A woman wants things like world peace, a clean house, and a deep and meaningful relationship based on mutual understanding and love. A man wants things like a Craftsman router with attachments, undisputed control of the TV remote, and a red Corvette which will miraculously make his bald spot disappear.
So while Christina was working as a draftsman, she would read during the lunch hour, go back to work to design a sawmill, and plot the conclusion of the story in her mind. The book never ended like that, and she liked her endings better. When her first daughter was born, she told her husband she was going to quit work and write a book. It was a good time to start a new career, because how much trouble could one little infant be?
Quite a bit, it seemed. It took ten years, two children and three completed manuscripts before her first novel, CANDLE IN THE WINDOW, was published.
In the fifteen years since, her novels have been translated into twelve languages, featured by Doubleday Book Club, recorded on Books on Tape for the Blind, won Romance Writers of America's prestigious Golden Heart and RITA Awards and been called the year's best by Library Journal.
Christina Dodd herself has been a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle (11/18/05, # 13 Down: Romance Novelist named Christina.) Christina is a regular on the USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and the New York Times Bestseller Lists. Publishers Weekly praises her style that "showcases Dodd's easy, addictive charm and steamy storytelling."
Christina's releases for 2008 include THIGH HIGH, the third in her hugely popular Fortune Hunter series, as well as the second and third of her new paranormal series, INTO THE SHADOW (July) and INTO THE FLAME (August). In February, her classic historical novel, PRICELESS, will be reprinted, repackaged, and on the shelves.
Christina Dodd is married to a man with all his hair and no Corvette, but many Craftsman tools.
For one magic summer, Genny Valente escapes to spend time as a wildlife observer in the untamed mountains. Little does she know that a beast more fearsome that any beast lurks in the forest…a man, one of the Chosen Ones, betrayed by his gift and tormented by his memories. John Powell has fled his fate and his duty, yet in Genny he sees his one chance for redemption. He will stalk her, kidnap her, love her as only a savage can. But when a new betrayal threatens, John must call on the powers he swore he’d never use again. Then only Genny’s love can save him…if she dares tame the one man she can’t live without…
“Hey, how come the men have to change the tire?” Calvin groused loudly.
During the four hour drive up into the mountains, Genny had come to realize he did everything loudly, and every sound exacerbated the pounding of her headache.
“It’s not like you’re doing anything.” Avni cast Calvin a dark look as she helped Misha place the aged and feeble jack under the fender.
Genny didn’t even think Lubochka knew she was standing behind her, gulping fresh air, until she said, “Genesis, sit down. You’re green.”
Great. Lubochka had eyes in the back of her head.
“Really, Miss Valente, go for a walk.” Reggie handed the iron to Thorsen. “We have enough hands spoiling the broth as it is. You’ll feel better with some fresh air.”
Thorsen grunted as he loosened the lug bolts.
Genny gave an embarrassed smile and fled up the narrow, winding mountain road.
“She’ll get lost, wait and see,” she heard Calvin say.
“Don’t go too far!” Lubochka shouted.
Genny waved a hand and walked around the curve.
They formed the foremost team of wildlife observers in the Russian Ural Mountains. They met in the summer and drove to the small village of Rasputye where they took photos and videos of the Ural lynx. They were three-quarters of the way there now, twilight turned the light a grayish-blue, and it would be dark when they got there. But as far as Genny was concerned, the flat tire had been a Godsend.
She had, disgracefully, been the one who got carsick on the trip. She hadn't actually tossed her cookies, but the dust of the road and the smell of the exhaust combined with the bumpy ride had nauseated her, and everyone in the van knew. Calvin had mocked her, of course. Avni had patted her hand. The men had offered encouragement. Lubochka had tersely told her not to vomit on the equipment.
Now Genny made her way to a fallen log a few feet into the woods, sank down and wrapped her arms around her knees.
Around her, tall trees lifted their branches to the sky. The woods were tall, deep and dark, and somehow Genny thought it smelled old … so old. Something drifted down to the forest floor, and Genny half expected to see that it was one of Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs. But it was a pine needle … no, two … no, three … shaken from the trees by the barest wisp of wind. Then the breeze died, and the silence was profound; the soil and trees swallowed every sound.
And someone was watching her.
The hair at the base of her skull lifted. She froze. Warily she looked around.
She saw nothing. Nothing in any direction. This feeling was her imagination… it had to be her imagination…
She did a double take.
Eyes. Pale blue eyes staring at her from the underbrush.
She rose, her gaze fixed on those eyes, a man’s eyes …
“John?” she whispered. And she did, the face that went with those eyes … faded into the twilight.
She was alone again, and all she could hear was her pounding heart.
Around the bend, the Volkswagen roared to life.
Genny backed up, her gaze flicking from tree to tree, trying to see where the man … it had been a man, she was sure … had gone.
She reached the road as the van drove up.
Behind her, someone opened the door.
“Get in, Genny! We’re late already.” It was Avni.
Genny pointed a shaking finger into the woods. “Eyes. Watching me. There … ”
“Oo, the yeti’s been watching her,” Calvin mocked. “Oo, she’s scared of the yeti.”
“No,” Genny said, “it’s not a yeti, it’s —“
And a forty-pound female cat with red fur and distinctive black markings strolled out of the brush, posed for a moment, its eyes fixed on Genny, then turned its back on the astonished group and slid back into the forest.
“My God, Genesis Valente.” Lubochka's voice shook with awe and reverence. “You spotted our first lynx of the season.”
