Congratulations to Gladys. Winner of ecopy of book of choice.
Thank you for attending the TRS party on 23 October.
Congratulations to Melissa Crisp. Winner of ecopy of book of choice.
Thank you for attending the TRS party on 23 October.
An old fashion bodice ripper. Published by Books We Love. Leave a comment for a chance to win an e-copy of one of my novels.
American wild west versus Australian frontier
In colonial Australia, a feisty American beauty challenges a rugged frontier man.
Only a fine line divides love and hate, and when the hero and heroine step over it they create a firestorm of passion and betrayal.
1860’s North Eastern Victoria, Australia.
“Bloody fool.” Luke Campton stepped forward as the driver hauled in on the reins to pull up the Melbourne stagecoach. The horses’ sides heaved, sweat glistened on their coats and flecks of foam clung to the harnesses. They had been driven hard under the whip. No need for such cruelty. If any Campton employee had showed such little regard for an animal, he would be dismissed.
With any luck the English letter he had been waiting months for would be amongst the mail. He flicked a cursory glance at the young female passenger as she alighted, but when she stepped away from the coach and he could see her full on, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
What a beauty. A swathe of flame-colored hair had escaped from the confines of her green bonnet and drifted across one milky white cheek. As he gazed into her fiery emerald eyes, his heartbeat escalated. He surveyed her now, making no attempt to disguise his admiration. She had undone the top two buttons on her gown, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of smooth creamy flesh. What he saw he liked.
Jo Saunders returned the tall stranger’s intense gaze. What a splendid specimen of arrogant, proud manhood. His snug fitting brown moleskin trousers accentuated his long legs and strong masculine thighs.
His charcoal grey eyes were bold, assessing. Full, sensuous lips parting into a smile softened his ruthless features. He wasn’t classically handsome. His character-filled face, like the front cover of a well-read book, appeared worn and jaded.
How would it feel to have those hot lips pressed against her own, to taste their fiery passion? Was she mad? The sun must have addled her brain. She shook her head to clear it. Well brought up young women did not think of men in such a wanton fashion. Her genteel mother would have had a fit of the vapors. As for her father, he might have been a military man, but this kind of boldness from his only daughter would be abhorrent to him.
Of course, her nerves were shredded. She had just survived a stagecoach hold up hadn’t she? The driver had driven like a man possessed then dumped her in the middle of nowhere. No wonder she had these wicked fantasies.
“No need to have driven those horses so hard,” the tall man said curtly.
His voice sounded surprisingly well educated, and she nodded her approval. Strong men who cared for the well-being of animals had always appealed to her. And this man made her heart flutter like a bird in a gilded cage.
“Any mail for Luke…”
“I know who yer are.” The driver scowled. “Bloody bushrangers held the coach up near Riley’s Crossing. Damn lucky they didn’t get yer mail.” He pulled a bundle of letters from inside his waistcoat and flicked through them with grubby fingers.
“They stole my money, too,” Jo fumed.
The Las Vegas Mayoral race is heating up, and the incumbent doesn’t have a prayer. Wealthy real estate speculator Nick Campenelli, who wants to legalize prostitution in Clark County, and former pastor Louis St. Louis, running on a ‘clean-up-Vegas-by-getting-rid-of-the-whores’ platform, are the front runners.
They’re also front runners on the suspect list for a string of murders. Kennedy O’Brien, four-year detective with cop blood running in her veins, and her partner Wilder “Wild Thing” James, a veteran, are determined to find the man who’s murdering prostitutes who work the wrong side of the street, and they don’t care how important or politically active he is.
The killer is a man with a mission. He stalks the women before he kills them, leaving a “BEFORE” photo on their bodies, and sending an “AFTER” shot to the local news hound. Ed Hershey, an aging newscaster with just the right amount of grey in his hair, is determined to turn this story into a network gig, and his interference, along with the LVTVS legal team, are making Kennedy and Wilder look bad. Campenelli’s good looks and charm, and St. Louis’ vitriolic hatred of prostitutes are muddying the waters too, and now the killer seems to have taken a liking to Kennedy.
“Ms. Riggs did a good job of peppering the setting in the prose for a nice taste of the local flavor.”
–Black Sun Reviews
“A fast paced mystery.”
–Amazon Reader Review
“Kept my interest all the way to the end.”
–Amazon Reader Review
“Would read this author again in a heartbeat.”
