As a young 17-year-old, headed to college in rural New Hampshire, I could finally breathe. I grew up in Huntington, New York, on the north shore of Long Island, in the shadow of Manhattan’s museums, theaters, and art galleries. I soon learned I preferred the slower and less-populated life in New England. After earning a degree in Art Education, I stayed.

I gave up rocky north coast beaches for waterfalls and streams; skyscrapers were replaced with camping and painting landscapes in a small town. Eventually, I wrote this story.

With Every Kiss: an Opportunity Falls novel

Abigail Huntington, a successful Manhattan artist, is burned out, and is more comfortable wearing jogging attire, than dresses and heels. Bored by the city, and the jerks she’s dated, she needs to get away to paint beautiful and pricey landscapes, which is why she starts asking about New England campgrounds during her one-woman art show.

Mitchel Campbell, a corporate lawyer working for his father, wants to bed the pretty jogger he has watched for weeks. Recalling happier times in New England at his aunt and uncle’s campground near Opportunity Falls, he grumbles when he is ordered to attend an art show. He overhears a woman asking about campgrounds, and realizes she is the jogger. When he disappears minutes later, Abigail is left fuming. Meeting him again in a campground in New Hampshire is a coincidence…or is it?

Excerpt

Abby glanced at Mitch’s backside, bit her bottom lip, and stifled a groan. Wide shoulders and a narrow waist led down to a tight pair of jeans. She shook herself and decided to glance at the landscape instead. Mitch led them along a trail bordered by sweet-smelling pine trees and bushes filled with the fragrance of mountain honeysuckle. Frik ran ahead, barked, then returned to Mitch’s side.

“Frik, leave the deer alone. Abigail might actually like to see one.” Mitch stopped to let her catch up.

Her gaze followed his pointing finger. Nearly hidden in the trees, a deer nibbled on a branch. The delicate creature inspected the humans and continued to chew until the dog growled. In a flash, the animal bounded away with her white tail bobbing.

“How beautiful.” Abby stared, her gaze attempting to follow the doe. Awareness crept into her thoughts. When Mitch wrapped an arm around her, she gasped in surprise. When she immediately tensed, he quickly backed away.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

She glanced over at him. Fisted hands perched on his hips. He glared down at his feet and kicked a root. Ashamed at her edginess, she stepped closer and wrapped her arm around his waist. He raised icy blue eyes filled with questions.

“What’s next?” she asked.

He seemed to stumble to get the words out. “Let’s keep going.”

She smiled at him and his embarrassment. She was beginning to trust him, but bending to a man’s sexual urges couldn’t happen. Not here. Not now.

Why not?

Too many months of celibacy, sprinkled with dates with boring men, had pushed her into a sexless existence. Where was the fun in that?

*~*~*~*

Want to read more? Find all the Buy Links at:
https://nancyleebadger.blogspot.com/p/books.html

More about the Author

Nancy Lee Badger, formerly of Huntington, New York, has fond memories of growing up on Long Island. Her life changed when she attended college in New Hampshire. After meeting her husband at Plymouth State, and raising two handsome sons, Nancy moved to North Carolina where she writes full-time. Nancy is a member of Romance Writers of America, Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, Fantasy-Futuristic & Paranormal Romance Writers, and the Triangle Association of Freelancers.

Connect with Nancy Lee Badger:

Blog     Website     Twitter    Facebook   Goodreads     Amazon Author Page

Contest

*a personal note from Nancy: With Every Kiss: an Opportunity Falls novel was released November 3^rd. Since this is also my birthday month, I am giving away an Artist’s Assortment of Goodies. No purchase necessary, and it ends November 18^th.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that three of my five published contemporary romances take place primarily in the fall.

There’s something about this time of year, when the air gets a chill, the leaves turn, and swap sandals and swimwear for boots, sweaters and jeans. I love the smells, the foods, and fun— whether it’s lazy drive on sun-drenched backroads taking in the fall colors, or dressing up for Halloween.

As a kid, I dressed as a witch one year, a 1950s girl, another. In college, my costumes got a lot raunchier. One year several of my friends and I went as “Killer Bimbos from Outer Space.” We carried plastic ray-guns, wore mini-skirts, stilettos, Vulcan ears and inflatable boobs that transformed our modest B and C bustlines to epic proportions.

My only picture of the Killer Bimbo squad seems to have vanished, but I still remember the feeling of slipping into a sexy and outrageous disguise.