# # #
John Powell rose from his blind in the underbrush, stepped out on the road, and watched the Volkswagen van chug away, spewing blue smoke out its rusted tailpipe.
The girl had seen through his camouflage, and that surprised him. He had been in Special Forces. He was so adept at camouflage wild animals, all unseeing, had bounded over the top of him.
But then, the girl herself surprised him.
Every year he came out to look over Lubochka's new team. He didn’t fool himself about his motivations. He came to make sure none of the Chosen Ones sneaked in to spy on him.
He wasn’t paranoid; he was realistic. He had signed a seven-year contract to work on a team of Chosen. He had left before his term was completed. There was nowhere on this earth he could run where they couldn’t find him. So sooner or later, they would come and demand his services. Because the Gypsy Travel Agency might serve a higher cause, but its board of directors were ruthless.
Without modesty, John knew he was one of most powerful Chosen in recent memory. Yes, sooner or later they would do what they could to force him to return. But first they would artfully scope out the territory. He figured Lubochka's team was the Agency’s best chance for sneaking up on him, so with a handful of metal debris on the road and the bald tires on Lubochka's van, he guaranteed they would break down.
For the third summer in a row, it worked. In past summers, all unknowing, they had talked to each other and he had listened. So far, no one by word or deed had ever made him suspicious. So far, he’d been lucky and the Gypsy Travel Agency had left him alone. That was the sensible reason for doing what he was doing.
The other reason wasn’t nearly as rational, but much, much more compelling.
He wanted to see Americans: men or women, northern or southern, white or black, he didn’t care. He wanted to hear them talk: in a Texas twang, in bland Hollywood English, in the sing-song cadence from Minnesota or the pinched speech of Boston. Usually, he was stoic about living in the Ural Mountains so close to Rasputye. He figured that exile was his penance and his punishment, and the only way to keep the world safe from the beast he had become.
Yet like a flagellant, he positioned himself to hear those cherished American voices, and whipped himself with the sound that brought loneliness and homesickness.
Seeing Genesis Valente had been a shock for which he’d been totally unprepared. For the first time since he’d started observing Lubochka's female Americans, he’d been attracted.
No, worse. He’d been enthralled—and he didn’t know why. Usually his women were beautiful, seductive, knowing. They might not choose him to begin with, but once they realized the pleasure he could give them, they flirted, tempted, laughed, met him halfway and more.
Nothing about Genesis’s appearance gave him reason to believe she was that kind of woman.
She was pretty. Not beautiful, but with the kind of face that caught and held his attention. A head full of dark, curly hair pulled back into a careless pony tail. A beautiful olive complexion, a cleft in her chin, and the most exotic golden-brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. They glowed in her face like coals burning with the kind of rosy hope and enthusiasm he only dimly remembered.
She couldn’t be for real. She just couldn’t be. Because simply seeing her made him feel.
Those events two years ago had cured him of emotions. He was hollow, empty inside, and if he started feeling sorrow or amusement or loneliness or joy, it would mean life was returning to his soul, like blood to a limb that had been frozen.
If there was one thing he understood, it was how painful that could be.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it. His power had been contained for so long. Better that it stay contained forever. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t trust himself.
Like a bear fleeing a swarm of mosquitoes, he shook his head and fled into the woods. But he couldn’t escape his thoughts.
What was he going to do when the Gypsy Travel Agency sent a representative to demand his return?
He didn’t know.
What was he going to do if Genny's golden eyes mirrored her soul, if she was truly a dreamer, bright and idealistic?
He didn’t know that, either.
He wanted her. He wanted to slide his hands through her dark hair, kiss her warm, tanned skin, ravish her, worship her, teach her how a man who had abandoned civilization made love.
Yet if she was real, if the warmth in her eyes thawed the ice in his veins … then he would have to leave her alone.
Because he would destroy her … as he’d destroyed all the rest.
Meet Doug Black—the Wilder brother who's been missing for centuries. With no idea of where he's from, he's become an angry young cop with the ability to transform into a cougar. in search of others like him, he comes across a beautiful woman who may hold the secret to his destiny...
1. Scandalous Again
2. The Greatest Lover in All England
3. One Kiss From You
Brilliant Rosamund Hill has lived her life buried in academia, discounting the legend of the Chosen as a myth... then Aaron Eagle shows up at her door. With the promise of a love that will defy fate itself, Rosamund is forced to confront the truth about the Chosen... and the dangerous man who sweeps her into a world of dark secrets.
"I'm looking for the antiquities librarian. I have an appointment. I'm Aaron Eagle."
"Yes, Mr. Eagle, I've got you on the schedule." The library's administrative assistant was gorgeous, lush, and smiled into his eyes as she pushed the book toward him. "If you would sign in here, and here. Then if you don't mind, we'd like your fingerprint. Just your left thumb."
"I'm amazed at the security to visit antiquities." Aaron pressed his thumb onto the glass set into the desk. A light from beneath scanned his thumb.
"The Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library antiquities department contains rare manuscripts and scrolls, and we take security seriously because of it."
"So if I made my living stealing antiquities, you'd know."
"Exactly."
"If I'd been caught."
"Thieves always eventually get caught. But you seem to be exactly who you say you are."
"I do seem to be, don't I?" He headed down the corridor, and as he walked, he peeled off his thumbprint and slipped the micromillimeter-thin plastic into his pocket.