–Amazon Reader Reviews
The Lost Clan, Book 3
Red Hawk’s most precious childhood memory is of a single morning with a girl whose beauty seemed lit from within with magic. Now, years later, she could very well hold the key to a centuries-old curse—but when his visions lead him to her again, no recognition lights her eyes.
At age twenty-five, Effie Rutledge has missed her chance for marriage, but the daughter of a renowned archaeologist would rather get her hands dirty on a dig than cleaning up after some man.
She is determined to finish her father’s quest to recover four precious artifacts that could free a lost clan from a half life in the mists, but with her expedition reported as jinxed, there are no guides to be had. Except one tall, enigmatic native who draws her as naturally as water flows to the sea.
Even when memories reconnect, they struggle to trust each other. Worse, their once-in-a-lifetime passion risks the Thunder god’s wrath—and the future of the entire Lost Clan.
This book has been previously published.
Within the pages of this book is an all-consuming passion, so deep, so sensuous, it might cause you to want to spend the night in a loved one’s arms.
Copyright © 2014 Karen Kay
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
An archaeological dig along the Missouri River
Wolf Creek, Montana Territory
Eyes wide open, eight-year-old Effie Wendelyn Rutledge quietly flipped over in her makeshift bed, her attention centered on the two adults who were crowded close together. Their voices were hushed as they spoke, quite difficult to hear because of the fire that crackled merrily outside their tent. It caused Effie to concentrate all the harder. Holding her breath, she pulled the covers over her head, remaining as silent as possible. In truth, she feared if she uttered a sound—any sound—she would miss something vital.
On the far side of the tent, Effie’s mother, Alice Rutledge, and her dearest friend, Wilma Owens, reposed in a corner. As Effie peeped out from beneath her covers, she saw that the two women appeared to be dozing, unaware of what was being said.
Beside Effie lay Lesley Owens, a girl four years her senior. Lesley was also asleep, and this fact was odd, since it had been Lesley’s idea to stay up and listen to the adults.
Outside, in the distance, a coyote howled, an owl hooted and the incessant wind wailed through camp, adding more distraction to Effie’s quest in eavesdropping. The wind was another oddity out here, for it never ceased, and the sounds of its gusts reminded her of a person, as though the air itself were alive and conversing in a language all its own.
On that thought, Effie sighed and stared at the darkness beneath the covers. The shadowy vision that met her matched the mood of the night, for the blackness outside their tent lent an atmosphere of foreboding. Perhaps it was because there was no moon.
Though many children might fear the murky aura of evening, not so Effie. This was her family, this her life, and she considered herself as much a student of archaeology as anyone twice her age. Vaguely—if she tried really hard—she could hear her father’s soft voice. She concentrated…
“It happened,” her father, Walter Rutledge, said, “so long ago and is so completely mysterious that no one knows if the legend of the Lost Clan is fact or fable.”
“Yet, you must believe it to be true, Rutledge,” replied John Owens, Effie’s father’s best friend, colleague and Lesley’s father. “Otherwise, we would not be here now.”
“Aye,” agreed Effie’s father. “That I do. As I have already said, a figurine was given to Trent Clark, whom we know was a highly skilled conservator. It was he who restored the piece to its original luster before his untimely death—”
“Only a few years previous, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” said Rutledge. “That it was.” Walter Rutledge became silent for so long that Effie feared her father might not continue. But in due course, he began again. “Clark not only entrusted the piece to my care, he gave me reason to believe the legend might be true. In particular there was an old Indian whom Clark had interviewed—a man who had lived to see an entire group of people restored to flesh and blood. According to Clark, that old Indian had witnessed a people appear out of a heavy mist.”
“Humph!” said Owens. “Have a care, my friend, where you place your trust, and perhaps your credibility. If you seek my opinion, I believe you are speaking of things too fantastic to be accepted. Legends are good for telling on a dark night such as this, but to put one’s faith in them…”
“That be a bold statement you make. And I am not sure I agree—”
“You must realize,” interrupted Owens, “that as archaeologists, we are interested only in facts, and the Indians embrace all sorts of bizarre ideas, all of them attributable to a supernatural consciousness. Yet what proof do we have that such notions exist?”
Rutledge sighed. “And what proof have we that they do not?”
Owens paused. “Touché,” he offered up at last, but there was a smile in his voice.