Recapturing that thrill was part of the fun of writing a sexy scene in my new release Shining Through.

Good girl heroine Tabitha, a well-known champion figure skater, goes to a dive bar in search of smokin’ hot Russian bad boy Daniil Andreev. Tabitha’s desperate to break out of her straight-laced public image and is (rightly!) convinced Daniil is the perfect guy to help her do it.

But as America’s wholesome blond ice princess, she can’t just march in and steam it up with sexy tattooed Daniil.

Her solution? A disguise, that transforms her into a blue-haired wild child, eager for a good time, and a man ready to show her one.

Enjoy this excerpt!

Heart pounding, she spun around, brushing his face with her synthetic hair. He stepped back, grinning a little as their gazes locked.

He wasn’t tall, which wasn’t unusual for a skater. But his well-defined upper body, tattooed arms and rock-star eyes made him look tough, cool and confident. She hadn’t a doubt he was good in a fight, and definitely not afraid of one.

She threw what she hoped was a sexy look. “Want to be on my team?”

“Sure.” He smiled and moved closer. “Which are we, stripes or solids?”

“Either. We made up our own game.” She leaned against the table and ran her tongue over her white frosted lips. “Whoever gets the most balls wins.”

He gave a low chuckle as he gazed into her eyes. “I’ll bet you play very well.”

“Actually, I’m quite new at it. But eager to learn.” She angled herself to show off her body, accented by a fitted black tank, and a red mini-skirt. His admiring gaze took in all her hard work in the gym. Even as he bent to take his turn at the pool table, his gaze lingered on her until the very last minute.

Pool balls collided with a sharp crack, and the solid-color green one rolled into a pocket at the opposite end. Tabitha licked her lips. “I like your technique. Maybe you could show me a few things.”

“Happy to.” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I’m Daniil. And you are?”

“Hildegard,” she answered. “Hildegard Snarski.”

“And people think Russian names are strange.” Peering at Tabitha, he followed her around to the other side of the table. “It’s funny. You don’t look like a Hildegard,” he said. “I think you look more like a Tabitha.”

Crap! He was onto her. She could either retreat in shame… or she could play the game. She looked up through her fringe of blue bangs. “Nope. Definitely not Tabitha.”

“I see.” His alluring sideways grin suggested he not only liked the game, he wanted to dial it up a notch. He gave a low chuckle and moved closer, so that his shoulder brushed against her bare arm. His nearness and the aroma of Polo Black filled her senses. “So tell me….Hildegard Snarski… is it true what I’ve heard about American women?”

She felt the familiar adrenaline rush that accompanied a daring leap. Usually it was a leap off the ice, but not this time. She twirled the square of blue chalk around the tip of the cue stick and blew away the excess. “Tell me what you’ve heard, and I’ll tell you if it’s true.”

He trailed his fingertip over her arm, whisper soft against her skin. “That they’re after a good time. No expectations, no strings. Just one night, and then goodbye.”

She blinked and her cheeks felt hot. Though she couldn’t possibly  date Daniil Andreev, the way he’d put the question front and center was disconcerting. “Is that what you’re after?”

He brushed the pad of his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip. And then his mouth was on hers, hungry and demanding, taking what he wanted.

She gripped the edge of the table, as his arm snaked around her, pressing against the small of her back. His tongue probed her mouth, triggering wild spirals of desire that blocked out the sounds of the bar, and awareness of people around them.

Blood pounded through her veins, and her core felt like liquid, soaking her panties, driving her wild. His warm breath against her ear sent shivers through her body.

“Want to get out of here?”

When the sweetheart of American figure skating falls for the bad boy of Russian figure skating, it puts her quest for Olympic gold on thin ice. Dirty Dancing meets Olympic figure skating in this sweet and sexy sports romance!

The Biggest Season of Her Career…

America’s sweetheart Tabitha Turner is on track to win figure skating gold in the Winter Games. Her family has sacrificed everything for her career, but the pressure is taking its toll. Burned out and living a lie, can Tabitha let off a little steam without melting the ice?

The Last Chance of His…

Russia’s bad boy of skating Daniil Andreev is determined to prove the toughest thing about him is his competitive fight. When Tabitha tempts him to help her take a secret walk on the wild side, he gives her a taste of the freedom she craves, never expecting that one unforgettable night could turn into something more.