The elevator was stainless steel on the outside and pure mid–twentieth century technology on the inside, and the mechanism creaked as it descended at a stately rate. But the funding for Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library didn't include upkeep on non-essentials like a new elevator for the antiquities department. They were lucky to have updated security, and that occurred only when it was discovered one of the librarians had been systematically removing pages from medieval manuscripts and selling them to collectors. He might still be in business, but Dr. Hall had been the antiquities librarian for about a hundred and fifty years and he caught on right away.
It was Dr. Hall Aaron was on his way to see now. When it came to ancient languages, the old guy was a genius, and he knew a hell of a lot about prophecies, religious and otherwise. Which was exactly what Aaron needed right now.
The elevator door opened, and he strode toward the metal door. He rang the doorbell at the side. The lock clicked, he turned the handle, and walked in.
Nobody was there. Whoever had let him in had done so remotely. The place smelled like a library: dust, old paper, cracking glue, broken linoleum, and more dust. Gray metal shelving extended from one end of the basement to the other, clustered in rows, filled to capacity with books. No one was in sight.
"Hello?" he called. "Dr. Hall? It's Aaron Eagle."
"Back here!" A voice floated over and through the shelves. A woman's voice.
They must have finally dug up the funding to get Dr. Hall another assistant. Good thing. The old guy could croak down here and no one would notice for days.
Aaron headed back through the shelves, and arrived in a work area where wide library tables were covered with manuscripts, scrolls and a stone tablet.
A girl leaned over the tablet, mink brush in hand, studying them. "Put it on the table over there." She waved the brush vaguely toward the corner.
Aaron glanced over at the table piled with Styrofoam containers and fast food bags wadded up into little balls. He looked back at the girl.
Her skin was cream, fine-grained and perfect, and that was a good thing, since she did not wear a single drop of make-up. She was of medium height, perhaps a little skinny, but with what she was wearing, who could tell? Her dress drooped where it should fit and hung unevenly at the hem. He supposed she wore it for comfort. He didn't know any other reason any woman would be caught dead in it. She had latex gloves over her hands -- nothing killed a man's amorous intentions like latex gloves -- and she wore brown leather clogs. Birkenstocks. Antiques. As the crowning touch, she wore plastic rimmed tortoise shell glasses that looked like an extension of the frizzy carrot red hair trapped at the back of her neck.
Yet for all that she was not in any way attractive, she paid him no heed. "Who do you think I am?"
"Lunch. Or" -- her glasses had slid down her nose -- "did I miss lunch? Is it time for dinner already? What time is it?"
"It's three."
"Rats. I did miss lunch." Lifting her head, she looked at him.
He did a double take violent enough to give him whiplash.
Beneath the glasses, dense, dark lashes surrounded the biggest, most emphatically violet eyes he'd ever seen.
Like a newly wakened owl, she blinked at him. "Who are you?"
"I'm. Aaron. Eagle." He emphasized each word, giving time between for the village idiot to absorb the name. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Hall."
"I've met Dr. Hall. You are most definitely not Dr. Hall."
"Oh." A smile curved her pale pink lips. "You knew Daddy. Dr. Elijah Hall. He retired." Her smile faded. "I'm sorry to tell you, but he died a few months ago."
"Dr. Elijah Hall was your father?" Aaron didn't believe her. Her "mentor," maybe, but Dr. Hall was way too old to have a daughter this girl's age. Aaron frowned. Of course, Dr. Hall was way too old to be a "mentor," too. "Where did he die? How?"
"On the Yucatan Peninsula. Of a heart attack. After he settled me into this job, he went off adventuring. Alone." The girl was grieved. Aaron could see that. She was also irked at being left behind.
The cynical part of him observed, "He left you in a good job."
"Nepotism. It's true." She lifted her chin. "I'm qualified for the job, but what cinched it for the library, of course, is that I'm cheap."
"Yes. I see that." He also saw she wasn't as unattractive as he'd first thought. Hidden under that dress, she had boobs, B, maybe C cups, some kind of waist, and curvy hips. She had good bones, like a race horse, and of course those amazing eyes. But her lips were good, too, lush and sensual, the kind a man would like to have wrapped around his -- "So let me get this straight. You are Dr. Elijah Hall's granddaughter?"
"No. I'm. His. Daughter." Now she spoke like he was the village idiot. "He married late in life."
"To somebody much younger."
"Not much younger. Ten years isn't much younger, would you say? Mama was forty-two when she had me."
"And you're twenty now?"
"I'm twenty-five. I've got a BS in archeology from Oxford and a graduate degree linguistics from Stanford." She waved at a desk overflowing with papers, artifacts and atop it all, a new Apple laptop. Her voice got louder and more aggravated as she spoke. "I've got all the papers in there if you need to see them. I've had to keep track of all that stuff because everyone thinks I'm twenty!"
"Obviously, we're all dolts."
"Yes."
He could tell it never occurred to her to deny it, or flatter him in any way. The girl was clueless about the most basic social niceties.
"When I was seven, my mother died in a cenote in Guatemala retrieving this stela." The girl waved her hand at the table.
He glanced at the stone tablet engraved with hiroglyphic-like characters, then leaned over it, studied it with intense interest. "Central American. Pre-Columbian. Logosyllabic. Epi-Olmec script. Perhaps a Rosetta stone for the transition between the Olmec and Mayan languages …"
"Very good." For the first time, she looked at him, noticed him, and viewed him with respect. Not interest, but respect.
"I had no idea this existed." His fingers itched to touch it, and he carefully tucked them into his pockets.
"No one did. After Mama died, Daddy brought it here and shut it in the vault. I think he blamed himself for letting her go down there." The girl was blinking at Aaron again.
