The Last Time

 

And it's here!

Goodness that took a long time to review. Not that it's long as hell (once more with feeling, it's 102,000) but I used the new Word feature called "Read Aloud". It's never not hilarious to have an automated female voice repeatedly stating "what the fuck?" 

Anyway! Let me celebrate my first release in over eighteen months! I hope you can read it. It's a difficult subject and it was difficult to write at times, but first and foremost my new favourite phrase is to preserve your peace. If it's going to be a triggering subject, don't read it. There's been enough disturbance over the last two years (let alone a global panasonic) not to unbalance whatever calm you've cultivated. 

What my characters experience, my female characters in particular, is toughhhhhh. One of my oldest friends, after I explained the story and some spoilers, looked at me over a rather large glass of wine and said "Do you need help?" She said it with a laugh, but there was a slight professional edge to the question (she's in psychiatry). I told her I worked it all out of my system in this book and to be honest, reading it and giving myself nightmares probably helped even more. 

With that sense of freedom, you can read For The Last Time on Amazon here: For The Last Time on Amazon

I'm waiting for Apple Books to release the goods, but in the case you can't get an ePub or PDF version, feel free to email me your request. I have PayPal and I have formatted the devil out of this book!

As Issey's daughter says, "Talking is healthy."

It truly is... 

Army

Welll hello there! Back exactly where it needs to be, Army of Me and You is sitting pretty on Amazon. Nothing more added except for my usual extras of a playlist and what's coming next. 

In so many ways, this story is very close to my heart and means the absolute world tonne to be able to share it all over again. I'm very grateful to you all for keeping me going, keeping me encouraged and reminding me that there's lots more for me to do! 

Happy damn reading people!

Army of Me and You on Amazon

Hideaway

It's been a while, ne c'est pas? It hasn't at all been deliberate, it's just the way my life has panned out and how much Hank has control over what I do.

This went to dark places, I can't even lie. But nevertheless, be assured that it all works out in the end. Somehow.

Bonus! There are thirteen other amazing stories in the set for you to devour. They are all full length, stand-alone, complete reads - No Cliffhangers!!!

It's also $0.99 for a limited period, which is a mega bargain. What more do you want? All the links are below, Please do me the greatest of favours and grab your copy. I never usually ask, but if you could leave a review, I would be the happiest bird alive!

Amazon: https://goo.gl/p3PiQKiBooks: https://goo.gl/cjaNhKB&N: https://goo.gl/I0N7Q7Kobo: https://goo.gl/L1a2zc

Happy reading!

My Bonnie

Wynne's Surprise on Amazon
Wynne's Surprise on ARe

I was about to write something in Arabic, then I remembered how much er naughty time is in this book and thought the better. Instead... Bonsoir! Wynne's Surprise has arrived! You've got Scots, and Morocco and Scotland and LA and London and all round good clean fun! I know that last bit was a lie, but Hot Muse Hank said I should give it a go, and see if... Yes, he's rolling around laughing. Brute.

Anyways, give my lovers are very and rather proudly Scottish. I've done a brief glossary to help:

Boaby - male member (look at me being all demure!)
Box - head
Canny - cannot Modern Scots (18th Century/ Robert Burns gen is 'canna')
Get tae fuck - (I lasted half a page, well done me!) get out of it!
Maw - mother
Nae - not
Nip - a sip, or knowing a Scot, half a glass...
Tatties - potatoes
Weegie - a person hailing from Glasgow - the maddest of the bunch.


And if that's not enough to get you going, have a wee nip of this:

Let This Moose Loose Aboot This Hoose!

She woke up with a jolt, tucked between the velvet softness of her sofa and the dense muscles of Bren’s chest. He stirred above her head.

“Are you okay?”

“I had the weirdest dream.”

“About?” he asked on a yawn.

“I had three tits and you were fondling all of them.”

Bren burst out laughing. “Why on earth would you dream about that?”

“I don’t even know.” She lifted her head and squinted at the clock. Midnight.

“Some nap,” Bren yawned again, untangling his arms from her body to stand up. He looked adorably rumpled. “Shall I get us some tea?”

“Aye, and maybe a snack or something.”

“Yes, madam,” he sarked in a Queen’s English tone, strolling into the kitchen and leaving Wynne to sit up. The sensation of oddness hadn’t abated with the nap, and the strange dream only compounded matters. Who needed three breasts? The overwhelming emotion that came from the dream was how much she’d enjoyed Bren’s manipulations.

She noticed her phone on the table by the lamp. Masochism forced her to her feet and to pick up the mobile. While Bren made tea in the background, Wynne stared at the screen. Okay, maybe she’d crossed a few lines, perhaps a page or a notebook of lines, or rather they both had, but at least they hadn’t crossed it all the way. Six missed calls from Robert, seared her with guilt.

Discomfort forced her to read the text messages he’d sent:

I’m sorry about today. Can you call me?

Wynne, it’s Valentine’s Day. Why won’t you answer?

Have you gone out?

You’re being really disrespectful.