Two Hearts on Thin Ice…

Chicago, Vancouver, Paris… the international figure skating season unfolds. Tabitha and Daniil compete and fall in love, but as the pressure mounts in a make-or-break season, can they set aside their painful pasts and spiral into a shining future together… or will their dreams shatter like thin ice?

At the Winter Games, the torch isn’t the only thing burning..

B&N | Kobo | Google Play Books | Goodreads
Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub | Website

I’ll be spending the day babysitting a very independent 4-year-old today. So, I won’t have a lot of computer or online time. In my absence, I’m leaving you some fun things to do! Enjoy! ~DD

A Puzzle…

This story’s coming next week. Have you ordered your copy?
Pre-order here!

* * * * *

A Question…

Do you like older woman/younger man stories? Or do you prefer the opposite?

* * * * *

An Excerpt…

The night Danny surrendered to her sensual appeal, Douglas had attended an out-of-town auction. Danny walked from the barn, saw the light shining from the narrow window, a shadow passing in front of the curtain, and he’d crept behind the large oak. The curtain had been parted, just enough for him to peek inside.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t linger, would just get a quick glance and be on his way. Satisfy his curiosity about her and leave her alone.

Maggie Dermott stood in front of her mirror, her blouse removed, both hands cupping large breasts over her functional white bra, massaging them as though they ached.

The sight of her partially disrobed had his body tensing hard, his groin filling quickly.

Her expression held him spellbound.

Pretty bowed lips parted breathlessly, her eyelids drifted shut, and then she reached behind her to unhook her bra.

When the garment slid away, he’d had his first full view of a woman’s mature breasts. Read the rest of this entry »

Thanks so much for having me on your blog today, Delilah!

I’ve always been fascinated and inspired by reading other author’s biographies. When I find a new author that I like, one of the first things I do is go to their website and read their about page to discover their story about how they got ‘the call’ (from their agent or publisher) or how they began to seriously pursue writing. It’s a bit like a fairy tale to me.

Most authors say they’ve always been writing since they could hold a pencil, and I’m no different. But while writing my recent release, EVIL SPEAKS SOFTLY, I thought, what if the relentless muse was more of a curse than a fairy tale?

My heroine in EVIL SPEAKS SOFLTY, Liv, is a successful author. Writing is the only thing she ever wanted to do. It’s all she’s ever known. Most of the women in her family were writers so it was a natural choice for her—or was it? Once she discovers that her success could be attributed to an ancient family curse she begins to question whether her talent to write is genuine.

Everyone has a story to tell. Even the dead.

They were never supposed to meet. Fame came easy for Liv by following in the footsteps of the female writers in her family. The cycle repeated for decades…until Liv changed the story. Her villain doesn’t like the revision—and he isn’t a fictional character. In his story, the bad guy always wins.

They were never supposed to find love. Liv never questioned her demanding nocturnal muse, or the strange incidents in her old, family home until she met Gage. His job was to watch her from afar, not reveal the truth about the curse and the stories of the dead. They’ve broken all the rules. Together they unravel secrets as they strive to stop the cycle. Liv’s ability to find love, and protect her loved ones, hangs on the fickle whims of the dead—and they’ve got nothing to lose.

Excerpt

“I met this strange man at the bar last night. He told me some really weird stuff.”

I paused. When she remained silent, I continued. “He said it was related to my writing.” She watched me with the fascination of one who desperately wanted to look away but couldn’t. As if a deer blinded to the oncoming headlights, she was fixated, trapped. “He said to talk to you.”

I searched her face. I knew my Grams. When resignation settled on her features a knot clenched in my stomach from either fear, or the excitement of validating Gage didn’t fabricate the story. Perhaps he wasn’t crazy.

Grams slowly closed her eyes and opened them again. “He found you?”

I nodded.

She turned to stare out the frosted window where the birdfeeder sat frozen over from the recent snow. “I can’t believe he took that risk. Watchers are never to approach the Recorders. It could totally upset the balance.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth.

When she used the same terms as Gage, my anxiety elevated. I expected her to deny his claims and then we’d laugh about the incident. “Grams, please tell me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I took a deep breath. “Some weird things happened last night. Occasionally I notice unusual things, but it’s an old house and I have an active imagination, but this time it scared me.”

Buy Links for Evil Speaks Softly:
Amazon | The Wild Rose Press | Barnes and Noble | Kobo | Google Play | iBooks 

About the Author

Maureen Bonatch grew up in small town Pennsylvania and her love of the four seasons—hockey, biking, sweat pants and hibernation—keeps her there. While immersed in writing or reading paranormal romance and fantasy, she survives on caffeine, wine, music, and laughter. A feisty Shih Tzu keeps her in line.

