Find more from this author on:
About the author:
She’s a proud Trekkie, loves true crime documentaries, martinis with sprinkles, volunteering for the arts, learning to cook like the French, and writing letters to her friends all over the globe. Whether you like it dark or light, she hopes you enjoy her stories as much as she loves writing them. Which she will continue to do so, even if there’s a zombie apocalypse.
What inspired you to write your book?
I love to write what I love to read! Epic, emotional, sexy, witty romances with a lot of conflict and sensuality. Where the heroes drop constant innuendo and the heroines have all the real power.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Excuse me, miss. I would like another look at the necklace. Please.”
She set the cup down with a wry smile and pivoted to face him. Of
course. The handsome guest responsible for her thirst. “Another? You
couldn’t see it when I was standing a few feet in front of you?”
“I wanted a more private opportunity. May I?” Without her consent,
his fingers delicately lifted the necklace, bringing his tall, six-foot-plus
frame closer. She grasped the edge of the table as he towered over her. His
fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck while he toyed with the
piece, skimming from her rapid, telltale pulse to the base of her throat.
Flesh bumps rose on her skin, as if he’d grazed her entire body.
“Extraordinary,” he murmured, lifting his gaze.
So were his eyes. What color were they exactly? Carolina blue, she
decided, rimmed with cobalt, surrounded by thick black lashes, and dark
brows above. Unfair. A girl could lose herself in those. She’d been holding
her breath so long it had to escape in a rush, which made her breasts contract
behind the bodice of the dress.
He noticed, eyes smiling.
She lifted her chin, curling her fingers tighter on the table’s edge, and
could hear it creak. “Have you had a good at it now?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, then changed to a business-like tone. “What do you
think my odds are of winning this?”
“Can’t say. It has a lot of admirers, though.”
He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Hmm. I like to take risks, but only
when I know the outcome is heavily in my favor. I’m interested to know
exactly what I’m bidding for.”
“Well, as I explained, it was created strictly for the event. A piece like
this will be owned by one woman alone, and I doubt any woman wouldn’t
want something no one else has. Also, the point is to help the children,
“Of course,” he said with an inclination of his head.
“But if you want the necklace so badly, then I suggest you get ready to
sweat when you write the check.”
He chuckled, stroking his clean-shaven jaw. “I’ve just got to have it…
what was your name again? Jordana?”
She nodded, wondering when her nerves would frikkin’ settle down.
“Well, Jordana,” he drew out with a small smile. “My name is Logan
Savant and once I’ve set myself on having something, it’s simply a matter
of time before it’s mine.” A slow, sexy grin followed.
Though she was no expert in men, she knew a double meaning when
she heard one. A professional flirt. In her experience, someone like him was
attracted to femme fatales like her sister. Must be the dress. Or maybe the
champagne he’s drinking. Probably a combination of the two.
She touched the diamonds, the bold attraction in his gaze curiously
shutting down her shyness. Why not flirt back? “Are you thinking of wearing
it to the opera or afternoon tea? Because I think it’s versatile enough to
be worn just about anywhere.”
He laughed, showing off his thousand-watt smile, and a light dimple in
his right cheek. More unfairness. “My thoughts exactly. Although, I have
to express some concern…” He made a flippant circle around his face.
“Yellow diamonds tend to wash out my skin tone.”
“Nonsense, all you need is the perfect outfit, matching shoes and, voila!
Heads will turn when you walk in the room.”
“Ohh,” he breathed with exaggerated passion, and pressed a large hand
to his chest. “A dream come true.”
It was Jordana’s turn to laugh. Holy smokes, he had enough charm to fill
the building and spill into the street. Not to mention every time she saw
that dimple, a galaxy of giddiness bloomed in her stomach, threatening
to come out, giggles and all. He was too attractive for his own good. For
her own good. “You should definitely do your damndest to be the winner
of this necklace, Mr. Savant. As Joy Page said, ‘Dream, and give yourself
permission to envision a you that you chose to be.’ And you can verify that
quote too if you’d like.”
“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dream of doubting you. That was great, by
the way, what you did. Showing up that old smarty pants back there.”
“I wasn’t trying to show him up!”
“Sure you were.”
“I was simply correcting him. You were the one who looked it up and
embarrassed him in front of everyone.”
He gave a helpless gesture, palms out. “I was defending you. How else
could you prove you were right?”
“Well I appreciate the support.” A smile pulled her lips. “Do you always
defend perfect strangers?”
“When they’re as beautiful as you? Without question.”
She arched a brow. “Nice line.”
“I think so, too.”
Fighting back another silly grin, she asserted, “I was being sarcastic.”
“No kidding. I also speak sarcasm. Where did you learn it?”
“On a farm with my grandfather. You?”
“Die Hard movies,” he answered in all seriousness. “Let’s just say I felt
compelled to make sure he knew you were right. I’ll never let him live
it down. From now on, when he gets lofty and starts talking about how
well-read he is, I’ll be sure to remind him of tonight.” He jutted his chin
to down and mocked his friend’s British accent. “Your opinions are so pedestrian,
Savant! When I was your age, I didn’t have my numbers crunched
for me by a computer, blah blah blah.” He switched to his natural voice.
“Oh really, Lancaster? Remember the time you misquoted Oscar Wilde
and looked like a bloody idiot in front of everyone? Hmm?”
Jordana tapped his lapel. “You’re cruel.”
“It goes both ways. I can only imagine what Lancaster says behind my
back. I’m sure I’d be amused by it, though. He lived in England for eleven
years and came back with an accent and a litany of pancake insults.”
He offered her his arm and she took it, and he drew her away. “Flimsy.
Soft. Harmless. The last party we both attended, he called me a ‘bell end’
which, of course, I had to Google to know what the hell he was saying.”
“And it means?”
“Basically, he called me a dick.”
Her brows rose. “Ah. That’s not very nice.”
“The insult makes sense if you think about it. The British have such
a knack for creative insults. It might not be the kind of thing you would
shout in England, but here I could say it all day long.”
“I certainly won’t see a bell the same way again.”
“See? I taught you something. Now we’re both more well-rounded
people. I can spit out a quick quote from Oscar, and you learned how to
say dick in a whole new linguistic form.”
She noticed a few pairs of eyes casting her way as she laughed. Swallowing,
she tried to regain her composure, and released his arm as they passed
by the ballroom doors. “You have to stop making me laugh.”
“Why? Are you allergic to it?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then I’m not going to stop.”