caring. He shut his mind to the hurtful truth. That every time he thought she’d glanced his way, she quickly looked elsewhere. Indeed, she didn’t pay heed to any of the men at Duncreag. Not even bonnie younger lads so much more appealing than him.

Grim bit back a growl, not wanting to think of her yearning for an Inishowen lad in Donegal. Perhaps imagining such a lad now held her. Yet she was soft and warm in his arms. Her lips so yielding, her glossy tresses a spill of cool silk across his cheek, the dance of her tongue bewitching him. She even made a little mewing sound, responding eagerly as she returned the kiss.

What man could resist such temptation?

He surely couldn’t.



His For Christmas by Jennifer Haymore

Shy Lady Esme has a secret: the youngest sister of the Duke of Trent privately pens erotic stories! Her latest is the steamy story of two travelers who find themselves stranded in an inn when an unexpected snowstorm blankets the English countryside. Lady Amelia Witherspoon simply must get home to her beloved family on Christmas Eve. So when a terrible storm threatens to leave her snowbound, she refuses to admit defeat-even if that means sharing a carriage with Evan Cameron, the lastman she ever hoped to see . . .

Evan can’t fathom why his oldest friend is as icy to him as the winter wind. All he does know is that Amelia is still the loveliest, most tempting woman he’s ever laid eyes on. Their only option is to take refuge together at a nearby inn, sharing the one remaining room. Evan promises to be a gentleman . . . but it’s a promise neither of them wants him to keep.


As a child, Jennifer Haymore traveled the South Pacific with her family on their homebuilt sailboat. The months spent on the sometimes quiet, sometimes raging seas sparked her love of adventure and grand romance. Since then, she’s earned degrees in computer science and education and held various jobs ranging from bookselling to teaching inner-city children to acting, but she’s never stopped writing.

You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouched in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.



Read an excerpt

Back in the carriage, where she was hiding from the weather while Evan secured their rooms at the inn, Amelia sighed. Though she’d tried to be polite with him for the past hour, she’d been stewing in inner turmoil the whole time.

He was insanely handsome. More handsome than she remembered, and she’d already remembered him as the handsomest boy she’d ever known. His proximity did all sorts of wicked things to her body, made her skin feel sensitive and achy, and an intense erotic need furled between her legs. Everything about him called to her on a most carnal level, from the way he spoke to her to the hardness of his body to the rugged planes of his face, and her desire had grown ever stronger as the miles had rolled beneath the wheels of the carriage.

But her body didn’t know what her mind did—he was also the cruelest boy she’d ever known. He’d pretended to admire her, but in reality he’d scorned her behind her back. After she’d discovered that, she’d struggled for years with her self-confidence. Even now, after years of people admiring her beauty publicly, she sometimes still looked in the mirror and saw the pudgy, unattractive girl that Evan Cameron had seen for so many years.

She’d resolved herself to spending another few hours with him in his carriage, then escaping to Cheltham House, hopefully not having to see him again before she returned to London next month. But now they were stranded in Postcombe, and politeness would dictate he dine with her and ensure her comfort at the inn, then break his fast with her in the morning before the additional two-hour—or longer, with snow on the road—drive to her father’s house. Which meant more interaction with him than she thought she could bear.

She took a deep breath. She would bear it. First of all, she had no choice. Secondly, she was no simpering maiden. Not anymore.

It was what it was. Neither of them could control the weather. She would endure this with as good a nature as she could muster.

Evan slipped into the carriage beside her, his frown even deeper than it had been before. He wrestled with the wind over the door, finally gaining control and slamming it shut, before turning to her and saying in a low voice, “They haven’t any rooms.”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Why not?”

“The Duke of Dunsberg and his entourage were on their way to Oxford, and they were caught in the storm as well. They’ve taken all the available rooms.”

“Oh no.”

“The innkeeper did offer us lodgings, however…” Evan continued hesitantly. He took a breath. “It’s not a room so much as a closet. But they’ve an extra bed they can put in there for us.”

“Ah,” she said quietly.

Finally, he met her gaze. “I fear this is our only option. I will sleep on the floor, of course. I would not…er…take advantage of the situation in any way. I give you my word.”