He couldn't keep calling her "the girl," not even in his mind. "What's your name?"
"Dr. Hall … oh, you mean my first name." She smiled at him, those amazing eyes lavishing him with happiness. "I'm Rosamund. My parents named me after Rosamund Clifford."
"The Fair Rosamund, King Henry the second's mistress, reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world." Could this Rosamund be any more unlike her? "Henry built Rosamund a bower and surrounded it by a maze to protect and keep her, yet somehow the wildly jealous Eleanor of Aquitaine poisoned her and she died for love."
"Most of that is romantic fantasy, of course, but you do know your history. And your linguistics." This Rosamund, plain, unkempt, and appallingly dressed, viewed him with approval.
"History. Yes. That's actually why I'm here." He might as well give her a shot at his question. "I wanted to talk to Dr. Hall about a prophecy --" "My goodness." Rosamund blinked at him again. "You're the second one today to ask me that."
"THIGH HIGH is the next thrilling romantic suspense installment in my Fortune Hunter series, and in it, I take you to New Orleans, where two unlikely lovers clash, thanks to a pair of eccentric great-aunts, a series of quirky robberies, and the madness of Mardi Gras?"
On August 27, 2005, I had a plane reservation for New Orleans. There I intended to do research for the book I was writing, a book filled with the eccentricities, the joy, the larceny, the pleasures and the madness of the Big Easy.
The flight was cancelled. On August 29, Hurricane Katrina made landfall, changing the face of the city forever.
This is my book, a little later than planned, but dedicated with affection and admiration to the resilient people of New Orleans and to the city itself.
Here’s to the Big Easy. Long may she reign!
THIGH HIGH is the third in the Fortune Hunter series, following TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS and TONGUE IN CHIC, a classic romantic suspense laced with family problems like “Arsenic and Old Lace” and the steamy sensuality of “The Big Easy.”
The door of the bank opened. A man stepped just inside, a big man, blocking the intense New Orleans sunshine.
Nessa glanced up, then did a double-take. Wow.
She would have sworn she only mouthed the word, but Julia gave it voice. “Wow.”
He was tall. Very tall. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his hands were big. One gripped a bulging leather briefcase. He wore a dark suit, a white shirt and a red tie that should have fixed the eye, but didn’t. It was his face that riveted her … his handsome, battered, broken face. He reminded Nessa of Russell Crowe in Gladiator, broken and rising like a phoenix from the ashes of his life.
He exemplified tragedy. He exuded power.
He looked at the small group of stunned tellers, his gaze moving from face to face, memorizing each feature, his face impassive … until he reached Nessa. There his gaze lingered, a slow interest kindling in his green eyes. Nessa took a small, involuntary step back.
Then, with the fluid grace of an athlete, long strides and swinging arms, he continued on his way into his newly arranged office and shut the door behind him.
“I just came,” Julia whispered.
“Sh!” Donna whispered and nudged her. “You horny old broad!”
“Oh, like you didn’t,” Julia said.
“Yeah, but I don’t talk about it.”
“Whew!” Mrs. Fasset’s open mouth snapped shut, and she sagged against the countertop.
Carol, who was waiting on her, nodded. “That was spectacular. Miss Dahl, who do you suppose he is? The guy who’s going to give you your raise … so to speak?”
Laughter swept the small group.
“I don’t get it. What are you women talking about?” Mr. Broussard was a bank customer, and owned a bar, and he looked disgusted at the women’s reaction. “He looked like the kind of guy it takes five of us to toss out of the bar, and we’re lucky if he doesn’t come roaring back for more.”
“Yeah, that guy’s not good-looking,” their security guard agreed.
“He sure isn’t,” Julia said with enthusiasm. “He’s more than good-looking.”
Jeffrey let out a long sigh of pleasure. “He’s a god.”
“Well, he scared the hell out of me.” Lisa stood with her hand pressed against her flat chest. “I wanted to tell Eric to take out his gun and shoot him.”
Nessa smiled, a raw twist to her lips. “He’s the insurance investigator who’s going to solve what the police cannot — the mystery of the Mardi Gras robberies.”
First in a new back-to- back series from the New York Times bestselling author
Hailed as "a star in any genre,"(New York Times bestselling author J. R. Ward)Christina Dodd delivers an exciting new paranormal romance that introduces The Seven, a secret society created to combat evil in all its deadly forms...
Other Titles in this Series: Rules of Surrender (ebook 1) Rules of Engagement (ebook 2) Rules of Attraction (ebook 3) In My Wildest Dreams (ebook 4) Lost in Your Arms (ebook 5) My Favorite Bride (ebook 6) My Fair Temptress (ebook 7)
The Distinguished Academy of Governesses London, 1849
Miss Caroline Ritter squeezed a handful of her damp, shabby skirt. "I need to procure some method of providing sustenance for myself."
Adorna, Lady Bucknell, the proprietress of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, folded her hands on her desk and gazed at the young lady seated before her. Outside, the March rains lashed at the windows, the occasional splatter of sleet a reminder that winter hadn't yet loosened its hold on London.
Rather more forcefully, Miss Ritter said, "In other words, I need a job."
Pinning her with a direct gaze, Adorna asked, "What are your accomplishments?"
Miss Ritter hesitated a telling moment.
Adorna tried to make it easier for her. "What do you do best?"
"Flirt," she said promptly.
Adorna believed her. She had seen many a young ladycome through her study at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, all of them in need of assistance, but she had never felt such a kinship as she felt now for Miss Caroline Ritter.