After a time, Rutledge must have come to terms with whatever notions Owens was trying to impart, for Effie’s father laughed, then said, “I would ask that you pay me little mind. Perhaps there is a bit of witchcraft in the air this night, and it is this that makes me speak so. For in truth, your arguments against such a thing are sound. Scientifically sound. And yet I cannot help but notice that, though you caution me, you are here with me now.”
Owens hesitated. “Yes, that I am. But after all, I cannot be letting you have this dig all to yourself, now can I?” Once more, there was amusement in Owens’s tone. “I may not believe the legend, but I’d like to, and if there’s any adventure to be had in a dig, you know I will be there with you.” Owens paused a beat. “Do you have the piece with you?”
“No,” said Rutledge. “I have placed it in a sealed box, safely stored away, for it is made not only of quartz, but of solid gold. To be sure, there may be other natural elements occurring in the piece, but if there are, they are not to be seen by the naked eye, and are certainly not in the majority.”
“Who do you suppose made the thing? The Indians?”
“Perhaps. But in my experience, the Plains Indians do not value gold like those people who are to be found way to the south of us, in Mexico.”
“Aye, that it is. I do have a theory, however. Consider this,” said Rutledge. “If the myth is to be believed, then according to legend, it was the Creator who made the images.”
“The Creator? More legend?” Owens let out his breath, as though in disbelief. “My friend—”
“More legend to be sure,” Rutledge continued. “For the Thunderer had four children who were killed. Now, Clark told me on his deathbed that he believed the Creator would not let the children die, but rather placed the spirit of each child into the gold of these rocks, there to await a time when a hero would come forth to gather them up and to place them all together again. There were four in all, and it is said that when the four have come together as a set and when they are given back to the Clan, the Clan will be freed.”
Owens hissed, the sound reminding Effie of a snake. Who was he, thought Effie, to be so rude?
“It’s not really so odd,” continued Rutledge. “The images, after all, look as though they could be the Thunderer’s children. Half bird, half human. And they are intricately made.”
A lengthy silence ensued. After a time, Owens asked, “I think I would like to hear the legend once more, if you would humor me.”
At those words, Effie grinned. This was what she had been waiting to hear. This was why she was still awake, even when her friend was not.
Not daring to move lest she be discovered, Effie settled in to listen. At last she was rewarded, for her father began, “In a time so long ago it has been forgotten, a clan killed the children of the Thunder god. It is said that this act was done because of the Clan’s greed for more food and more power than it would need to simply survive.
“Now, the Thunderer in Native American mythology, you must remember, is an angry god. He is a god of revenge, of sudden death, of lightning and thunder. But he is also a god of bodily lust. And so in retaliation for the Clan’s deed, the Thunderer stole some women from the people, three or four, then began to wage war on the entire tribe. He might have killed all within the Clan too, but for the Creator, who intervened on the people’s behalf.
“‘Nay, they shall not die,’ the Creator had said.” Walter Rutledge’s voice was dramatic and lent the story a believable air. “But though the Creator spared their lives, the Clan was to pay for their murderous crime. And pay they did, with their very existence…their eternity. Thus began the tribe’s plight, for the Creator banished the people to live in a mist, or a very heavy fog. It was an unearthly world, not real or substantial, and the Clan was trapped there, may still be trapped there, neither dead nor alive. But the Creator is nothing if not a god of justice, and he bestowed upon the people a chance to end the curse.”
“Oh? And what is that chance?” asked Owens skeptically.
“It is said that within each generation—about once every fifty years or so—the tribe emerges from the mist that binds them, but only for a single day. However, on that day, a boy is chosen from each band in the tribe. This boy is charged with the duty to go out into the world, to grow up within another tribe so he might learn of the world that is now in existence, so he might have his chance to try to undo the curse.”
“And you believe this? That the Creator,” Owens jeered, “would be putting such a responsibility onto a young lad? It would be quite an undertaking for a youngster, no doubt.”
“Indeed,” said Rutledge, “you are right, especially since the only clue given to each of the boys is that he must show kindness to an enemy, offer help to a foe. Now, many have tried to undo the curse…” Rutledge lowered his voice dramatically, “…but according to the legend, most have died in obscurity, shamed at their defeat.”
Silence ensued after this statement, broken only by the fire’s crackle and sputter. It was some time before Owens spoke up. “How is it so that these few have died in shame?”