Amazon Author Page:
https://www.amazon.com/Maureen-L.-Bonatch/e/B00KHY1KK8/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
Twitter: https://twitter.com/mbonatch
Blog: https://www.maureenbonatch.com/blog/
Website: https://www.maureenbonatch.com
Newsletter:  https://eepurl.com/1AV4L
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/maureenbonatch/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/maureenlbonatch
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3103486.Maureen_L_Bonatch

An author’s work is never done. It sounds like a trite truism, but it is my life. For those of us who self-publish as well as working with New York (aka hybrid authors), this is especially true, because we have, essentially, multiple bosses tossing deadlines at us willy-nilly.

I’m basically running my own business, which, let’s be honest, is NOT what I signed up for. I am responsible for sending out invoices, paying vendors, auditioning voice artists, researching marketing strategies, and doing (shudder) math. I have to be on top of industry changes, know who is who in the field and try to keep track of what readers REALLY want. Oh yeah, and write, edit, package and sell my product. Meanwhile, all this is taking place on a merry-go-round that never stops changing. During an earthquake. In the middle of a tornado.

Beyond that…I have a life that I like to live sometimes. Meals I want to eat. A dog who wants her tummy rubbed. And a family who expects me to appear occasionally.

To make matters even more interesting, places like Amazon and Facebook frequently make arbitrary changes that seriously influence our ability to make a livable wage.

Is it any wonder authors often ask ourselves, “Why am I doing this again?”

I just got a real, hard-core down to earth reminder.

See, when I was a little girl, my pre-school teacher told my mother that I had a learning disability so horrible, I would never learn to read or write.

My mother—who was an Amazon Warrior of her time—did not accept that. She made it her goal to give me a love of books—though torture. Every night she read me one chapter (no more). I eventually became so frustrated to know what was going to happen, I learned to read. THAT is true motivation.

My mother was reduced to coming into my room every night to confiscate my flashlight.

And my emergency back-up flashlight.

Needless to say, I learned to read, though I am still (and always will be) severely dyslexic.

Can I have a shout out to the inventor of spellcheck???

So that explains why I love books, but why romance? Maybe because I read 2-3 romances a day when I was a blossoming young woman? Maybe because they are perennially satisfying? Maybe because I love the magic of bringing three souls together in a perfect love triangle?

Three? you ask.

Yes. Three. Not that I write ménage. (I don’t) The magic three are the hero, the heroine…and you. You are part of the magic. You are why I love to write, despite the frustrations and unfuns. (No pressure).

But there’s a little more to the story, if you will indulge me.

Why do I love Highlanders so much?

Because of her. That woman who refused to let me be labeled as a dummy. Who refused to let me fail. Who insisted on reminding me that I wasn’t weird (I was) but rather that I marched to the beat of my own drum.

My mother.

My mother, the Scot.

Directly descended from Mary Queen of Scots. A woman whose family hailed from Kinloch Rannoch. A woman who wore the Stewart Plaid every day. A woman who fought for me like a tigress.

My mom passed on the 20^th of September after a long difficult battle with Alzheimer’s. It was so hard saying goodbye, even though it was a blessing and a well-deserved rest.

When something like this happens, you look at your life and you ask yourself, why am I doing what I am doing? Does it matter? Is it enough?

If I can please one reader, I feel like it does. It is.

Thanks, Mom, for helping me find my passion.

Thanks for believing in me.

Thanks for giving me a way to reach others and (maybe) make the world a better place for a little while for that one reader.

For you.

*~*~*

Sabrina’s newest release is from St. Martin’s Untamed Highlander Series…And yes. It’s a Highlander…

The Highlander Is All That
by Sabrina York

Elizabeth St. Claire has always been hard to please. Dreaming solely of Highlander men her whole life, no prancing London Lord can stand a chance at winning her heart…

… But perhaps a Scotsman can.

Elizabeth watches intrigued as the Highlander of her dreams, a Scotsman named Hamish Robb, arrives to oversee her season at the behest of her cousin, the Duke of Caithness. Elizabeth doesn’t hide her feelings for the striking Scot. But Hamish, determined to obey his order to protect the St. Claire sisters, steadfastly rejects her every seducing lure.