Could this day get any worse? Amelia stifled a groan. She wasn’t worried about Evan not being a gentleman; she was far, far more worried about herself not being a lady. Lord knew what a fool she’d made of herself in his proximity in the past. And the way her body was responding to him…she felt like a giant magnet inexorably drawn to his compelling force. Her skin was prickly and hot, aching all over. And something told her that only his touch could soothe that kind of pain.



I’ll Be Home for Christmas by Jessica Scott

There’s nothing in the world Army Sergeant Vic Carponti loves more than his wife and his country. Smart-mouthed and easy tempered, he takes everything as a joke . . . except his promise to come home to his wife, Nicole, for Christmas. As he prepares to leave for his latest deployment into Iraq, Vic will do everything he can to shield his beautiful, supportive wife from the realities of war . . . and from his own darkest fears.

As a career army wife, Nicole Carponti knows just what to expect from her husband’s tour of duty: loneliness, relentless worry, and a seemingly endless countdown until the moment Vic walks through the door again. But when the unthinkable happens, Nicole and Vic’s bond is tested like never before and changes everything they believe to be true about the power of love and the simple beauty of being home for the holidays.


 USA Today bestselling author Jessica Scott is a career army officer; mother of two daughters, three cats and three dogs; wife to a career NCO and wrangler of all things stuffed and fluffy. She is a terrible cook and even worse housekeeper, but she’s a pretty good shot with her assigned weapon and someone liked some of the stuff she wrote. Somehow, her children are pretty well-adjusted and her husband still loves her, despite burned water and a messy house.

She’s written for the New York Times At War Blog, PBS Point of View: Regarding War Blog, and Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom/New Dawn and has served as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas.

She’s pursuing a PhD in Sociology in her spare time and most recently, she’s been featured as one of Esquire Magazine‘s Americans of the Year for 2012.



Read an excerpt

“You’re not serious.”

Carponti turned around, his shoulders covered in flecks of red hair. “What?”

Nicole grinned as she leaned against the door. “Garrison is going to kill you.”

“Garrison is going to love my new hair cut. It looks just like his.”

Nicole arched one blond eyebrow. “Except for the bright red fuzzy patch in the center of your head.”

Carponti shrugged and rubbed his hands over his freshly shorn scalp. “I can’t wait to see what the sergeant major says.”

“Isn’t he going to be mad?”

Carponti brushed the hair off his neck. “We’re going to war. My hair isn’t on the list of things he’s going to worry about.”

Nicole looked down at the pile of hair on the floor and sighed. “Then why do it?”

Carponti smirked. “Because it’ll get a rise out of him and I live to make his blood pressure go up.”

She laughed. “You need a hobby. Other than blowing things up.”

He sidled across the room and hooked his thumb into the waist of her jeans and tugged her close until their hips met. “I have a hobby. Keeping you well satisfied.”

She sniffed but her lips curled at the edges. “You’re going to be derelict in your duties for a while.”

“But I’ll be home soon enough and then I’ll make up for it.”

“I think I’m going to need a deployment boyfriend.”

He grinned wickedly. “Did you already get one?” He backed her up against the wall, his body hard against hers. God but she loved this man. “Can I see it?”

A slow flush crept over her face and she tried to look away. He threaded his fingers with hers and lifted her arms over her head. Her back arched with the movement.

“Please?” he whispered against her lips. “That would be an awesome memory to take with me downrange. Just think of me, alone in the middle of the desert. One visual of you with your deployment boyfriend and it could make a lonely night go by so much faster.”

Nicole giggled until the laugh overwhelmed her and she was gasping for air. He released her hands and she threaded them around his neck. She buried her face against his throat and laughed.

“There’s something really wrong with you,” she said when she could breathe again. “I’ll send you a video.”

He brightened instantly. “Really?”

“Yes. And dirty letters.”

“Promise?” He nibbled along the edge of her jaw, guiding her slowly backward toward their bed, stacked high with his two duffle bags and all the crap he still hadn’t packed.

But he didn’t care.