“Tea,” Bren said and Wynne jumped in fright. She whipped around and saw him holding two mugs, an eyebrow curled. “I did tell you I was making it.”

“Of course you did. Sorry. I’m sorry.” She repeated the apology before taking the mug into her hands. Bren glanced down at her phone.

“Robbie?”

She hesitated. Bren took the tea and nodded her in the direction of her bedroom. “Go and call him.”

Wynne blinked, leaning away from him. “What?”

“Call him and tell him you’re going on a break. You’ll be back in a week, and you can talk then. If you want to.”

Word for word exactly what she wanted to say to Robert. Clearly, Bren was a better friend to her than to Robert. “Okay. I’ll be a few minutes.”

She scampered to her bedroom and gently closed the door behind her, resting against the wood for some semblance of reality to lock her to the ground.

That line she’d crossed with Bren a few hours ago seemed more and more blurred. Technically, not calling your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day until after she agreed to a holiday with her male friend she had intense sexual feelings for, could be considered as a breakup. Right?

So are we ready, steady, Eddie? Let's get surprising! 

Hey Baby!

The Baby Gift on Amazon

The Baby Gift on AllRomanceeBooks

What else do you want with your romance, if not a pregnant woman, a gay husband, a golddigger, a fit, cancer-free CFO all at a funeral? Yes, The Baby Gift is available again for your reading pleasure!

This story is one of my bonkers favourites, written after wading through the shallow waters of Isla De Mujeres. I have to thank Shara Azod for the challenge, (hero and heroine meet, heroine is already pregnant). Sunstroke gave me the answer, the details were found at the bottom of a glass of Malbec. It's how I roll. Mexico and wine.

Happy reading!!

 Blurb due 29/04/16

Any good romance starts with a funeral…

Tais Nørgaard has been too close to death to wait around for anything in his life to happen organically. Cancer cured him of any reticence in getting what he wants, and what he wants is entirely wrapped up in Delilah Bancroft. Tais is completely enamoured by Delilah’s pregnancy, with the type of fervour reserved for fathers. He doesn't care about her gay husband, or his irritating, gold-digger of a boyfriend. He’s not even bothered by the potential scandal stemming from the impending battle over Delilah’s late father in law’s estate. He just wants Delilah. And everything that comes with her.

Except expected 29/04/16

Freya sat Tais down in the pew closest to the family and whispered gleefully, “This is the best spot. Trust me.”

“Why are you so happy this man is dead?” Tais asked, his tone mild as he surveyed the gathered mourners. He recognised faces not only from the Bancrofts’ company, but clients, acquaintances, the owners of various tabloids, department stores and Michelin starred restaurants the family patronised. They were indeed losing a very good customer. Samson Bancroft had been a man with expensive tastes.

“Urgh, don’t say things like that!” Freya made a face of disgust. “I’m not happy he’s dead, but I am happy we were invited to the funeral. We couldn’t get this close to the family unless we were at a board meeting. There are opportunities here you need to take advantage of.”

“And here I was thinking this was a social gathering,” he said dryly.

Freya ignored him. “Just think what you could achieve if you had a controlling share board member on your side. All those projects you want to push forward, all those plans we have for finance.”

His plans had always been logically accepted, but the heir apparent, Edward Bancroft, would not see things the same way as his father. Samson’s shrewd business sense was legendary. Many had fallen beneath his sword of thriftiness. “It’s a funeral. Where people are grieving.”

Freya gave a dismissive snort. “No, they’re not. Look, that’s wife number four and five sitting on the other side of wives three through to one.”

“You’re gossiping again,” Tais warned. “I’m not interested.”

“You need to be,” Freya retorted. She was irritating him intensely today, but she worked hard as his second in command. He was now hugely reliant on her knowledge, considering he’d been out of the game for the last year. “Those women don’t have any company shares. It’s in their pre-nuptial agreements. The company stays with the Bancroft name.”

A woman swept past, delicate netting covering her eyes like a film noir femme fatale. She had a black scarf elegantly swathed around her shoulders, which only served to emphasise the extravagant curve of her hips, draped in black silk that swirled to her ankles. Tais watched her as she sat in the pew with wives four and five.

“That’s who you need to butter up—the famous Delilah. Before Samson died, he signed all his shares to his daughter-in-law.”

“My, my, my,” he quipped. The photograph on her law firm’s website hadn’t done her any justice. He had been looking at it obsessively for some time now. She possibly had conducted the smartest Bancroft marriage to date. A family lawyer, the Bancroft company had not only pushed her services to a range of exclusive, high-paying clients, but she had drawn up her own pre-nuptial agreement, and hadn’t been seen falling out of clubs or bars. More importantly, and by the same turn disappointingly for him, she had kept the wedding out of the national media. “She doesn’t look any older than twenty-five, if that,” Tais murmured, noting that Freya was still waiting for a response.

“You’d think being married to Edward would add a few years. I think she’s almost forty.”

Tais thought it would be insanely disrespectful to start laughing at such a revelation. “I thought you said Edward was gay?”