“Apparently the chosen boy has only until his thirtieth birthday to reverse the curse. If he has failed in his quest by then, he will live out his life, still flesh and blood, but forever carry the knowledge that he failed his people. Most of those chosen—so goes the story—have died trying.”
Utter quiet followed in the wake of this explanation, and then Owens asked, “Is it so hard to show an enemy mercy?”
“It does seem incredible, does it not? I can only suppose there must be more to the undoing of the curse than simply this, for of course it would appear to be such an easy thing to do. But there is more.”
“Aye,” said Rutledge. “I have said nothing about this last, not even to my dear Alice, for I fear that I find it too incredible to be believed.”
“Too incredible for you?”
“It is so.” Again, Rutledge hesitated, and Effie held her breath. Her father, still not knowing of his young audience, went on to say, “My dear friend, Trent Clark, mentioned that the tribe reappears in the flesh for one day about every fifty years—once a generation.”
“So you have said.”
“And if his calculations were correct,” continued Rutledge, “it would be about now that the tribe might reappear.”
“Aye, the people would become real again—for only a day. And if that be so, and if we can but see them, talk to them, it would be the first time in history that someone in our world has seen these people. Imagine…the present day coming into personal contact with the living past. Imagine what we might learn.”
Owens let out his breath in a loud slur, which sliced through the air, magnified because of the silence of the night.
Though the action might have been meant to put Rutledge off, it did not have that effect, for Effie’s father continued. “We are here at the right time and in the right place. It could happen.”
Effie caught her breath then placed her hand over her mouth in an ineffective attempt to block out the noise of her gasp. The sputtering of the fire must have hidden her mistake, for the two adults seemed oblivious to anything but their own conversation.
It could happen. The idea was mysterious, and even eight-year-old Effie could envision the outcome, the honor, the excitement of such a thing.
It was a long time before Rutledge spoke again. “Can you imagine what a find it would be to discover those people?”
“Aye,” agreed Owens, “that it would be. But who would believe us…you, might I ask? If the Clan only surfaces once a generation, and then disappears just as quickly?”
“Humph!” replied Rutledge. “Is it so important to be believed? Think for a moment of the opportunity if it were true, think of the questions we might ask those people, the knowledge we might acquire.”
“Yes, it would, indeed, be an unusual find. But we are not here to locate a live people. We are here to determine the past of this place and to find those artifacts. If it is a truth that the Lost Clan comes to light in this location, we will find evidence of it.”
“But, don’t you see? They would be of the past…and of the present.”
Effie’s father seemed unaware of his colleague’s displeasure. “Come, and let us go away to our beds. I believe our wives and our children are already fast asleep, and we must be up at the first light. Not only is there the history of a people to uncover, there is a chance we might discover them in the flesh.”
Owens laughed, but it was not one of pleasure. “I cannot say you have convinced me, but I am willing to believe in you, and since you judge that this is so, who am I to refute you?”
Effie heard the two men laugh. She could even imagine that they shook hands. Excitement twisted through her young body, making sleep all but impossible.
Turning over, she gazed at Lesley. Too bad the elder girl had missed the story. But Effie felt certain that on the morrow Lesley would taunt her until the entire thing was told.
Maybe she wouldn’t relate it.
The thought made Effie smile, since it was exactly what Lesley would do were their positions reversed. Effie yawned and, with the resilience of youth, soon drifted off to a dream filled with adventure.
Groomed for a life amongst the English aristocracy, Lord Erroll Rushton is unexpectedly thrust back into his father’s Scottish world when the Englishwoman he compromises refuses to marry him.
No gentleman breaks into a lady’s bedchamber…but then, no lady sleeps with a pistol under her pillow.
Miss Eve Crenshaw will marry for love or won’t marry at all. When London’s most notorious rakehell breaks into her bedchamber in the dead of night and compromises her beyond repair, Eve plans a daring escape that shocks even the Earl.
Eve’s heart leapt into a furious rhythm. The hidey-hole was wide enough to accommodate Lord Rushton’s broad shoulders, and long enough for them to squeeze in together. Nothing more. Eve inhaled a breath, then stopped at his hiss of breath.
“Miss Crenshaw, I will ask you not to move,” he whispered.
Her pulse skipped a bit. “I-I do not hear anything. Maybe they did not come into the room.” Please, God, she prayed. But the moment the prayer passed from her lips, a woman squealed on the other side of the panel.