This young lady was beautiful. Her smooth, tan complexion reminded Adorna of the tale repeated about the Ritters—that four hundred years ago Mr. Ritter brought home a bride from some exotic locale, and since then the women of the family had been temptresses who led all men astray. Miss Ritter certainly fit the role.
She was tall, almost gangly, with long arms and slender fingers, yet she moved with a grace that pleasured the eye. Her high bosom and narrow waist would naturally rivet any man's attention, and her voice, low and warm, gave the impression of interest and kindness. She had gathered her straight brown hair into a severe chignon at the base of her neck, yet fine strands had escaped their confinement, and the auburn highlights encased her striking face like a summer sunset. Her wide chin gave the inference of defiance, and the dark lashes and brows that decorated her slumberous aquamarine eyes strengthened the impression of unusual and delicate beauty.
Never had Adorna seen so exquisite a visage since the day, thirty years ago, when she had gazed into a mirror and realized that she herself was a diamond of the first water.
Yet time had wrought changes on her own face, so that now Miss Caroline Ritter could accurately be described as the loveliest woman in England.
Leaning back in her chair, Adorna said aloud what she had been thinking. "I remember you. Three years ago you were all the rage."
"And I've heard of you." Caroline met Adorna's gaze directly. "You were the most famous debutante of your time."
At the tribute, Adorna allowed a small smile to cross her lips. "I was."
"Some say you were the most famous debutante of all time."
"So my husband says, but I tell him that is simply flattery. It works, of course. He is very good at getting his way." Adorna allowed her mind to drift back thirty years to her debut. "Do you know, I had fourteen offers of marriage in my first Season?"
"That is extraordinary." Miss Ritter modestly lowered her eyes. "I had fifteen."
Ah. A rivalry. How delicious. "Four abduction attempts, two by the same man."
"Only three abduction attempts, but all by different men."
"And fifty-three stolen kisses." This game amused Adorna. "I kept a tally."
"I kept a tally, too, and I assure you, you're far ahead of me in that contest." Miss Ritter's mouth drooped in disappointment. "My chaperone was far too watchful until...until she wasn't."
"Mine was having her own scandalous evening." Adorna chuckled warmly. "She is my aunt, Jane Higgenbothem, now Lady Blackburn. Perhaps you know of her?"
"The famous sculptress? Indeed,...
An unexpected inheritance lets Evangeline live the life of her dreams -- to travel abroad as a lady of mystery. But one night a darkly handsome Crown Prince claims her as his fiancé, and he'll do anything to seduce her into his royal world of peril, promise, and passion.
English orphan Miss Evangeline Scoffield has spent her life contenting herself with dreams. But with an unforseen inheritance, she can afford one perfect summer--a summer she will spend the rest of her life remembering. She buys herself expensive clothes, travels abroad, and presents herself as a lady of mystery.
But she quickly discovers her mistake, for a darkly handsome man appears at her bedroom door, claiming to be a Crown Prince--and her fiancé.
One look into her eyes, and the prince recognizes her. She is his betrothed, the runaway Princess of Serephinia. All her denials cannot change that, or alter the passion that burgeons between them. To fullfil their destinies, the prince will do anything--abduct her, coerce her, or, best of all seduce his reluctant bride into his royal world of peril, promise and passion.
The Pyrenees, 1816
"Who could she possibly be?"
Ignoring such vulgar speculation as beneath her, Miss Evangeline Scoffield posed at the door of the dining room and, with icy dignity, waited for the maitre d'hotel.
Bowing, he twitched his mustache as he asked in French, "Your usual table, Mademoiselle?"
The flurry of whispers started in a dozen languages.
"Probably a wealthy widow..."
"Perhaps from one of the noble families of Europe. Napoleon displaced so many, you know..."
Evangeline knew that none I of the travelers who had flocked to this spa-not the Spanish lord, not the Prussian general, and certainly not the over-loud Englishwoman -- could imagine the truth.
"'Thank you, Henri," Evangeline answered in his own language, blessing him with a wistful smile. "You are too good."
Henri's eyes glistened with pleasure. "I live only to serve you."
With a recently acquired, and to her, quite surprising, sense of drama, she replied, "To serve me could prove dangerous."'
"For you, I laugh at danger."
"Believe me, I am not someone to whom you should make such an avowal."
The whispers continued.
"The servants hint she is a princess..."
"All alone, poor thing, without even a maid..."
Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand on his chest over his heart. "Such beauty as yours is a reward in itself."
Beauty? No one had ever called her a beauty before, but in this magical place, anything was possible. "Take this." She slipped some coins into his hands. "I have suffered such travails in my life, I cannot allow genuine kindness such as yours to go unmarked."'
His eyes snapped open, and he pocketed the gold immediately. "'For a smile from you, I would walk barefoot over the rocky ground, fight a dozen men, wrestle a ferocious bear, face the devil himself-"
"Enough." More than enough. He tried to speak, but she handed him another coin and his mouth snapped shut. She nodded, not like a misplaced princess but like a sensible Englishwoman. "I will be seated now."
This resort had once been a private Chateau near the Spanish border, the summer home of a wealthy duke. When Napoleon's defeat had impoverished its owner, he had been forced to find a way to maintain his home. Taking advantage of the thermal springs nearby, he now catered to the nobles' desire to combine travel and healing. Two fireplaces blazed in the room where Evangeline now stood, cherubs smiled from marble arches, and broad windows overlooked the verdant valley below.
