What Do You Say To Two Hot Aussie Stockmen?

If you’re American teacher, Harper Shaw, you might say something like this…

Or, you might say something like this…

“H-hello.” Damn it, her voice was still croaky. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Of course, after you greet them, and get to know them for a few minutes, you might go on to do this…

“So who’s going to try to kiss me first?”

This, in turn, may be followed by some of this…

Harper whimpered, her pussy constricting. The sensation of being pressed between the two men was intoxicating. There was no definition for her mind to comprehend. Pleasure surrounded her. Hard, sculpted pleasure.

Her fantasy hadn’t even come close.

Keith’s erection nudged the curve of her mons, his thighs brushing hers in the water. His tongue swept into her mouth, a gentle exploration that belied the urgent want she felt in his cock.

Marc’s fingers played with her nipples, pinching, flicking, twisting. His lips traveled her throat, his teeth nipping her flushed skin. She groaned with each bite, rolling her hips between them. The stiff length of Marc’s desire stroked between her butt cheeks, Keith’s equally hard pole rubbing against her belly.

God help her, she’d never felt so…so…

Keith’s lips left hers, dragging down her throat, over her collarbone. He skimmed the tip of his tongue into the shallow dip at the base of her neck, lowering deeper into the water as he worked his way down her body.

Without a word, Marc scooped up her breasts, holding them in his palms as if offering them to his best friend. Keith took one nipple into his mouth, sucking fast.

Harper bucked in Marc’s arms, her cry loud in the quiet afternoon. “Christ, yes!”

Marc sucked on her neck, brushing his thumb over her other nipple as Keith continued to feast on her breast.

Ribbons of pleasure unfurled through the pit of her belly. Tingles of heat shot to every limb. Radiating from her breasts down to her very core. She squirmed, her pussy prickling with sudden heat. Her clit ached. She tried to push her thighs together but Keith’s hands stopped her.

He flattened his palms to her upper thighs, his thumbs tracing circles over her flesh. His tongue and teeth and mouth tormented her nipple, each suckling pressure growing fiercer. Behind her, Marc kneaded her breasts, his mouth exploring the side of her neck, her jaw. His tongue swiped into the shell of her ear before he captured her lobe with his teeth.

She hissed at the shard of pleasurable pain the bite awoke, bucking her hips forward.

Keith took advantage of her shift, his thumb grazing the seam of her sex.

“Oh,” she panted, rolling her head. The sun beat against her closed eyelids. The water lapped against her skin. Her senses were in overdrive, her body more aware of every caress, every touch, than she could fathom.

When Keith dipped his thumb into her pussy, she gasped.

When Marc pinched her nipple she begged for more.

 

Want to find out more of what Harper says? And does?

Misplaced Hands, the fourth book in the Foreign Affairs series written by the most amazing New York Times Bestselling author, Mari Carr and myself, releases on the 24th of this month. TWO DAYS!! You can read more about it at the Foreign Affairs blog (click here), as well as see how you can enter the Foreign Affairs contest

 

Sooo, what would you would say to two hot Aussie stockmen?

What I’m Working On

Oh, there’s always more than one thing it seems, but I’m most occupied this week with finishing first round edits for Unforgettable Summer. I love going through a book again after it’s been a while and rediscovering what I did. Sometimes it’s a bit surreal, like ‘did I write that?’ By the time a book has gotten past an editor and is well on its way to publication, it’s pretty much as good as it can get. I can’t help recalling previous versions of this scene or that scene and being a little proud I spent the time to make the words sing (although at the time it felt like beating my head against a stone wall, of course).

Thought I’d share with you a little snippet from the book. This is not FINAL final, but I don’t think it’s going to change much. if at all, from here. This shows Summer Campbell about to give professional surfer Ty Butler, her long lost first love, a massage ten years after they broke broke each other’s hearts. Talk about awkward!

 ______________________________________

“Take a seat and fill this out.” Summer handed him a clipboard with a single sheet of paper attached. “Standard procedure for all new clients.”

Sitting on a rattan chair beside what was obviously Summer’s desk, Ty filled out the form quickly, spending a bit of time at the “list previous injuries” section before handing it back.

Summer raised an eyebrow as she read the form. “Your body’s been through a lot. Your shoulder, your knee. You have a nasty scar there.”

Ty touched the jagged pink line that curved around his kneecap. “A nasty collision with some coral a while back.”

“Does it give you trouble as well?”

“Not today. But it’s more of a help, seeing as it aches when it’s about to rain. I can pretty accurately predict the weather.”

“A skill usually only possessed by elderly men and meteorologists.”

He grimaced at her quip, uncomfortably aware as he occasionally was these days that he was getting old. Not old old, but professional-athlete old. His thirtieth birthday was around the corner, which meant if he kept going at the pace he had been the past ten years he could look forward to another ten collecting more injuries and aches than most men in their sixties had.

“I apologize, that was a rude thing to say.”

“No worries.” He didn’t want her to think she could impact his mood so easily. “The body’s not going to hold up forever, I know that.”

“So you are thinking of quitting surfing and moving back here?”