Eve gasped. Lord Rushton clamped a hand over her mouth. He bent slightly and she felt warm breath wash over her temple as he whispered,
She nodded—as much in a fervent plea for him to quit touching her as to indicate her understanding. His hand dropped away. A male voice murmured something in the room and Eve wanted to cry. Someone had chosen this room for an illicit interlude. How long would they stay? If she and Lord Rushton were caught, her father would personally escort them to Gretna Green for a quick marriage. But almost worse than that, the heat that radiated off Lord Rushton threatened to melt her on the spot.
The tension in her back was working its way up her shoulders. She shifted. He seized her hips. She jerked and banged her elbow against the wall. He cursed softly. Her heart hammered harder. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t an untried maiden. What she and Blane had done was far worse than being squeezed into a hiding place the size of a rabbit hole. So why did being wedged in with Lord Rushton have her ready to jump out of her skin? The man’s muffled voice was followed by a woman’s moan.
Eve became suddenly aware of the steely bulge pressing against her belly. Her legs weakened and she felt her knees give way. Lord Rushton jammed an arm behind her and caught her by her buttocks.
Eve squeaked and batted at his shoulder. He gave her a shake. She understood the rebuke and buried her face in his chest. The thump of his powerful heart against her chest made her head spin all the faster and she seriously feared she would swoon.
His free arm slid around her shoulders and he stroked her back. Her heartbeat slowed. Despite the pressure of his fingers gripping her buttocks, her panic lowered to a simmer. Then she became aware of his chin resting on her head. The hand beneath her derriere slid upward over the curve of her buttocks in what she almost swore was a caress. A shiver ran up her back. Eve drew in a stuttered breath, and released it when his embrace relaxed. The woman moaned louder and Lord Rushton’s arms tensed. Another moan followed. The man said something indistinguishable.
“More,” came the woman’s hoarse plea.
Eve swallowed against a dry throat. The bulge digging into her stomach seemed to thicken. Was that possible? A grunt sounded from the room.
The man? Eve fisted Lord Rushton’s lapel. Her stomach tightened and an ache began to thrum between her legs. The woman grunted—or had it been the man? Eve’s breath quickened, but it seemed Lord Rushton had become a statue. Then he shifted. Eve instinctually lifted her head. Her head brushed his jaw.
Soft female cries filtered into the hidey hole. Lord Rushton moved and Eve realized he was looking down at her. She became aware of a tiny displacement of air near her face, then his lips nuzzled her temple. A languid shiver slid down her spine. He pressed his warm lips against her cheek and she realized he was going to kiss her. As the thought formed, his mouth covered hers.
Eve’s head swam. She was vaguely aware of the woman’s murmured pleas. Lord Rushton touched his tongue to her lips. Eve gave a small gasp of surprise and his tongue slid inside. His hand skimmed down the curve of her buttocks, then his long fingers cupped her bottom again as he flicked his tongue against her tongue. The rhythm was strange…erotic, and she was startled by the thought of his hips thrusting against hers in tandem with his tongue.
He moved his mouth on hers and she couldn’t repress a tentative thrust of her tongue against his. His fingers squeezed her buttocks and she jerked, digging his member deeper into her flesh. He groaned, the sound deep and masculine. Heat coiled in Eve’s stomach and radiated downward. Lord Rushton’s grasp on her derrière tightened as he undulated his hips and rubbed his rod against her.
It hadn’t been like this with Blane. He had made her feel cared for, feminine, but he hadn’t lit a fire that centered—Eve pushed at Lord Rushton’s chest. His mouth froze on hers. Her heart thrummed in unison with the beat that had taken up residence at the intimate point between her thighs. She had to stop, had to think…
Lord Rushton drew back. Eve collapsed against his chest, and he once again rested his chin on her head. They stood, unmoving, until his heartbeat slowed and Eve became aware of the silence in the room beyond. Had the couple departed? She leaned away from the earl and he straightened. She lifted on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his jaw. He shuddered and she froze. Holy God, she couldn’t reach his ear.
Like to read a good old fashion bodice ripper? Published by Books We Love. Leave a comment and go in the draw to win a download of one of my novels
Raw sexual emotion, revenge and redemption. If you want a sugar-coated romance, Savage Possession is not for you. In colonial Australia it took hard men like Martin Mulvaney to tame a harsh land.