Believing that the debutante Elizabeth deserves a better, wealthier man, Hamish continues to turn away from her affection, even though he doesn’t exactly want to. Can this Highlander Scot resist the tempting seductress’ attempts to win his heart?

Read an Excerpt!

He emerged in the kitchens and, after greeting the plump and friendly cook—and snagging a scone from the cooling tray—he followed her directions out into the garden.

Ah yes. This was what he needed. The scent of mown grass, a hint of flowers, fresh air, and sunshine. He turned his face up to the sky and soaked it in.

Granted, it was a watery sunlight, and it struggled to shine through the haze of coal dust, but it beat the hell out of a musty carriage. He strolled along the path, studying the immaculately trimmed hedges, perfectly arranged rosebushes, and the affected pond in the center of the garden.

Everything was prim, proper, and utterly controlled. How British.

He missed the wild heathers of the Highlands, the raw scraggly trees that clung to the cliffs of the coast, the cold breeze gusting from the sea.

While he had been honored that Lachlan had entrusted him with this mission—for it clearly was important to the duke to support this family he had not known he had until recently—Hamish hated being away from home.

He had a business to run and had been in the process of seducing the lovely widow Dunn when the duke’s summons had come. But when a duke commanded one’s presence, one responded.

Ah well. The lovely widow could wait.

Hamish stilled and the little hairs on his nape prickled as he caught the trail of a tantalizing song. Like a sailor called by a siren, he followed the sound. As he rounded a corner, a whimsical gazebo came into view. There, leaning against a column, was his angel…

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE OF THIS SCORCHING TEASER AND BE THE FIRST TO ENTER TO WIN THE HIGHLANDER IS ALL THAT TIARA! https://sabrinayork.com/the-highlander-is-all-that-untamed-highlanders-from-sabrina-york/

UPDATE: The winner is…Ann Q!

* * * * *

Hey there! I’m up bright and early today. What does that phrase mean, anyway—bright and early? It’s  dark as midnight outside at the moment. And you know, I stumbled over the “dark as midnight” too. I wanted to write “dark as fuck”, but figured you might not like that word outside of a scene where the F-word is definitely being used as a verb. The “dark as fuck” is a remnant of a relationship I had with an Irishman. He loved that phrase. Now, it slips far too easily off my tongue and fingertips…

So, there was absolutely no point to that opening paragraph. Hope you didn’t mind the meandering segues. I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those days. I have a shit-ton of editing to do today, and how will I be starting my day? I’m headed to the Pumpkin Days Festival, which a little nearby church in the sticks holds every year. The kids always love it, so of course, we have to go. Games, food, PUMPKINS.

Do you have big things planned for today? I have a suggestion! Read the excerpt below from Hard SEAL to Love, and tell me you’re not tempted to find a SEAL book-boyfriend!

Contest

Comment for a chance to win one of my Uncharted SEALs stories
PLUS an Amazon gift card!
Click on a cover to explore the series!

Hard SEAL to Love

Former SEAL, “Big Mac” McLane, is sure he earned all kinds of bad karma somewhere when his next mission with Charter Group is to guard the “Love Boat” and a pretty program director. Okay, so the cruise line is sponsoring a special cruise for wounded soldiers and their significant others—a great cause. Mac doesn’t doesn’t know a thing about spending time with “good” women, but Kylie Hammond is full of surprises. After the initial shock of meeting her, he feels like he has two left feet whenever she’s around. So he’ll do his job, keep it strictly business, fade into the background whenever she’s around, but Kylie seems to have other ideas…

Kylie knows the muscle-bound SEAL isn’t exactly gung-ho for his new assignment, and she isn’t exactly the “princess” he expected, but she can’t be more pleased. The big man’s the yummiest thing she’s ever seen, and coaxing blushes and glares from him becomes her favorite sport. Then someone aboard the ship is killed. The thing her charity most feared—a terrorist attack at sea—appears to be underway. Now, she has to trust Mac and his team to keep her wounded soldiers safe.

Read an excerpt…

Five hours later, Mac stepped through the entrance of the Hampton Inn. The lobby was a study in orderly chaos. Suitcases were lined up and stacked against one wall. Men and women, some in wheelchairs or walking with crutches and walkers, and missing limbs—some multiples—filled the space.