“I promise. And you’re going to be late.” Her voice caught in her throat.

“Screw it,” he whispered. “This is the last chance to make love to my beautiful wife before I have to go traipsing across the desert like Lawrence of Arabia.” He nibbled at her earlobe while his hand slipped down her belly to the moist head between her thighs. “Tell you what. You send me a picture of yours and I’ll send you a picture of mine. Maybe I can get him a little horse and saddle and send you a picture. Maybe a Barbie camel. I can put him in a little man dress.”

She laughed and Carponti’s heart swelled in his chest at the sound of it.

“I’m going to hold you to that.” She traced her fingers over his scalp, her body soft and warm against his erection. “I want a picture of him in a man dress in exchange for a video of the deployment boyfriend.”

Her legs bumped into the back of the bed and he followed her down. Tangled between the duffle bags and his uniforms, he made love to her one last time before he got on a plane and headed to war.




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Dec 092013


The Trouble With Christmas by Debbie Mason

Resort developer Madison Lane is about to lose the one thing she loves most in the world – her job. Dubbed “The Grinch Who Killed Christmas,” Madison spoiled a deal that would turn quaint Christmas, Colorado, into a tourist’s winter wonderland. Now the citizens want her fired but the company gives her one last chance, sending Madison to the small town to restore the holiday cheer.

For Sheriff Gage McBride, no hotshot executive from New York City is going to destroy the dreams of the people he loves. But one look at this beautiful woman and it’s his heart that may be broken. In just a few days, Madison causes more trouble than he’s had to deal with all year. He can’t decide if she’s naughty or nice, but one thing is for certain- Christmas will never be the same again…


Praised as a “writer to watch” by RT Book Reviews, Debbie Mason also writes Scottish-set historical paranormals as Debbie Mazzuca.  Her MacLeod series debuted in April 2010 and is said to “combine the passion of Hannah Howell’s Highand romances with the seductive fantasy of Karen Marie Moning’s bestsellers.”



Read an excerpt

Madison gritted her teeth as the midmorning sun glared off the snow-covered mountains and the GPS cheerfully informed her she was going in the wrong direction. She wasn’t. The problem was the town of Christmas was off the grid. She’d been lucky to find a map that showed it actually existed. And Harrison had the nerve to insinuate her visitor projections were too low? Like hell they were; no one would be able to find the place.

As the number of protesters grew yesterday, she’d practically had to tackle Joe to stop him from picking up the phone and reopening negotiations. He’d only relented once Madison had offered, as a last-ditch resort, to go to Christmas and turn the public relations nightmare around. She hadn’t figured out exactly how to do that, but she would. Hartwell Enterprises’ survival depended on her.

Harrison had pulled out all the stops in his campaign to be sent in her place. He’d gone from charming to butt-kissing to whining in a New York minute. But three hours later, Joe had conceded that Madison was the best one to convey her findings to the people of Christmas. Of course, she was to do so in such a way that they would understand the decision was in everyone’s best interest.

Which meant she was supposed to charm and cajole the citizens of Christmas and kiss a baby or two—so not her strong suit. But she’d suck it up and get the job done. Otherwise, she might not have one.

She’d flown out on the red-eye, arriving early this morning at the Denver airport, wasting an hour trying to locate the car and driver Harrison offered to arrange for her. Only to find out it had never been ordered. She should’ve known better. Harrison was probably sitting in her office dreaming of her demise, which was highly likely given her limited driving experience and the hairpin curve she’d just rounded in the rented SUV.

The man in the car behind her blasted his horn as he sped by. If she wasn’t terrified of letting go of the wheel, she would’ve flipped him the bird. She needed something to calm her nerves. She slowed down to turn up the radio when “Independent Women” by Destiny’s Child came on.

Madison loved to sing, even though her friends encouraged her not to. No matter what they said, she didn’t believe she sounded that bad. Her confidence returned as she belted out the empowering lyrics. The town of Christmas wouldn’t know what hit them. She’d have them eating out of her hand in no time once she expounded on the evils of bringing corporate America to their sleepy little town.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d been on the road for over three hours. According to the map, she should be approaching the turnoff to Christmas right about now. Perfect. There it was. If the meeting went as planned, she’d be back on the road by 2:00, which meant the most hair-raising part of her drive would still be in daylight.