A sweeping tale of love’s triumph over tragedy and treachery in frontier Australia.
A mistaken identity opens the door for Martin Mulvaney to take his revenge on the granddaughter of his mortal enemy.
An old Scottish feud, a love that should never have happened, and a series of extraordinary coincidences trap two lovers in a family vendetta that threatens to destroy their love, if not their lives.
Here’s another excerpt from Love’s Intensity to finish off the first day of this fun party.
Nina studied Julio while he watched Kressa during her riding lesson. When Brad led Kressa into the forest, Julio turned to Nina and barked, “Where is he taking her? I don’t like that boy. He’s not trustworthy. If he touches my girl…”
Nina interrupted, “He won’t touch her. He has strict orders from his father.”
“Nina, he’s a young man with an active libido. I don’t care what his orders are; he can’t be trusted to control what comes naturally. Now, he’s alone with her and under the cover of those trees,” Julio fumed.
“Julio, Kressa is a smart girl. She knows what we’ve taught her, what we expect. Even if he tried something, she would push him away.”
“But only if she doesn’t want him, Nina. He’s strong, good looking, and the only boy around to talk to. I’m going over there.”
“Please wait a few minutes. If they’re not back, then go, but please don’t hurt him.”
“You would elevate him over our daughter’s innocence?”
“No, Julio, of course not. I just don’t want you to do something you can’t return from. I love you.”
Julio shook his head and moved away from her. He must hate me for bringing him here. What can I do to change his mind?
Blog Site: http://cassandraulrich.blogspot.com/
Amazon: Author Page
I’m excited to be taking part in the Spookapalooza again! I’m going to kick off with a spooky PG excerpt from my erotic romance short story, Timeless Desire, which is available for just $0.99/77p!
I’d also like to invite you to an event which is taking place on the 31st October on Facebook. Join the Shivers and Tingles party for spicy Halloween fun, prizes and much more!
Emily worked in peace for a little while longer. Then she felt a slight draught on the back of her neck. Carefully placing down the book she was working on and fidgeting in the chair, she moved her head from side to side and up and down, as if to erase the odd feeling. She forgot it almost instantly, until a few seconds later, it came again. It felt as though someone was blowing on the back of her neck. Emily shivered, both at the sensation and the creepy thought that had entered her mind. Goosebumps crept over her entire body, and the third movement of air made her jump up out of the chair and spin round to face the source of the mysterious draught.
There was nothing there. Emily rolled her eyes. Why on earth was she getting like this? She’d worked in dozens of rooms like this, perfectly alone, and not once had she freaked out. Why now? When her gaze fell on the window, she rolled her eyes again. Of course. Old houses like Westbury more often than not had panes of glass which didn’t fit into their frames properly, or they’d slipped, been damaged. The draught was coming from the window. Emily crossed the room to the window, drew the curtains—she’d open them again before she left, and Mrs. Thompson would never be any the wiser—and sat back down again. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, Emily continued working on the book she’d just abandoned, quickly becoming absorbed in her task once more.
A noise from over by the ladder startled Emily, making her jump and almost jab herself in the eye with the end of the brush she was using. Turning, she saw that the photograph she’d righted earlier after its little mishap was once more lying down. She’d obviously not fixed the stand properly. Downing tools, Emily stomped across the room, cross at the seemingly endless interruptions, and grabbed the photograph. She checked the stand to make sure it held firm, then wagged a finger at the man in the image.
“Just you behave. I’ve got too much work to do to put up with your shenanigans, if you don’t mind.”
She didn’t know she’d spoken out loud and giggled at the realization, stopping abruptly when it hit home just how peculiarly she was behaving. This place was making her crazy, she decided, which could be catastrophic considering she hadn’t even finished one shelf of books yet, and she had considerably more to do. If this weirdness carried on, she’d be a wreck by the time the job was done.
Shaking her head again, Emily walked back to the desk and sat down. She resolved to knuckle down, get the first shelf completed and call it a night. Hopefully a decent amount of sleep and a session with her vibrator would make her feel more herself and mean she could put this idiotic behavior behind her and return to Westbury tomorrow with her sensible, hard-working head firmly screwed on. She hoped so, anyway, because this simply wouldn’t do.