Chateau Fortune was now one of the crown jewels of the grand tour, and Evangeline reveled in being one of its shining facets. Albeit temporarily. Her emerald silk skirt created a satisfying rustle as she threaded her way past the white linen-draped tables, and without appearing to, she observed the heads that swiveled her way.
"She's very nicely...formed. Do you suppose she had something to do with that scandal in Saxe-Coburn?"
"Stodgy Saxe-Coburn? Don't be ridiculous. She has the looks of an exotic."
Curiosity about this mystery woman ran rampant in the dining room, and Evangeline lifted her exotic chin and fixed an inscrutable smile on her lips. A smile she had practiced in the mirror.
None of the people here could possibly guess the truth.
With a flourish, Henri pulled out her chair. She seated herself with murmured thanks and placed her drawstring clutch on the table near the Limoges salt cellar. She pulled up her Brussels lace stole and draped it around her shoulders.
"Mademoiselle...
When Enid's estranged husband loses his memory in an explosion, she reluctantly agrees to nurse him back to health. But he's not the man she remembers: Enid is unable to resist his tender words and reckless passion...and the dangerous secrets of his lost memories.
Enid MacLean is finally living a peaceful life when she receivesword that an explosion has injured the husband she hoped she'd neverhave to see again. Reluctantly, she agrees to do her duty but,except for his distinctive green eyes, the man she nursesback to health is not the man she remembers.
And he remembers nothing. From the depths of his amnesia, he reaches out for the woman he believes is his wife, tempting her with ardent words and a reckless passion she finds herself unable to resist. And while Enid finds herself losing her heart to this achingly familiar stranger, she cannot help but wonder how her husband has become such a dangerous, seductive man...and what secrets he carries locked away in his lost memories.
Last time marriage cost her her happiness. This time love could cost her more.
"Please, Mrs. MacLean, won't ye tell us about yer wedding?"
Her mouth full of cake, Enid stared around at the circle of feminine faces in Lady Halifax's parlor, all bright with happiness, and at the blond, round-cheeked girl in whose honor they were gathered. The girl who had asked the question. The girl who, in less than a fortnight, would become the blushing bride to Lady Halifax's underbutler. Swallowing, Enid took a breath. "My wedding? Oh, you don't want to know about my wedding."
"We do!"
An eager chorus answered her, a chorus from Lady Halifax's upstairs maids, her downstairs maids, and her scullery maids, all girls with their heads stuffed with puff pastry dreams of love.
Enid, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, was at least five years everyone's senior in age and five hundred years their senior in cynicism.
"Was yer wedding as wonderful as mine is going t' be?" Kay clasped her hands at her bosom. The girl was resplendent with flowers and ribbons in her hair, Surrounded by gifts given by her friends, and glowing with the light of love.
So Enid tried desperately to divert the conversation. "Nothing could be as wonderful as your wedding is going to be. That lace Lady Halifax asked me to bring as your wedding gift will make a lovely collar for your wedding gown."
"Aye, it will." Kay patted the fancy, machine-sewn lace Enid had delivered. "Lady Halifax is a grand mistress, an' ye must convey me thanks t'er. Mrs. MacLean, did ye have lace on yer gown?"
The problem, as Enid saw it, was that she was a woman of mystery.
Oh, not really. For three years she had lived in the London town house as Lady Halifax's nurse-companion. At first she had done little more than pass Lady Halifax her cane and make sure she had a clean handkerchief. But as time had gone on and the wasting disease had weakened Lady Halifax, Enid had become her mouth and ears in the household. She had reported the household activities to Lady Halifax and given Lady Halifax's instructions to the servants. But never, ever, had she confided her past to anyone.
She knew speculation had run rampant. Because of Enid's upper-class accent, her education and manners, the maids thought that she was a lady who had fallen on misfortune and had turned to labor to support herself. She had done nothing to dissuade them of that notion.
Now they had her trapped with their offer of tea and cake, their high hopes and fabulous imaginings.
"Please, Mrs. MacLean?" Sarah, the upstairs parlor maid, begged.
"Please?" Shirley, fifteen years old and fresh from the country, clapped her hands and tipped her cake plate off her lap and onto the carpet.
Everyone jumped to their feet, but Enid hushed the horrified exclamations and helped clean up the mess. "It's all right, dear. See? There's no harm done." Trying to distract the tearful Shirley, she said, "Stop crying so you can hear the details of my wedding."
Shirley snuffled into her handkerchief. "Aye."
"Tell us," Kay urged.
Enid could never confess the truth -- so, she would have to tell them a lie.
"Did ye get married in a big church?" Ardelia, plain, plump and brown, dabbed up the last crumbs of cake with her thumb.
Putting down her fork, Enid put the plate on the end table beside her and made the decision that, if she was going to tell a lie, she might as well tell a colossus. "I was married in a cathedral by a bishop."
"A cathedral?" Sarah's brown eyes grew huge.
"I was wed on a beautiful, sunny morning in June, with wild pink roses in my arms and all my...
Who wants to keep her past hidden forever?
Caitlin Prescott was only a baby when her parents disappeared. Adopted by a wealthy Texas oil family, she became Kate Montgomery, and grew up with no memory of her parents or her two older sisters and brother, who have been searching for her, hoping to right a terrible wrong that was committed twenty-two years ago in a small Texas town.