“Which rumor mill churned that one out?”

“I’m not in the habit of listening to rumors,” she said stiffly. “I saw you looking at real estate at AJ Sanderson’s.”

Ty’s lips twitched. “So you’re only in the habit of spying then.”

“I wasn’t spying.”

The twitch turned to a grin at her indignant denial. Summer looked up from the clipboard and saw the expression on his face. She let out a breath. “I forgot what it was like to be teased by you.”

“Missed it, have you?”

Summer’s gaze darted away once more. Ty instantly regretted the taunt, wondering why he had the urge to taunt her at all. He wasn’t nineteen and tied up in knots about her anymore. He wasn’t interested and she wasn’t available anyway, end of story.

_______________________________________________

Unforgettable Summer is a follow up to Moonlight Mirage, where I first met Ty Butler. I’m looking forward to it coming out in November . How about you?

Sami

A Little Help From Ryan

I posted this on my own blog yesterday but I had such fun making it… and looking at it… that I thought it was worth X posting

You are welcome.

Sami

The Winner of my IMPULSIVE CONTEST!

Is Julia Mills who left THIS comment…

juliamills2012
Mar 26, 2013 @ 03:01:19 [Edit]

Laughed out loud when Fred said she had become a Peeping Tom!! LOL!!! That was the best!!! LOVED it!

 

Julia, can you send me an email with what sie t-shirt you’d like and what email to send your ARC of Dark Embrace.

Thank you everyone, for joining me in my impromptuness

I hope you all enjoy Dark Embrace when it is released.

 

xox

 

Lexx

The Apocalypse Can’t Stop Desire Like This…Can It?

Guess what’s available in only a few short hours?

Find out more at Samhain Publishing, Amazon, Barnes and Noble

Rebirth – Grim Reaper style…

In 2009 I wrote a book called Death, The Vamp and his Brother. I loved this book. Loved it. It is still one of my favourites. It won The Romance Studio’s 2009 Best Erotic Paranormal Novel. But it never really found an audience. Perhaps because readers didn’t know what to make of it? Maybe it was the title Death, The Vamp and his Brother. Let’s be serious,  it’s silly. It doesn’t–didn’t–portray the theme of the book at all, and the theme of the book is destiny and how it has its dark way with us.

So when Samhain Publishing asked me a few months ago if I wanted to re-release it a month before the second book in the series (Dark Embrace), I said yes. When they asked if I would be happy with a new cover, I said YES. When they aksed if I’d be okay with changing the title I laughed. Did I want to change the title? YES!!! When it was decided Dark Destiny was to be the new title, I got very excited.

And then I was sent this cover:

And my excitement went through the roof. Is that not one of the sexiest covers you’ve ever seen?

Today I received Dark Destiny‘s first review. And once again, my excitement shot through the roof.

“DARK DESTINY is a very intriguing, very hot book. You have sexy Death who prefers you call her Fred, a normal Aussie surfer/lifeguard, vampires, a Principatus and a really gross first horseman, who could ask for more? Oh yes did I mention the burning sheets or walls or wherever they landed and the unexpected realization that Death can actually fall in love. Lexxie Couper has come up with a fantastic world and I hope to visit it many more times.” – Fresh Fiction Reviews

(I know, Death, the Vamp and his Brother had been reviewed often but as of this point, Death, the Vamp and his Brother no longer exists *grin*)

It’s not often a book gets a second chance at life, but I guess it’s fitting with Dark Destiny…after all the vampire in Dark Destiny, Ven, was meant to die but he didn’t. He got a second chance… And as for Patrick, the hero…wow, you won’t BELIEVE the second life he gets.

Blurb

The Apocalypse can’t stop desire like this. Can it?

Principatus, Book 1

Death exists for one purpose and one purpose only: to sever the life-threads of the living. She does her job with pride and an unwavering commitment. Nothing ruffles her. Until she encounters Patrick Watkins.

The Australian lifeguard pushes all her buttons—and makes her tailbone itch like crazy. And when her tailbone itches, it means trouble is brewing. Big trouble.

As far as Patrick’s concerned, everything Death tells him is a load of bull. But what if she’s right? How is he expected to save mankind from the worst fate of all—the Apocalypse? Especially when all he can think about is how quickly he’s falling in love with the most feared Horseman of them all…

Warning: This book contains enough heresy to shame the Devil, more scorching sex than one person can handle, Two sexy Australian brothers and lots of Australian colloquialism. A bloody lot of Australian colloquialism.

EXCERPT

Fred noticed three things straight away. Patrick Watkins was looking directly at her, he was stark naked and he was semi-aroused.

By the Powers, he’s huge.

“Who the hell are you?”

His deep, angry growl made her jump. She stared at his face—his face, Fred, his face—her mouth dry. “You can see me!”

“Of course, I can see you. And I saw you at the beach today.” Sharp green eyes narrowed. “What the fuck did you do to my drowning victim?”

Fred clenched her jaw, giving the human before her a level look. “For your information, your drowning victim was a pedophile.”

A shimmer of disgust ignited in Patrick Watkins’ dark green eyes before he clenched his own jaw. “Mr. Peabody was alive until you touched him.”