“He is.” Freya grinned. “Well done for paying attention.”

“Then why is he married to her?” Again he stared at the back of her head, glossy, tar-coloured hair twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck. What a waste.

“Samson didn’t have any idea about Edward. The last thing Samson wanted to happen was for the Bancroft shares to end up in someone else’s hands because Edward’s far too generous with all his friends and er... acquaintances.”

“Isn’t that what the cast-iron pre-nups are for?”

“I can’t see that one,” she nodded to the front pews, “signing anything. I can see him refusing out of some principle that love is stronger than any contract or some such rubbish. Edward and Delilah have been friends since law school. Maybe she just wanted to get the shares. It’s worked out quite nicely for her.”

“Isn’t Edward upset that his father’s dead and his shares are with his wife who isn’t a member of his desired gender?”

“He’s relieved. Now he can bang as many cabana boys as he wants when he’s in Miami.”

“She’s too smart for this, dipping into the Bancroft murky waters,” he asserted, flipping through the order of service. “This seems... too calculated.”

“You’ve had a second long glimpse of her. Is this a spark of interest in a woman?” she asked, her voice teasing.

Tais was surprised himself. He thought his libido was long gone. “You sell a fascinating story,” he said instead. “So wives one to five have nothing from the company, and all the controlling shares are in the hands of one daughter-in-law who technically isn’t a true Bancroft.”

“If you want the board to approve your plans for international expansion for our department, then you need Delilah. No one can cough without her say-so now.”

“Fair enough.” Tais watched as Delilah wiped a hand beneath her veil and folded her hands in her lap. But then again, he wasn’t at all interested with the shares she held. “I think at least one person is grieving here.”

My Young Man

Just under four months after I finished the story for NaNoWriMo, it's packaged in a pretty little bow with music and a sweet arse end. So two things. I somehow, incredibly curbed my swearing. And I somehow managed to not use any words associated or substituted for vagina. I didn't write a sex scene. Not an explicit one - not the one's I'm used to. I skimmed. I kept the bedroom door open at a creak, only for Patricia to get up and shut the door in my face. No lie. Fair warning is fair warning. No bang time. But I always believe that to be the mark of a good romance. If you take out the shagging, do the hero and the heroine have a connection? I can safely say that Patricia and Art do. So much so, in my tiny little mind, I am willing for them to make it. Grow old together. Go to IKEA and fight with each other. Remind their kids that they have no idea how hard A-levels are.

Root for them, Tyra Banks style...

An Art To It on Smashwords

An Art To It on Amazon

An Art To It on Allromanceebooks

Question 1: Is this the blurb for An Art To It?

Patricia Nelson has the most important interview of her life coming up. It’s a world away from the girl she used to be. Her future relies on her being accepted into university, so no distractions. That means not getting turnt up, no drinks and definitely no boys. Not even Art. Beautiful, smart, convenient Art. She ain’t got time for that. Truly. None.

Arthur McWorth has never been thought of as a distraction. A nuisance. A terrible influence. The bane of his parents’ life, yes. But to a girl like Patricia, he’ll take distraction any day. Beautiful, smart and single Patricia. Since they’re practically family, he’ll help her get through her university interview. In exchange, he’s allowed to be someone altogether different. A boyfriend.

Question 2: Where can you find an excerpt of An Art To It?

Like a bucket of ice water, the sound of the front door opening made them both spring to their feet. Patricia leapt for her clothing and placed them hurriedly in a pile next to the armchair, and she threw herself into the seat. Art sat back on the sofa, hooking his ankle onto his knee, only to look down at his crotch and grab a cushion instead.

Patricia clapped a hand over her mouth, and he warned her, “Don’t you dare!”

“Coo-eee!” Gwen called, stumbling into the living room. “How’s my baby! BABY!” she crowed when she caught sight of Art.

“Hello, Mother.”

She leaned down and cupped his cheeks, pressing kisses to his forehead. Art struggled to throw her off. “God, woman, how much have you had to drink?”

“A bit too much, Mikey Mike is parting…” she hiccupped, “…parking, sorting out the car.”

Finally, Art got up and pushed his mother into the sofa. “Just sit down. I’ll make you some coffee. Actually, I’ll get you some water.”

Patricia leapt to her feet. “I’ll help you.” She grabbed the baby monitor and scampered off after Art. He reached for a glass, and his T-shirt lifted, exposing some crazy definition over his hips.

“Mike’s clearly re-evaluating his life,” Art said ruefully, using the water dispenser to fill a glass for Gwen. “It doesn’t take that long to park a car.”

Patricia leaned against the fridge, catching the hem of his shirt and pleating it with her fingers. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”

He cradled her jaw with a warm palm, his lashes fanning over his cheeks, eyes focused on her mouth. “Why not?”

“Umm,” she began, distracted by the intensity of his focus on her.

“We were okay without an audience of the drunk.” When he’d moved so close, she couldn’t recall, but kissing him again was so easy, with the fridge keeping her partly upright.