Mac tamped down a feeling of guilt for being able-bodied and whole as he walked through the throng, nodding now and then as he passed the veterans. He headed to the concierge and asked where he could find Kylie Hammond. After being informed which conference room Soldiers’ Sanctuary had commandeered to hand out welcome packets to arrivals, he headed down a hallway, relieved he didn’t have to push through a sea of bodies. He was ready to start this op. Sooner the better. Five days would fly by, and then he’d have the down time he needed to get his head on straight before the next assignment.

Stepping inside the room, he noted two long conference tables filled with plastic buckets of folders. Three elderly men manned the table.

One of them who sported a gray buzz cut and a surprisingly muscular build glanced his way. He lifted his chin in greeting.

Mac decided he was as good a place to start as any and strode toward him.

The old man held out his hand. “Joe Olinksy,” he said, in deep, loud voice. Then he leaned against the table edge and whispered, “You with Charter?”

Mac eyed him then glanced at his two buddies who were moving closer. His presence as part of the security team was supposed to be on a “need-to-know” basis.

Grinning, Joe waved a hand. “We’re part of your support. Eyes and ears only. We’re a little too long in the tooth to be the muscle, but we’re here to help. We’ll be staying in the stateroom next to yours.”

Skeptical that this band of elderly brothers could be of any service at all, Mac drew a deep breath and gave Joe’s two companions another look.

“This is Morty,” Joe said, pointing toward a thin man with a round, pot belly. “And that’s Sly.”

Sly smiled, and his teeth were blindingly white and little too large in his mouth.

“Ex-marines, 3rd Division during Viet Nam,” Joe said. “You a SEAL like Wiley?”

“Semper Fi,” Morty said, grinning.

Mac grunted, revising his original assessment. These guys had seen real action. “I’m looking for Kylie Hammond.”

“She’s out in the atrium,” Joe pointed toward the windows behind him, “getting a cup of coffee. She’s been manning the tables since dawn. And don’t worry about us. We can handle ourselves. After all our help on the last cruise, Poppy made sure to add us to the team. We’ll have your six.”

The three elderly men hadn’t been mentioned in any of the briefings he’d attended back at HQ. Wiley for damn sure hadn’t said a thing, but then again, Wiley had looked a little smug when he’d heard Mac was being assigned to protect his wife’s best friend. He cleared his throat. “Mac McLane by the way,” he said, giving a nod to all three men.

“We’ll see you aboard the Oceanus,” Joe said.

Mac left them and thought about calling Wiley to find out why the hell he hadn’t mentioned his geriatric buddies. Just to bitch because he was already dreading the coming minutes. He didn’t have a lot of experience with Ms. Hammond’s brand of womanhood. He’d served with women in the field, and slept with the women who swarmed bars outside Navy bases, hoping for a hookup with a SEAL.

Women outside those two categories tended to make him nervous. In his experience, women had served only two purposes, as support and/or stress-relief for a SEAL. Not that he looked down on them. He liked the women he’d known. But he hadn’t had to think much about what kind of impression he made or how to talk to them. He could be gruff and blunt. What the hell would he talk about for the days and nights he and the princess would be glued to each other’s sides?

Entering the atrium, he glanced around for someone who fit the picture he’d made up in his mind. She’d be pretty, no doubt. He couldn’t imagine anyone who was friends with Poppy Shackleford and attending her social functions looking any different.

Most of the small round, brightly tiled tables were filled with men and a few women. Probably wives of the wounded soldiers, who’d be accompanying their husbands on the cruise.

One woman sat alone, her head bent over her cell phone which lay flat on the tabletop, a tall Styrofoam cup beside it. Her hair was a mass of dark brown curls. Her body, what he could see of it hunched over the table, was slender. Her bare arms and the tops of her shoulders, revealed by an olive tank, showed well-developed muscles. She wore no jewelry, save for a watch on an olive-colored web strap. Faux military-issue? And now he wondered whether she was one of those who was so enamored of military men she wore cammo pajamas. He’d met a few like that. As he moved nearer, she must have sensed someone watched her.

The woman’s gaze lifted from her phone and locked with his.

As he took in her features, he slowed his steps. Wide-set green eyes whose gaze never wavered, tan skin, rose-colored lips, cheeks that were prominent and high. She was lovely, but didn’t wear a hint of makeup. She didn’t need it. Unbidden, interest flared inside him, heating his blood.

“Are you Mac?” she asked, her voice even and little husky.

His tongue felt thick as he gave a crisp nod and replied. “You Kylie?”

Her smile was a little tight, but she pushed up from the table to greet him, her arm reaching forward.