Her breath caught as she made the turn. The town, nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains, looked like it belonged in a snow globe. Sunlight sparkled on snow-laden evergreens and danced off the pastel-painted wooden buildings in the distance. It was postcard perfect and exactly the ammunition Madison needed to convince the town that Hartwell Enterprises had done them a favor by backing out of the deal.

She’d focus on the town’s positive attributes and not the negatives that had made the case against them. Like this road, she thought, her good mood evaporating as her tires spun out beneath her. She slowed to a crawl, a white-knuckled grip on the wheel. Three-quarters of the way down the treacherous hill, as she was about to release the breath she’d been holding, a movement to her right caught her attention. A deer leaped from the woods, darting in front of her. She braked hard, the car fishtailing as she slid along the road. From behind a cluster of evergreens at the side of the road, a twelve-foot Santa holding a “Welcome to Christmas” sign seemingly sprang out in front of her like a giant jack-in-the-box.

Madison screamed. Her foot mistakenly jumped to the gas instead of the brake. She watched in slow-motion horror as the car kept moving and crashed into the sign. Santa loomed, teetered, then fell on the hood, his maniacal, smiling face leering at her through the cracked windshield.

Her last thought before the airbag slammed into her face was that she’d finally succeeded in killing Santa.



Twas the Night Before Mischief by Nina Rowan

When Penelope Darlington is persuaded to elope with a most unsuitable suitor, she wastes no time. With visions of passion and adventure dancing in her head, she steals away in the middle of the night, just before her father’s Christmas feast.

Fearing for his daughter’s reputation, Henry Darlington begs Darius Hall, the Earl of Rushton’s daring yet discreet son, to bring Penelope home. When Darius finally catches up to Penelope he is shocked. She’s not the silly little girl he expected, but a beautiful woman with a sharp mind and an allure that cannot be ignored.

Now forced to kidnap Penelope in order to bring her home, Darius and his new charge spend the next several days-and nights-in very close quarters. Penelope wanted passion and adventure, but she never could have imagined the pleasures Darius can provide . . .


Originally from California, Nina Rowan holds a PhD in Art History from McGill University, Montreal, with a specialization in 19th century French and Russian art. A librarian-at-heart, she also has an MA in Library and Information Sciences. Nina lives in Wisconsin with her atmospheric scientist husband and two children.



Read an excerpt

“You’re standing beneath the mistletoe,” he said. Again, the remark simply emerged without prior formation. He was beginning to feel unbalanced by the strange effect this woman had on him.

         “I beg your pardon?”

         Darius pointed upward to where a sprig of ribbon-wrapped mistletoe dangled from the doorway just above Penelope’s head. She followed his line of sight, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks as her lips parted. He half expected her to step away from him, but instead—unless he was imagining it—she seemed to shift an infinitesimal degree closer. Warmth unfurled in his blood.

         “One who stands beneath the mistletoe requires a kiss,” he continued, unable to follow the direction of his thoughts, which no longer seemed to be his own.

         Neither did his body, which had surrendered to the wild beating of his heart and an odd shortness of breath. He wanted to unfasten his cravat and feel cool air against his skin because this proximity to Penelope was making him hot from the inside out, and nothing he told himself would quell the sensation.

         He could not stop staring at her lips. They were pink and plump, with an indentation in the top lip. If he were to place his finger there, it would fit perfectly within that little notch. So too would the tip of his tongue.

         Columna. Colures. Comata.


         An inflammation of light and heat. He felt the explosion in his chest at the thought of settling his mouth against Penelope Darlington’s perfect lips, feeling her body pressed to his, sliding one hand to the back of her neck so he could angle her head and deepen the intensity of the kiss…

         “I don’t believe in such fables, Mr. Hall.” Her clear voice sliced through his imaginings.

         Darius didn’t have imaginings. At least, he hadn’t before now. Certainly not ones about kissing Penelope Darlington, her hands clutching his shoulders and her hips arching into his…

         Darius drew in a hard breath and attempted to regain control of his unruly thoughts and even more uncontrollable body.