Now an ambitious young news reporter, Kate realizes she is being stalked soon after landing her dream job at an Austin TV station. Why did a car try to run her down? Who would want to kill her? Turning her precarious situation into a story, she takes on a bodyguard and follows him on the job. But she didn't plan on the cool, blade-sharp strength of Teague Ramos or the attraction that sizzles between them. When Teague connects the death of an Austin socialite to unanswered questions about Kate's childhood, she finds herself unlocking dangerous doors to her past. Now, with only her mysterious bodyguard to protect her, Kate is on a high-stakes chase that may lead her to the family she has never known -- or into the trap of a ruthless killer.
From the book
Chapter One
At twenty-four years of age, Kate Montgomery knew that a minimal hurricane packed winds of at least seventy-four miles per hour.
She knew that the clouds could put down five inches of rain an hour, generate dangerous lightning, and spin off violent tornadoes.
Most of all, she knew that a hurricane's greatest damage and loss of life came from the storm surge, a buildup of the seas that swept away homes, roads, and people who were stupid enough to think that a mere category one hurricane posed no threat and stayed in its path.
Which is why, as she waded into the surf at Galveston and turned to face the television camera, she felt like the biggest fool in Texas.
But someone had to be the sacrificial lamb, and as the cameraman had explained on the way down from Houston, it was always the youngest, prettiest newscaster who got the lousy assignments. Malik had made it clear that viewers liked to see girls with rain-wet hair buffeted by the wind. It was a lousy and indisputable broadcasting truth.
"What did you do to deserve this?" she had asked.
"It's the black man's fate to be oppressed," he had answered in mournful tones that didn't fool her at all.
"Plus you're the strongest cameraman at the station and the only one who can hold the camera in this weather." She had peered out the window of the news van at the strengthening storm.
"That, too." He drove them over the causeway and onto the fragile barrier island to join the other news crews as well as the hurricane thrill seekers who'd taken hotel rooms on the island to watch the storm.
Now she stood in the surf up to her ankles. The waves crashed behind her with far too much force and the camera lights showed a roil of foam that blew away with the wind. Her yellow slicker whipped around her legs. Her hood barely protected her from the slashing rain. And fervently she wished someone would tell her news director that if he lost a junior reporter, he would get in trouble.
Or maybe it didn't matter, because there were a hundred pretty young aspiring news reporters who would take her job and gladly wade into the storm-tossed surf for their chance at fame.
She'd worked hard for this chance, graduating from Vanderbilt in Nashville with a degree in political science and broadcasting. Her agent had sent out her résumé and her interview tape and finally he'd found her a job at this station in Houston. None of it had been easy, and she wasn't walking out of the water until they had the shot.
"Ready for the run-through?" she yelled at Malik.
He gave her the thumbs-up. From a safe distance, he lifted the camera onto his shoulder and pointed it at her.
"Three, two, one," she said into the microphone under her chin. Pitching her voice to be heard above the storm's roar, she said, "Here I am on Galveston Island, where once again nature's wrath has taken the beach hostage and transformed this usually placid vacation spot into -- " Without warning, a rambunctious wave struck her behind her knees.
She stumbled forward.
Her heart lurched.
The sand shifted beneath her feet.
She flailed her arms like a madwoman and gave a high, girlish screech.
The storm surge rose to engulf her. She almost...almost...went down into the crashing surf.
She caught herself. The water subsided, sliding back and gathering strength to fling itself at the shore once more.
Minimal hurricane, indeed.
She staggered up onto the beach to see Malik grinning and still filming.
"You big jerk!" Sweat trickled...
Princess Laurentia leads a fairy-tale life, but she leads it alone. Until she's swept away by Prince Dominic: soldier of fortune, black sheep of his family . . . and the man hired to protect her. Has her prince finally arrived?
Princess Laurentia leads a fairy-tale life, attending glittering balls and wearing beautiful gowns. But after the ball is over, Laurentia finds herself getting into bed...alone. She dutifully agrees to choose a husband, but when she casts her eyes over her sea of suitors, she doesn't see a single man worthy enough to claim her.
Then suddenly, she is swept off her feet by Prince Dominick, soldier of fortune, black sheep of his family...and the man hired to protect her. He's brazen enough to steal her kisses, yet tender enough to soothe her with one touch. He makes no promises, speaks no vows of forever...yet Laurentia can't help but hope that her prince has finally arrived.
BertinierreMay 1829
At the ball celebrating her twenty-fifth birthday, Crown Princess Laurentia scrutinized the leering, timid, swaggering, toe-dragging, eloquent, stuttering sea of black and white evening wear and thought she had never seen such a pitiable pool of suitors in her life.
And they were hers. All hers.
"My dear, that smile looks much like the one you don when you suffer the headache, but you are still required to launch a ship."
She didn't look at her father, as was protocol. Each of their gestures, their glances, their words had been choreographed in advance. She stood at King Jerome's right hand while he sat on the gilded, ancient, throne of Bertinierre. Both wore elegant smiles. One by one gentlemen moved forward to the foot of the dais to make their bows to the woman--or more accurately, the kingdom--they hoped to win.
Yet King Jerome spoke in a tone that carried no farther than her ears, and he sounded remarkably amused. Moreover she knew his smile was sincere.
And why not? She'd made him a promise, and he hoped that promise would lead to the fulfillment of his dearest dream.
Hers, too, she reminded herself. She was the only heir to the tiny Mediterranean kingdom of Bertinierre, and she must produce a child, preferably two, before her fruitful youth vanished.
Too bad the whole thing left her feeling like an unpollinated apple tree.
"And these are the bees." To atone for her uncharitable comment, she rewarded her lady-in-waiting's current presentation, a Mr. Andrew N. Sharparrow, with a slightly warmer smile.