When he looked down at her hand, with its long fingers and short bare nails, his gaze dropped to her legs. Another shock stole his breath. She wore shorts which ended at mid-thigh, revealing one long, nicely turned limb paired with a shapely thigh that disappeared into the black cup of a prosthetic limb.

As an author, I get asked all the time where I get my ideas. Truth is, I get ideas everywhere—the news, TV, a dream, a snippet of overheard conversation…

A few months ago, I was pushing up against two deadlines. I needed a story for Elle James’s Brotherhood Protectors Kindle World launch, and I needed an idea for a short story for the Blue Collar anthology. I had covers for both and kept looking at them, hoping for inspiration.

Both have to-die-for covers, but nothing came to mind. Then one day, I was babysitting the 4-year-old across the road. When she went down for a nap, I began surfing the TV for something to watch. I paused on a show in progress—Rocky Mountain Bounty Hunters. Now, I never watch reality TV. I find it annoying. But the show caught me. Within ten minutes, I was reaching for my notebook and scribbling like mad. I spent the rest of the afternoon researching bounty hunting.

One reality TV show gave me the inspiration I needed for both books. In Big Sky SEAL, my heroine’s a bounty hunter with a tracking dog. For Blue Collar, I wrote a story about a bounty hunting duo who become “involved”. I had so much fun with those stories, I am now planning an entire Montana Bounty Hunters series! The first book releases in November.

Pre-Order your copy!

Today’s release, The Bounty, is the story I wrote for Blue Collar. I’ve also included pages from Reaper, just to give you a little taste of my hero. I hope you love bounty hunters as much as I do! And if you want more installments featuring Buttercup and Bulldog, just let me know…

Read an excerpt…

After we’d dropped Lenny at the jail, Bulldog remained silent as we drove.

My arm stung like hell, so I was fine with the quiet for the first while.

His expression was so dark, I didn’t dare try to make small talk. When he missed the turnoff to the agency, I straightened and darted a glance his way. His narrowed gaze swung toward me, daring me to say a word. I sat back, my heart thudding hard inside my chest. Just how pissed was he?

Twenty minutes later, we pulled onto a gravel road. Once we passed the first curve, I saw a single-story house ahead. Gray stone and wood. A metal roof. He reached up to hit a button above his windshield, and a garage door rose.

So, this was his house. He’d brought me home. But would he cut me into tiny pieces and feed me to the Rottweiler jumping against the fence, or was he planning to read me the riot act in private, because he intended to yell and didn’t want the world to hear?

I hoped for a third option. One where he pushed me face-down over the first piece of furniture we met and delivered his frustration in the sexiest way possible.

He pulled the SUV into the garage, hit the button to lower the door, and then turned to give me another glare. “Get the fuck inside.”

I was tempted to chide him about his tone. Not his words. I wanted to be the fuck inside…fucking.

Without a word, I slipped out of the truck and headed to the wooden stairs leading into the house. I stepped inside a mud room then through another door and into the kitchen.

Bulldog entered behind me and closed the door.

His hands grasped my shoulders and turned me toward the table.

My heart stuttered—was this the bending over part? No, he pushed downward, forcing me into a chair.

“Unwrap your arm.”

Disappointment turned the corners of my mouth downward. Slowly, because the shirt stuck to the bloody stripes, I peeled away the shirt while he headed toward the sink.

He ran water then pulled a washcloth from a drawer and wet it. Next, he strode back to the table, pulling out a chair to sit beside me. He laid the washcloth over my arm.

It was hot, and I winced.

“Got to soak the blood to loosen it,” he said.

His voice was softer but no less growly, and my pulse raced.

When he wiped away the smears of blood, he shook his head. “Should have let him go, Buttercup. These’ll leave scars.”

I raised my chin. “Would you have?”

He grunted and completed his task, then stood, opened a cabinet above the stove, and pulled down a first aid kit. After he’d rubbed antiseptic gel over my wounds, he wrapped clean gauze around my arm and secured it with surgical tape.

“Thanks.” I kept my eyes cast downward. “But I could have managed on my own.”

“I know.”

I lifted my head and found him studying me.

His mouth tightened. “You handled yourself well. I just didn’t like you anywhere near that shithead.”

“Oh.” And because I was feeling off-kilter, his change in demeanor sending my insides swirling, I did what I always do when I feel a little afraid. I brazened it out, giving him a slow, seductive smile and a wink.