Gwen bellowed from the living room. “Where’s my coffee?”

Art rested his head against Patricia’s, eyes closed, briefly. “Mind out.” He opened the fridge and squeezed a half lime into the water. He circled her, trailing a kiss over her cheek and she heard him say, “All right, Mike?”

Patricia jumped. Had he heard something? “I’ve been better,” her uncle replied, sounding severe. He stalked into the kitchen where Patricia hadn’t moved, gripping the monitor like a talisman.

He looked her up and down, somewhat more casually dressed than when he’d left. A T-shirt that just about reached her knees—and nothing else. No socks, no jumper, and had Mike and Gwen turned up a little later, probably no knickers, either. “It’s warm in here. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heating down.”

Mike stared at her as if she’d just said she didn’t realise she was a girl. “Really? That little white box I pointed to before we left?”

Patricia shrugged. “I was thinking about my interview.”

He didn’t look convinced, but changed the subject anyway. “Brian okay?”

Patricia waved the monitor at him, the screen glowing in black and white where Brian snored away in content. “He’s been perfect.”

“I’ll go look in on him, and then I can drive you home.”

The protest came thick and fast. “Oh, no, don’t worry about that. Um, Arthur said he’d give me a lift, and besides, Gwen is toasted. You can’t leave Brian with her in that state. Yes, he’s sleeping, but what if he wakes up?”

Mike made a huff of irritation and lowered his voice. “That boy has a world full of problems, Patricia. Don’t let him get back at his mother through you.”

“How would he do that?” she flashed, furious that her uncle would only see her as some sort of mother-bait. “Gwen actually likes me.”

He touched her shoulder. “Just be careful. I know boys like that. I used to be a boy like that.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Art isn’t breaking up any relationships now, is he?” Before her uncle could reply, she stepped around him and into the living room. Gwen was cradling her water and clutching Art’s hand in her free palm.

“You’re such a good boy,” she slurred. “You know how much I love you, don’t you?”

“In vino veritas, I suppose,” he retorted. His eyes lit up when he saw Patricia. “Are you ready to go?”

“I just need to put on my things, and then sure. Yeah.”

She gathered her pile of clothes and went into the downstairs W.C. to tug on her boots and leggings and jumper, her heart pounding in her chest.

Words with her uncle couldn’t be good. Her mother would be on at her for starting trouble, just when they’d calmed things down. But he asked for it.

Closing the door behind her, she walked into the living room, the raised voices tuning to her brain.

“What makes you think you can come in anywhere you like and take what you want?”

Art scratched his head. “My mum?”

“That champagne was a gift from people who cared to come to our wedding.”

“Actually, that champagne was a gift from my christening. I know because it was on the list of assets they split from the divorce. I guarantee it’s more to do with me than you, considering you weren’t shagging my mother when I was born. Or were you?” Art pretended to look thoughtful. “We never got a fixed date as to when you two became such close friends.”

Mike leaned in, saying under his breath. “If you weren’t Gwen’s son, I’d rip you into pieces, you little shit.”

Art didn’t even blink. “Not much I can do about that. Get out of my face, Mikey Mike. She gave up a wedding for you and I didn’t even ask.”

He left the remaining words unsaid, and Mike regained his senses. “Just go away. And leave Patricia alone.”

“I can speak for myself,” she intervened, coming to stand beside Art and slipping her hand into his. She felt him trembling and it could only be from anger. “If my mum doesn’t interfere with my choices, then you shouldn’t, either.”

“If they knew…”

“There’s nothing to know!” Patricia and Art snapped. They looked at each other and pointed. “Jinx. Jinx again!” She flapped at his finger and turned back to her uncle. “Just back off. You’re not doing anyone any favours by getting mad.”

Understanding finally crossed his face, and he left them in the corridor. “Where’s your coat?” Art asked into the uncomfortable silence.

“Closet,” she said on a whisper. He carefully released her and took her duffle coat with its fur-lined hood from the cupboard and draped it over her shoulders. Bending to her height, he pressed a kiss to her lips.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He loped back into the living room to gather her books, then he hustled her out of the house. Once seated in the car, Art said, “Maybe I should take you home?”

“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice had to be palpable.

He shifted slightly to face her, earnest in his protest. “Not that I don’t want to go out, it’s just…”

“It’s gone a bit Pete Tong,” she finished.

“Listen,” he caught her gaze, and sincerity blazed from those dark blue eyes. “I’ll think of something. ’Cause at the moment, we can just about get a burger van and a can of Old Jamaica ginger beer.”

She looked at the clock dial on the car dashboard. She hadn’t realised it was going eleven. They’d just spent all that time on the sofa getting a little too intimate for people sort of related to each other. “Yeah. Okay.”

Art stroked a hand over her hair, and brushed his thumb over her jaw line. “New day, yeah?”

She nodded, turning to fasten her seatbelt. As practical as separating Mike’s threat from their rather lovely evening together seemed to be, Patricia couldn’t help her worry that in the morning, Art would see it differently.