         “You’d take the chance, then?” he asked.

         “What chance?” she asked, resting one slender hand against the doorjamb as if for support. She still hadn’t moved away from him. Her cheeks were still flushed pink, and her scent filled his head.

         “If a woman is denied a kiss while standing beneath the mistletoe, it is foretold that she will not marry the following year,” Darius said.

         “Is that so?”


         Penelope laughed that bell-laugh again, and for an instant Darius thought she had read his desires.

         “Oh, Mr. Hall, I assure you,” she said, and then she took a step away from him. A cool breeze swept into the empty space where she had just been standing.

         “I shall marry,” Penelope said. “Most certainly, I shall. And I need not even wait until next year.”

         Darius frowned. His analytical brain fit the pieces of that puzzle together with ease. And he did not like the result one bit.

         “I didn’t know you were planning a wedding, Miss Darlington.”

         “You don’t know much about me at all, Mr. Hall.”

         “I know you’ll not find any exhilaration with Simon Wilkie.”

         Her eyes widened, and she took a startled step back. “W-what?”

         “If that is what you still seek, he is not the one who will provide it.”

         “What do you know of such things?” Penelope asked, her voice tightening. “In all those years you visited my father’s shop, I’d never known a more serious, practical person. Far more interested in gears, levers, and the workings of machines rather than…than…”

         “Exhilaration?” Darius supplied.

         The color darkened on her cheeks. “Rather than life, Mr. Hall.”

         He stared at her. The obedient, dutiful Penelope Darlington was telling him he didn’t know how to properly live?

         “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

         “Of course you don’t because you’ve never felt it.” She extended a forefinger and poked him in the chest. “When I tried to explain it to you, you looked at me as if I’d gone mad. People like you know nothing about intangibles, all those things someone can feel inside and not have any idea what to do with. Things that have nothing to do with duty and practicality and everything to do with wanting to feel.”

         “I know how to feel, Miss Darlington.” He moved closer to her, lowering his voice a notch. “I assure you.”

         “You do not.” She lifted her chin, though a visible tremor went through her. “That day when I tried to tell you about being daring and bold, feeling joy and, yes, exhilaration, you started talking about the components of the atmosphere. I mean, really, of all the ridiculous things one could say to a girl who simply wanted a—”

         All thought fled from Darius’s brain. He grasped the back of Penelope’s neck and lowered his head. Combustion.




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No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.

I do not have any affiliation with or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.


Dec 082013


Christmas In Lucky Harbor by Jill Shalvis

Enjoy the holiday season in Lucky Harbor with this heartwarming collection. Readers will receive Simply Irresistible and The Sweetest Thing in one volume, plus two short stories, Kissing Santa and Under the Mistletoe (both never before seen in print!) There’s no place like Lucky Harbor for the holidays…

Love awaits you in Lucky Harbor . . .

Simply Irresistible
After losing her boyfriend and her job, Maddie leaves L.A. to claim her inheritance-a ramshackle inn nestled in the little town of Lucky Harbor, Washington. She sees the potential for a new home and a new career-if she can give the inn the makeover it needs. Enter Jax, a tall, handsome contractor who knows exactly what Maddie needs…

The Sweetest Thing
Helping her sister set up the family inn is just the thing to make Tara forget her ex-husband and focus on her new life. Until she meets a sexy, green-eyed sailor determined to keep her hot, bothered, and in his bed. When her ex reappears, Tara must confront her past and decide what she really wants.

Kissing Santa Claus
NASCAR driver Logan Perrish returns to Lucky Harbor, Washington, with love in his heart and a ring in his pocket. But can Sandy Jansen forget the past and give him a second chance? Or will Logan be spending another Christmas alone?

Under the Mistletoe
There’s no place like home for the holidays. And the Lucky Harbor Bed & Breakfast is bursting with festive lights and good cheer. But for Mia, Christmas is turning out to be anything other than merry and bright. Her recent break-up with her boyfriend Nick has made her return bittersweet. But then a surprise arrives, when Nick follows her to town bearing gifts – and asking for forgiveness.