Instead of putting him back in his bad mood, his reaction to my taunt was a narrowing of his green eyes. He glanced at my mouth then shot out a hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck to pull me toward him.

When his mouth slammed over mine, I gasped, giving him entry.

Bulldog might have been a big guy, but there was nothing lumbering or bearlike about his reactions. They were lightning fast. His tongue invaded my mouth, pushing past my teeth to stroke my tongue.

I gave a kitten-like mew, very un-me, and melted against him, my hand landing on his broad, bare chest, and my fingers tangling in his hair. Then he gripped my waist and slid me right off my chair onto his lap. Shock blasted through me at how much I liked the quick way he took charge.

He bent me backward, an arm around my shoulders. His free hand slipped between my legs and pushed against the damp denim, cupping me then squeezing my sex. “You’re fucking wet, Buttercup,” he rasped when he raised his head to let me breathe. Then slowly, daring me with his steady stare, he removed his hand from my crotch and cupped my breast through my clothing. “This okay with you?”

I managed a nod, and before I drew another breath, he went to his feet, with me in his arms, and strode through the house, past a living room filled with deep leather seating, down a hallway, and into a bedroom. His bed was enormous, an Alaska or a Wyoming-size King. He crawled onto the mattress on his knees and stepped toward the center before he set me down. Then he began stripping away my holster, my belt…my tee and bra…my shoes and pants. When the only thing I wore was a pair of bikini panties, he halted, backed off the bed, and began stripping off his own clothing, flinging each piece to the side while he kept his hungry stare on me.

But I wasn’t any woman waiting on a man to decide what happened next. I lifted my bottom, scraped down my panties, and threw them at his face.

Magnificently nude, he leapt toward the bed, diving toward the middle.

I rolled away, and just had my feet on the floor, when his arms wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me back against his body. He sat on the edge of the mattress and bracketed my legs with his thick thighs, then smoothed his rough palms over my skin, starting at my breasts then moving down my belly to my pussy. I squirmed in his arms trying to turn, but he kept me faced away as he felt me up, sending tingles through me.

Again, he cupped my breasts, and I felt his tongue slide from the center of my back upward, following my spine. Goose bumps prickled on my skin. My breaths grew short. Fuck, oh fuck. I wanted him. “Bulldog,” I said, shivering hard inside his embrace.

“Don’t fight me, Buttercup. Don’t move. Let me do you the way I have to.”

He turned me until I faced him.

I stood with my arms at my sides as he raked my body with his gaze. His for the taking, because I wanted to be taken.

I couldn’t resist dropping my gaze to his cock, so thick and straight, jerking against his belly to the beat of his heart.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” I whispered and shivered hard again.

He reached to the side, slid open a drawer in the nightstand, and pulled out a condom. With his lips pulling back from his teeth, he cloaked himself, then scooted backward on the bed and patted the mattress beside him.

I crawled toward him then lay on my belly beside him, hiding my face against the coverlet, because I knew my expression would give away just how badly I wanted this. I rubbed on the mattress, because my skin burned and my nipples ached.

He kissed my shoulder and climbed over me, his weight pressing me deep into the mattress as he fisted his hand in my hair and held me down, then slipped his legs, one at a time between mine, waiting for me to open to him.

When he rooted his cock between my legs, my breath shuddered out. His lower body scooped against me, rubbing against my ass as he teased me with the tip of his cock sliding between my slick folds.

His teeth dragged on my earlobe, and he whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you up, babe. Fuck hard and deep. You ready, Buttercup?”

I made a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. Ready? Never. But I quivered underneath him and strained to lift my ass, needing him to take me now.

With one hand still lodged in my hair, he lifted his hips and slid his free arm beneath my waist to raise my hips.

I braced on my knees, my belly barely off the bed, because that’s all the room he gave me, and then he was rutting against me, pushing between my folds, quick in and out slides, penetrating only a couple of inches.

“Don’t tease,” I said, hissing when he tightened his fingers on my hair. My scalp stung, but the pain only made the tension winding inside my core tighten more. Already, my lips were clenching, releasing, trying to capture his cockhead as he wet it in the fluid drenching my sex.

“You want this,” he whispered, pushing a little deeper then withdrawing.

Way past worrying about my pride, I whimpered. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“One thing, babe. One thing before I give it to you. Promise me.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. “Anything, just please, Bulldog…”

He nuzzled into the hair beside my ear. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”