By the time they reached her house, silence had ruled. Whether thoughts of their miniature rendezvous turned to the path of an error, or the beginning of something sweet and new, remained unclear.

Patricia had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound—to her mind, at least, —immature and whining. She didn’t want to whinge. She wanted everything, especially her feelings, to stay low damn key.

All That Remains...

Hey! It's my second favourite season! And to celebrate, a story of some terrible things that hold lifelong grudges, my Witch Bitch Mical, a Spanish redhead (they exist. I have witnessed the glory!), and the loveliest Romanian I will ever write. Light your candles my dears, it's about to get dark...

Remains on Amazon

Remains on AllRomanceeBooks

What's left of a blurb

Considering her husband would happily strangle her on sight, Mical Wentworth has a battle on her hands to win his trust back. Jamie believes she betrayed him in the worst way possible, when all she had tried to do was to protect him from the horror that has stalked her family for decades. Now all her avenues of escape are fading away, she is desperate to make it up to him. She can accept her fate as long as her husband can forgive her.

Strangulation is far too good a death for Mical, and Jamie Santillan has thought of all the ways he’d kill his estranged wife for what she did. But when she turns up on Jamie’s doorstep almost a year after disappearing, the possibility of murder slowly leaves his mind. She’s running away from something. The Mical he knows isn’t afraid of anything, in any world. And nothing should get to her before he does… 

What's left of an excerpt

Barely dressed in one of Jamie’s shirts that carried the faintest scent of him, worn in the hope that it would lull her to sleep. She wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee, following the scent like a Bisto kid.

“Morning,” she said on a yawn. “Do you mind if I have what’s left?”

Jamie barely looked at her, only started sifting through his mail. “If you want.”

She poured herself a cup and blinked several times to wake up. “Busy day today?” she asked into the silence.

“If that’s you asking, if I’ll be leaving the house empty, the answer is no. I work from home.”

She turned around to spread butter and jam on her toast. “No need to crucify me, it’s just a friendly morning question.”

He looked up, mouth open and ready to start a war, when he clocked the shirt. “What the hell?”

“What?”

“That’s my shirt!”

“Yes,” she mumbled around her toast. “I borrowed it.”

His jaw worked furiously. “Get it off. Now.”

She couldn’t help it; she gave a tinkle of surprised laughter. “Oh, come on. I haven’t stolen it. You can just wash it if you think I smell that bad…”

“You didn’t have any nightwear in that Titanic of a suitcase?” There was a vein in his temple that looked fit for bursting.

“Jamie,” she said, as if calming a serial killer. “You’re being…”

“Just take it off now!” His voice thundered in the kitchen.

“Fine.” She stripped the shirt off and threw it in his face. “Why do you have to be so petty? It is a lousy shirt.”

He wrestled the shirt from his face, “No, it is you taking the…” He realised that she wasn’t wearing anything, but silk shorts. In the cool air of the kitchen, her nipples began to tighten. Jamie’s eye level dropped.

“Hello!” Kelly burst into the kitchen, and saw Mical standing there topless.

Her lips pursed. “I see you’re settling in.”

“Don’t mind me,” Mical said evenly. “It’s nothing Jamie hasn’t played with before.” She flashed them both a tight smile, and took her tea and toast to her room.

She heard the beginnings of their argument, and perversely noted that it was quite turning her on.

***

Kelly exploded. “What the fuck was she doing? Have you just shagged her?”

“Kel,” Jamie sighed, rubbing his face in brisk strokes, trying to banish the image of Mical’s breasts from his sight.

“Just say it!” She folded her arms, tapping a beat of annoyance with a trainered foot. “I knew it. I knew it was a bad idea you letting her stay here.”

“Kel, she is winding you up.”

“Then why are you letting her walk around naked?” she screamed, picking up a side plate and smashing it onto the floor. Jamie let her rage on, glancing at the cheque he received for his article in Criminal Law Weekly. There was also a cheque from a crime writer whom he had met through Twitter, funnily enough, and was helping with his research. Maybe if he took Kelly for a shopping spree, she would stop her god-awful racket.

“Kelly,” he said finally, as she started on his dinner set. “There is nothing going on. I told her off. She is trying to play me. I am not having it. You yelling at me will make her happier, so please stop it.”

She abruptly closed her mouth. “I’m sorry, babes.” She sat next to him and dotted kisses over his cheek. “She’s just really pissing me off, acting like she owns this place.”

Jamie gave her a reassuring kiss to her temple. “It’s okay.”

She rubbed a hand over his back. “Do you even know where Madam disappears to all day?”

“As long as she’s not here, I don’t care. Here, look. I just got paid.” Kelly’s eyes widened. “Oh my God! How much dough is that?”

“Enough to go shopping. Come on, we’ll go up to London and get you a bag and shoes. Whatever you fancy.”

“Dinner, too?”

“Of course.” He gave another smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We haven’t spent much time together. Let me have a shower and we’ll go.”

Kelly kissed him and gave a little squeal of joy. “I’ll sweep up this mess and we’ll be on our way to Harrods!”