Emily was able to finish cleaning the first lot of books without any further interruptions. She heaved a sigh of relief and swapped her book cleaning tools for her shelf cleaning tools. All she had to do was clean the empty shelf, replace the books, put the library back to how it had been when she’d started and be on her way. Tomorrow was another day, she mused, and she was determined it was going to be much more productive than this one.
She’d just put her feet back onto the floor after her third trip up the ladder when she felt something touch her right leg, down by her ankle. She wore trousers, so if it had been some kind of insect it was doubtful she’d have felt it. Besides, it was moving up and down, as though stroking her. Still looking forward at the ladder and grasping its handrails, Emily was frozen in place. She couldn’t move, speak, scream or even bring herself to look around.
She’d never been so scared in her life. The stroking sensation crept higher and higher until it reached her hip. Finally, something in Emily snapped and she screamed at the top of her lungs, lurched away from the ladder and ran out of the library.
Driven by nothing other than fear and the urge to get away from the library, Emily tore down the corridor, deciding on the spur of the moment that she was going to go and find George. She had no idea where his office was, but it couldn’t be that difficult to find. However, before she’d gotten much farther, George rounded the corner into the corridor, jogging toward her. His expression was one of confusion and concern and when he reached her, he put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“Christ, are you all right? What’s going on? I heard you scream and came as quickly as I could.”
George must have been flipping the lights on as he did his rounds, as the corridor and the rooms beyond were all lit up. She thanked heaven for small mercies. With his all-black outfit, if Emily had come across George in an unlit room and not recognized him she’d have screamed again and not been held responsible for her fear-filled actions. Not that she’d have been able to do much damage to a man with his muscles.
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Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over 100 publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include several editions of Best Bondage Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica 2013 and Best Erotic Romance 2014. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies, and also edits for a small publishing house. She owns Erotica For All, is book editor for Cliterati, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9
DEVIL’S PLAYTHING – Frequent graphic sex scenes.
BLURB: All they have in common is sex and secrets.
Branded a traitor, Sir Giles Moncrieff was disowned by his family and his country. He now makes his fortune out of an exclusive club, where debauched men can live out their sexual fantasies.
Escaping from her brutal owner, Angel Smith finds solace in her skills as a circus acrobat.
Can two tortured souls find happiness together, or will their dark secrets tear them apart?
“Is he here tonight?” Angel asked frantically, too frightened to peek through the striped canvas curtain.
“Yeah, in the front row like the last two nights,” Louie said.
Angel leaned down to put herself at eye level with the little be-whiskered juggler. “Who is he?”
“Sir Giles Moncrieff, he owns an exclusive men’s club called the Devil’s Playground,” Louie said. “It’s a front for a high class brothel if you ask me.”
Dressed in diaphanous harem pants with a matching bolero top of pale blue trimmed with gold lace, Angel gnawed at her fingertips. “I…I don’t think I can perform tonight.”
“The show must go on,” Louie said. “No matter how we feel about Rolf dying, he always said that. We’ll be heading to York next week, and the likes of Sir Giles won’t travel too far away from the fleshpots of London.”
She hoped so. Please, God, she inwardly prayed. Make him go away.” She did not know why the dark haired man with the vivid blue eyes disturbed her. She put it down to the shock of Rolf’s death, but deep down knew it was something more.
Sir Giles belonged to the English aristocracy. Hatred churned in her breast as memories, suppressed for three years, suddenly surfaced. A shaft of cold fear shot down her spinal column.
She took several deep, steadying breaths and willed her hands to stop trembling. She could not let the circus down; she owed it to Rolf’s memory. He had saved her life, given her a home.
She scrubbed at a wayward tear. Thankfully, Grenadier, the white gelding she rode, knew the routine as well as she did. Putting two fingers into her mouth, she emitted a low whistle and within seconds her loyal steed appeared in the mounting yard behind the striped canvas curtain. Vince followed a step or two behind. He was a swarthy, overweight gypsy. His black hair hung in dirty rattails around his neck and she shuddered with revulsion. How could Rolf have such a horrible nephew?
She put her foot into his cupped hands and mounted Grenadier. Her flesh crawled when Vince ran his hand up and down her leg. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from slapping the leering, lecherous smirk off his face. And he actually thought she would marry the likes of him?
Sir Giles Moncrieff tried to curb his annoyance at having to sit and watch this pathetic excuse for a circus, but he desperately wanted to see Angel again
Published by: Pink Iris Publishing –