He returned it, and took another bow while Weltrude lifted her smartly-groomed brows in inquiry.
Responding to the prearranged signal, Laurentia blinked twice, and the Englishman was sent on his way, allowing another to take his place.
"Perhaps when you're married you'll stop talking to yourself," said her father.
"Probably not. I enjoy intelligent conversation."
He chuckled, then smothered his mirth behind a regal cough. "You haven't given the poor lads a chance."
She chose to ignore his remark. "Besides, you talk to yourself."
Taking her gloved hand, he patted it between his palms. "I used to talk to your mother. I still do, the best way I know how."
Giving in to temptation, she looked down into his warm brown eyes and wished, not for the first time, that she could be more like him--intelligent, yet kind.
Without conceit, she knew she was intelligent, too, but her intelligence contained the sting of acerbity. She had endless patience with children and the feeble of mind, but for those who chose to waste their God-given gifts in idleness and frivolity she felt a vast disdain.
Unfortunately, that included too many of the wealthy, well-born gentlemen milling around the grand cream and gilt ballroom.
A nobleman so ancient he could have been her father's father made his bow before them, and toppled over. Weltrude, large, big-boned, and stem, caught him before his head could make contact with the step.
Jerome indicated that one of his personal guard should assist the aged suitor. "How does he dare to think I would allow my beautiful girl to go to him?"
"Not everyone thinks quite as well of my looks as you do, Papa." Certainly not Beaumont, the English Earl of Burlingame ... and her first husband. "Have you thought you might be influenced by a parent's prejudice?"
"You look exactly like your mother," King Jerome said with finality.
A land of legend and wild beauty - of clans, lairds, honor, and passion - Scotland forever stirs the soul ot romance. Noe, in one incomparable volume, four of Avon Romance's bestselling authors present stirring tales of hearts won and weddings to be, featuring a quartet of unforgettable heroines about to discover the rapture of love in a world as untamed as the men they will one day marry
Scotland, 1805
"Andra didn't tell you about the marriage kilt?" Lady Valery sipped the wickedly strong whiskey and relished the warmth it spread through her aged veins. "My heavens, what did you do to offend? The MacNachtans always drag out that marriage kilt to show everyone, whether they wish it or not."
The fire warmed the study, the candles lit the darkened comers, the clock ticked on the mantel, and Hadden sat, long legs stretched out before him, the very portrait of masculine power and grace.
The very image of offended virility.
Lady Valery hid a grin in her goblet. The boy -- he was thirtyone, but she considered him a boy -- did not take rejection well.
"Andra MacNachtan is unreasonable." He scowled into his goblet. "A black-headed, noodle-brained woman without a care for anyone but herself."
Lady Valery waited, but he said nothing more. He only gulped at his whiskey, his fourth since dinner and three more than the usually temperate drinker ever consumed.
"Yes. Well." She returned to her scheme. "The marriage kilt is exactly your kind of tradition. There's a ragged old plaid cloth that's reputed to bring good luck to the newlyweds if it's wrapped around their shoulder..." She paused artfully for effect. "No, wait, let me think...if they kiss the sporran...no, perhaps it was something about wifely obedience. If I could remember the tale, I would tell you, and you could copy it into your treatise. But I'm an old lady; my memory's not what it used to be -- "
Hadden lifted his bloodshot blue eyes to glare at her.
Perhaps that was laying it on a little too thick. Hastily, she abandoned that tack and, in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, said, "And I was never interested in that old-fashioned balderdash. I remember the 'good old days' -- smoking fires, galloping clap, gin slums. No, give me my modem conveniences. You young folks can go poking around and call those days romantic and worthy of note, but I don't."
"It's not just your youth I'm recording, Your Grace, much though you would like to believe that."
Surly and sarcastic, she noted, his usual state since his return from Castle MacNachtan almost two months ago.
"It's a whole way of life. Since Culloden, Scotland has changed. The old ways that have existed since William Wallace and Robert the Bruce are disappearing without a trace." He straightened his shoulders, leaned forward intently. "I want to record those fragile fragments of culture before they are gone forever. If I don't record them, no one will."
Lady Valery watched him with satisfaction. He'd been this emphatic and enthusiastic almost from the first moment he'd arrived at her Scottish estate, a skinny, frightened nine-year-old. He'd taken to the open spaces and gray mists of the Highlands. He'd grown tall and hearty as he roamed the glens and braes, and he'd discovered in the clans and the ancient ways of life a continuity his own existence lacked.
Not that his sister hadn't made a home for him -- she had -- but nothing could substitute for two parents and a place to call his own.
Lady Valery had hoped, when she sent him to Castle MacNachtan, he would find his place there.
Instead, he'd come back silent and grumpy, brooding in a manner quite unlike his normal personable self.
Once Lady Valery had diagnosed the malady that vexed him, she had resolved to set all to rights, and her plan, as always, was working perfectly.
"I understand now. You're tactfully telling me you're not interested in the MacNachtans' wedding kilt because it's not...
NEW FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF TROUBLE IN HIGH HEELS!
Devlin Fitzwilliam caught Meadow Szarvas red-handed, breaking into his mansion to steal a painting. In sheer desperation, she used a case of amnesia as her excuse. But then he pulled a fast one-and claimed she was his wife. Playing along was the only way for Meadow to get her hands on that painting. But what she doesn't realize is that Devlin has a hidden agenda too-and that someone's keeping an eye on them both.