Jamie stood up and winced. His leg was hurting again. He’d have to take his painkillers and drive. It’d be quicker. The less time he spent on his feet, the better.

***

As Jamie disappeared into the bathroom, Kelly quickly dispatched the broken crockery, then hovered outside of Mical’s room. Even in the corridor, she could smell that rose perfume of her expensive designer candles.

Resolved, Kelly put her hand out towards the door handle, only for it to be pulled away. Wearing a slash neck knit jumper in a vivid blue with sleek-looking leggings and thigh high boots, Mical stared down at her.

“Going to work?” Kelly smirked.

“Can I help you?” Mical asked mildly.

“Just checking you’ve found clothing.”

Mical flashed a grin that made Kelly uncomfortably aware that she was still her boyfriend’s wife. “That’s so sweet of you to be concerned about me. Mind out, I need to shut the door.”

“Got somewhere to be?” Kelly demanded as Mical hooked her coat over her arm, along with her Birkin bag.

“If Jamie wants to know where I’m going or what I’m doing, he can ask me. I have no problem telling him directly.”

“What if he doesn’t see it your way?”

“Then,” Mical closed her door firmly, “he will have to stay in the dark.” Her mobile began to ring and she answered it. “I’m on my way. No, don’t worry. It’s all under control.” She gave Kelly a look of appreciation. “Enjoy your shopping trip.”

Kelly returned the smile with as much muster as she could find and waited for the front door to close. She went back to Mical’s room and opened the door. There was a familiar chocolaty smell along with the rose and underneath… Something slightly rotten. Like an abandoned, moulded tea cup.

On the bedside table sat an array of potions. Crème de la Mer, Elemis, Chanel, Philosophy…that bitch had money falling out of her ears. Just as she edged towards Mical’s hefty suitcase, she heard Jamie call her. She tried to open it, but realised there was a combination on the case. She told herself that she would figure it out on the way to London. Bitch features wasn’t going anywhere.

Under Your Spell

Fair warning; this is bonkers. No two ways about it. It's a paranormal fairy tale, so you're going to need to leave logic to one side for a bit. Until you reach the end. Maybe until well after it's finished. I do love these two though. Strength through adversity. And love as a well deserved reward. Most of all, Kent is NOT boring!!

Addicted to Witch on All Romance eBooks

Addicted to Witch on Amazon

Eye of blurb

Auden Garceau is a musical beast in a golden cage. As the son of an aged rock star, to anyone else his life has always looked perfect. Decorated with awards and accolades, the shiny exterior doesn’t compare to the grim reality. He is without family, money, or even control over his life. Permitted a reprieve from his curfew, he’s booked to play at an employees’ only retreat just with the expectation of being paid at the end.

He never for a moment believed that he’d meet a woman like Dr. Helena Sarpong, who gate crashes her sister’s work event. One kiss with the beautiful doctor is enough to make him want not just more kisses, but everything she can possibly give him. As a man used to being told he has an addictive personality, he is more than willing to start a new habit - Helena. 

Essence of excerpt 

He lifted the jumper from her torso and gave pause to admire her, briefly wishing he lived in a time of the Renaissance artists who would have fallen to their knees in gratitude for a muse such as her. They would have been allowed to look, feast their eyes, but never, ever allowed to touch. Only him. His hand slid inside her jeans and he hardened instantly at his discovery. Scalp tingling at the tug she gave on his hair when his fingers slid inside her, he curved them with insistence. His mouth touched her neck, the swell of her breasts and back to her lips. She tasted like ecstasy, he thought, his mouth trailing to her earlobe, biting down as she began to tighten around his soaked fingers.

“Auden,” she gave a gasping cry.

Satisfaction pulsed through his sex at the need in her voice. He wanted her to give herself completely to him, like she had only a few hours ago.

“Auden, stop.” She pushed at his shoulders, her eyes round with surprise, looking just beyond his shoulder as her orgasm took her. With Helena still shaking beneath him, his fingers caught in the grip of her body, he turned his head. His heart froze. Romely stood there, her mouth parted in horror.

“What are you doing?” Romely whispered.

Helena struggled from underneath him and righted her clothing. “What’s going on?”

Auden opened his mouth to speak, and found his throat closed up. Goddamn you, Romely!

She turned to Helena. “Do you know he’s in a relationship? With me? We have been for years.”

Helena looked at Auden, her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

No! He wanted to scream. Not a sound emerged from him.

Romely spoke again. “We’re trying to work things out. At least I thought we were. Do you like stealing other women’s men?”

“Wait a minute.” Helena got to her feet. “I didn’t know. I’m not psychic. I didn’t see or hear anything from Auden that you even exist.”

“But I do,” Romely said. “He can’t get away from that simple fact. I do exist. He and I are meant to be together.”

“I’d dump him if I were you,” Helena said harshly. “He obviously didn’t think about you once.” She turned back to Auden, her palm connecting painfully with his cheek, the sound echoing in the hallway. “You don’t seem like a coward. But I know better than anyone how appearances can be deceptive.” She started up the stairs. “I’ll just get my things and leave.”