New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis lives in a small town in the Sierras full of quirky characters. Any resemblance to the quirky characters in her books is, um, mostly coincidental. Look for Jill’s bestselling, award-winning books wherever romances are sold and visit her website for a complete book list and daily blog detailing her city-girl-living-in-the-mountains adventures.


A Christmas to Remember  by Jill Shalvis, Kristen Ashley, Hope Ramsay, Marilyn Pappano & Molly Cannon

This heartwarming (e-only!) anthology features new tales from popular series by Shalvis, Ashley, Ramsay, Cannon, and Pappano. These touching short stories celebrate true love at Christmastime. Including excerpts from upcoming novels by these popular authors, it’s sure to put readers in the holiday spirit!

Dream a Little Dream by Jill Shalvis: Melissa has kept every man at a safe distance-especially firefighter Ian, a sexy friend with sexy benefits. But Ian secretly longs for more. Luckily, ’tis the season for giving love a chance . . .

Every Year by Kristen Ashley: Holidays don’t come easy for Shy and his brother, Landon. But with the magic of Christmas, along with a little help from Tabby and her family, the Cage brothers are about to get the gift of a lifetime . . .

Silent Night by Hope Ramsey: Down on her luck and evicted from her apartment, single mother Maryanne hopes to start over in Last Chance. When the snow begins to fall, it looks like her baby might literally spend Christmas Eve in a manger. And Maryanne might celebrate the holiday with a handsome stranger.

Have Yourself a Messy Little Christmas by Molly Cannon: Lincoln is a bachelor who’s set in his ways-until a professional organizer dressed up as Mrs. Claus changes his life, one tip at a time. . .

A Family for Christmas by Marilyn Pappano: War widow Ilena doesn’t mind spending Christmas alone. But when a new doctor blows into town with the winter wind, will she get her secret Christmas wish?


New York Times bestselling author Jill Shalvis lives in a small town in the Sierras full of quirky characters. Any resemblance to the quirky characters in her books is, um, mostly coincidental. Look for Jill’s bestselling, award-winning books wherever romances are sold and visit her website for a complete book list and daily blog detailing her city-girl-living-in-the-mountains adventures.


Kristen Ashley grew up in Brownsburg, Indiana, and has lived in Denver, Colorado, and the West Country of England. Thus she has been blessed to have friends and family around the globe. Her posse is loopy (to say the least) but loopy is good when you want to write.

Kristen was raised in a house with a large and multigenerational family. They lived on a very small farm in a small town in the heartland, and Kristen grew up listening to the strains of Glenn Miller, The Everly Brothers, REO Speedwagon, and Whitesnake. Needless to say, growing up in a house full of music and love was a good way to grow up.

And as she keeps growing up, it keeps getting better.


Hope Ramsay grew up on the North Shore of Long Island, but every summer Momma would pack her off under the care of Aunt Annie to go visiting with relatives in the midlands of South Carolina. Her extended family includes its share of colorful aunts and uncles, as well as cousins by the dozens, who provide the fodder for the characters you’ll find in Last Chance, South Carolina. She’s a two-time finalist in the Golden Heart and is married to a good ol’ Georgia boy who resembles every single one of her heroes. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia, where you can often find her on the back deck, picking on her thirty-five-year-old Martin guitar.


Molly Cannon lives a charmed life in Texas with her nearly perfect husband and extremely large cat Nelson. When she’s not writing, she spends her days reading, taking dance classes with the hubby and watching all kinds of sports. Molly has three children, all married to terrific people and two wonderful grandchildren. Life is good!


Known for her intensely emotional stories, Marilyn Pappano is the USA Today bestselling author of nearly eighty books. She has made regular appearances on bestseller lists and has received recognition for her work in the form of numerous awards. Though her husband’s Navy career took them across the United States, he and Ms. Pappano now live in Oklahoma high on a hill that overlooks her hometown. They have one son and daughter-in-law, an adorable grandson, and a pack of mischievous dogs.





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No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.

I do not have any affiliation with or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.