Romely inclined her head. “I think that’s best. I can give you a lift to the station, if you like.”

Helena’s mouth parted in surprise before she said, “I’ll be all right. Thanks.”

As Helena hit the top step, Romely spoke. “Well, that was really inconsiderate of you.”

“Fuck you, Romely.” Auden blinked the water from his eyes, caused by Helena’s slap. She had a right to be angry; he wished he could correct her. He wanted to change her mind so badly. This was such bullshit.

Romely snorted. “If you had, it’d be a different story now, wouldn’t it?”

Furiously, he got to his feet, fully intending to strangle the life from her.

“Ah ah!” she held up a hand—preventing Auden from moving any closer. “You still don’t understand, do you? Even after all this time. You are mine. Just as I’m yours.”

“I don’t want you!” he shouted.

“I don’t believe you. We can do this dance for eternity, or you can start thinking smart. No more girls like that.” Romely gave a sneer. “She seems scared of her own shadow. Why would you waste your time?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He sat back down on the step in defeat. “You’re a sith.” Her mouth tightened in disapproval. “We can carry this on as much as you like. I’ll still hate you.”

Her eyes danced with joy. “You know where that comes from, don’t you? It’s only the other side of love.”

He sent her a look he prayed conveyed how fucking stupid he found her. “It comes from the fact you have stolen everything good in my life because I don’t see you as anything more than a spot I could bleach out. You’re strong, but you can’t change our rules. You can’t make me love you.”

“I’m leaving you alone to get there by yourself.” She sighed. “You will. Just, focus.”

“Lift the curse.”

“No, Auden. It’s for your own good.”

“What do you know about what’s good for me?” he asked, perplexed. “That’s the problem, Romely, you don’t know me. You just have this fanciful idea about me that isn’t true.”

“It is! You just won’t admit what you are. I know you deep down. I saw it all those years ago. I saved you from a life of waste.”

“And keeping me a prisoner in my own home isn’t waste of life?”

Romely’s temper flared. “If you weren’t fucking strange women, you’d be meditating on how to make yourself a better man, the man that deserves me!”

“Oh Jesus Christ, no!” he bellowed.

Romely watched him, wide-eyed. He hadn’t displayed that much emotion to her in years. She gave a small shrug. “Then we’re back to the beginning.”

Helena hurtled down the stairs. “I’ll post the clothes back to you,” she said, barely looking at him.

No, don’t leave, please!

“Helena,” he started, before Romely locked his jaw with a single look. Helena murmured an apology to Romely.

“How will you get back to the house?” he ventured.

Still not looking at him, she indicated the door. “I’ve called a cab. It’s waiting outside.” Her gaze lifted, connecting with his own. “Oh… Go to hell.”

There was his salvation, walking away from him. Romely closed the door behind her and turned back to him. “How shall we work through this?” she asked with an expectant smile. “I mean I’m upset, but I forgive you.”

The lights inside the house dimmed, the clouds darkened the sky. Every single piece of furniture in the vicinity rose from the ground and launched toward Romely. With a scream, she held up her hands as the furniture exploded into dust. Covered in powdered wood and grit, she heaved at him, “You did this to yourself!”

“Get out.” Not waiting for further argument, he trudged upstairs to his bedroom and closed the door. His hand tightened on the handle and he slammed the door into the frame again and again and again until the wood splintered and the handle came away from the door altogether. He threw the handle to the carpet and lay down.

Closing his eyes he envisioned Helena, looking like a fairy princess, hunting for rosemary. No. He wouldn’t allow this. There was no way he’d give her up. He’d had the briefest taste of freedom on Helena’s lips, and he wanted it all.

Now was not the right time to defy Romely’s curfew and get up to London. But he absolutely would. Find Helena and try to get around the impossibility of his situation. He had to.

It's About Time

Normally I'd be all apologies about how long it's taken - I'm British, it's an automatic reflex to apologise for anything and everything. But I'm rather pleased I took my time. That I absorbed everything during my time in Lucca, Tuscany. That I did drink most of their wine, and use their olive oil on my hair (sooooooo gooooooooood!). That I allowed myself to be swayed by Hank and the romance of Italy to give my best to Durante and Ella's tale. And you will find bits of me all over this story. Make sure your ereader has one of those screen protectors...

So here we are, and if you're not sold - have a read of the blurb and this little snippet to see who's wandering the hills of Lucca with the farmer and his bird.

Verde Bianco Rosso on Amazon

Verde Bianco Rosso on All Romance eBooks

Eau de blurb 

Widow. Sister. Mother. All those labels hung from Emmanuella Harrison, like the 'A' of shame. After so many years of playing it straight, she'd forgotten who the real Ella was. Sometimes, whenever she managed to make the severe Durante Da Canaveze smile, the sparkle of the woman she'd been a long time ago ignited in her. But the Mother label needed to be first and foremost. No messing around with sexy farmers. Farmers! Just farmers. None of that. All right, maybe a little bit of messing around. The tip doesn't count.

The moment Ella drifted into Tuscany, Durante started to doubt the wisdom of his years of self-imposed solitude. With every teasing grin, backless dress and playful conversation, he fell more and more deeply under her spell. As dazzled as he is by her, Durante is convinced his history is enough to not deserve anyone, let alone someone like Ella.

And yet, without the labels, without the barriers, without being afraid of what may be, no two people will ever be as perfect for each other.

The penultimate story in the Italian Knights Series is all about blunt children, loud mouthed opinionated, family members, redemption in farming olives and how love can make one forgive even the most off-key of voices.

Eau de excerpt

He woke with the weighty sense of self-disappointment. He’d done something silly last night before he’d passed out. Even though his body vehemently disagreed with him on the assessment, it had been silly to kiss Ella. It should have been a surprise that he remembered, but no amount of drugs would take away what Ella’s lips felt like on his. Talking in the cold light of day would make sense.

It was half six in the morning. He’d overslept, and right through not only his natural body clock, but that of his actual alarm.

He showered in ice-cold water to eliminate the stubbornness of his hard-on. There was no time to indulge in getting rid of it the old-fashioned way. He didn’t bother to shave, and instead threw on clean clothes.

A knock on Ella’s door found the guest room empty. He could, however, smell coffee.

Surprised that she was already awake, Durante made his way down the stairs. Ella glanced up from her own cup as soon as he walked in. She does not look like an angel, he warned himself. Get hold of yourself, man…

“Morning,” she said, cheekiness in her tone.

“Good morning.”

“Those are some drugs, eh?” she teased.

“Ella…” he began, but she spoke over him.

“You had five calls. I’ve taken messages, but I’d call down to the groves first. They seemed to think I’ve killed you in some sort of ceremony for witchcraft.”

He closed his eyes. They could manage without him for five minutes, goddammit. An unspoken realisation that this was what their life would be like if that kiss was more than just a drug-addled error. Him mollifying his workers. Her on her own.

“Can I give you a lift to the town?”

“I’ve got my bike,” she reminded him gently. “Coffee, muffins, and waffles. Only because I saw you’ve got a waffle iron and it hasn’t come out of the packaging.” She put her cup in the dishwasher and hopped off the chair. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Come for a tour,” he offered, feeling there was an opportunity that was slipping through his grasp. “Wine, cheese, and olives. I’ll even smile.”

Ella touched his arm as she passed. “You hate tourists. See you later.”

He rubbed his cotton-covered chest as if he could wipe away the disappointment of being so close to starting something. What was so crushing about ‘just for now’ compared to ‘never-ever’? He knew the difference now. With a shake of his head, he flipped through the messages, written partly in shorthand, but all in Italian.

Clever, exceptionally talented woman.

A call to the groves calmed any immediate nerves. They were expecting a delivery of expensive truffles to add another flavour to a selection of their matured olive oil. The temperature gauge in the fermentation rooms wasn’t reading correctly. Durante made several calls, and within half an hour, all was resolved.

The temperature gauge issue concerned him. Fermentation of the grapes was such a delicate process and if the coolness in the vats were not maintained, the bottles for this year would be a write-off. But the engineer who worked regularly for him was exceptional and would have no issue readjusting the machinery if need be.

Durante would find his way down to the rooms once he’d finished his messages. The others were from the tour company to ensure they were expected and would be arriving in two hours’ time.

The last message was from his brother, Massimo. That could never be good.

“What’s the matter?”

“Hello to you, too,” Massimo said dryly. “I wanted to say thank you for shipping the wine. Are your supplies drained?”

“By you, no. Although your Sofia gave it a go.”

“She does like a drink. Speaking of surprising women, who was that delightful young lady who answered my call?”

Durante could feel himself blushing. “Just a friend.”

“You do not have female friends. As a matter of fact, I do not believe you have any friends at all.”

“And what category would you place Belinda Afriyie?”

“My woman,” Massimo replied without hesitation or embarrassment. “Would you not agree?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t hang around for me to make a full assessment. She’s not Mary Alice.”

“I know.” The relief in his voice was unmistakable. “How many men are fortunate enough to receive a second chance? In any event, let us return to the topic of your delightful young woman.”

God, sometimes Massimo was like a dog with a bone. “Your progeny poisoned me. She drove me home. That’s all.”

“You are lying,” his brother said, and—damn him—there was a grin in his voice. “She was permitted inside the fortress.”

“Did you want something else, Massimo? I need to work.”

“No. Nothing else. I am here when you are ready to tell the truth.”

“To you? The master of artifice? I’ll pass that to the left,” Durante sneered. “Call me when Belinda has you chained somewhere repenting for your sins.”

“Ciao, Durante,” Massimo said, laughing.

He hung up and picked up the rest of his breakfast muffin. He’d had no idea he had poppy seeds in his pantry. Ella really was talented. He wished he knew what he could give to her. Without that, he doubted she’d give even the smallest part of herself to any man.