Fred cocked her head to the side, trying like hell to ignore the fact that the man seemed to have forgotten he was naked—and still partially erect. Ignore it? How do you ignore something that impressive? “Yes, I must say, you did a very good job resurrecting him from his initial passing. But it was his time and no interference, no matter how skilled or stubborn, would have saved him.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Interference? His time?” Anger flared in his unwavering stare. “Who the fuck are you? The Grim Reaper?”

Fred inclined her head slightly. “Just call me Fred.”

“Well, Fred.” Patrick took a step toward her, the anger in his face growing dark. Menacing. “I’d saved him. I don’t care how bloody sexy you are, or who you think you are, he was alive until you touched him. What the hell did you do to him?”

Fred’s heart stopped for a split second, before pounding triple-time. Sexy? A grin stretched her lips and a wild flutter erupted between her thighs. He thought she was sexy.

He also thinks you’re a murderer.

She pulled a face, crossing her arms across her chest. Her nipples brushed against her forearms, sending a little jolt of damp electricity into the pit of her belly and she bit back a curse. How was it possible this one mortal male made her so horny? “I really can’t explain it all to you,” she snapped, irked by her body’s irrational response and Patrick Watkins’ not-so-irrational agitation. “Just know Peabody is in a much more deserving place now he’s gone.”

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. “So, what? You’re a vigilante?”

Fred ground her teeth. “As I’ve already said, I can’t explain it.”

“Try. Before I call the cops.”

Fred couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “The cops?”

Black anger flashed across Patrick’s face. “Look, love, you’ve got exactly twenty seconds to give me an answer, or I’ll knock you on your arse, tie you to the bed and let the authorities deal with you when they get here.”

A hot, wet wave of sinful pleasure rolled through Fred at the idea of Patrick Watkins tying her to the bed. Damn. She’d never gone down that path of sexual gratification before, but the Australian lifeguard made her body fantasize about all sorts of things it hadn’t before. All of them very, very wicked. “Patrick Watkins,” she said, unable to stop her gaze roaming over his naked body. “I would like nothing more than to see you try.”

Another wave of fury—and something else far more primitive—charged his expression. “Okay. If that’s the way it’s going to be.”

He moved. Much quicker than Fred expected. Much quicker than any human should. One moment he stood glaring at her from beside his bedroom door, the next he was slamming her against the wall, his fingers locked around her wrists, his hips rammed into hers.

Immediate and absolute pleasure tore through her. Dark, intoxicating, submissive pleasure. Her sex constricted, her breath caught in her throat. She’d never been handled so. Even her Roman had treated her with kid gloves, like he’d been too scared of her to truly show how much she’d aroused him. Patrick Watkins however, knew no reason to be scared of her. And it made her sex flood with cream.

By the Powers, she wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him.

The licentious thought whipped through her head and, before she knew what was going on, her jeans, boots and t-shirt vanished. Leaving her just as naked as the man pressing her against the wall with his hard body.

He froze, his fingers digging into her wrists, his cock grounding against her belly. “What. The fuck. Is going on?”

***

You can buy Dark Destiny from Samhain, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and lots of other ebook resellers

Happy Australia Day

Thanks to all the lovely authors who participated in our January Aussie Author Showcase. Congrats to all the winners too, and thank you to everyone who came along and visited with our guests. It’s been a fun few weeks.

Happy Australia Day!

From

The Divas

 

Ho Ho Ho

Chapter One

 

Chilled to the bone, weary, dry-eyed and craving a beer more than ever, Jack McKenzie knocked on his cousin’s door.

The flight from mid-summer, sweat-sucked-from-your-pores Sydney, to mid-winter, freezing-your-arse-off-in-a-bloody-snowstorm Texas, had been long and grueling. Not only had he been stuck between two rather large men of dubious personal hygiene for the entire fourteen-hour trip, he’d had to endure a screening of No Broken Hearts Allowed, the latest cringe-inducing rom-com to come out of Hollywood, and the very film during which Tiffany chose to tell him, forty minutes after opening credits, she was dumping him for her fifty-two-year-old boss.

To add insult to injury, the airline carrier had lost his luggage carrying his only jacket capable of withstanding the bitterly cold weather and the only Christmas present he’d brought with him to unwrap on the big day — the small flat package from his mum he suspected were season sideline tickets to the Sydney Swans. Expensive. Irreplaceable. Completely eBayable.

Suffice to say, Jack wasn’t in a good mood. He hoped to God Bruce had a Tooheys. His cousin had been living in the US for a few years now. Maybe he’d crossed to the dark side and had his fridge stocked with Bud, or Miller, or, or… okay, he couldn’t think of any other American beer at the moment. All he could think about was a Tooheys, a shower, maybe some Vegemite on toast and a soft, clean bed, even if the bed was Bruce’s sofa.

He looked at the closed door before him, absentmindedly tracing the large, silver 7C screwed into the burgundy painted wood just above the peephole while he waited for Bruce to answer his knock.

Serendipity Estates. Weird name for an apartment complex. What was his cousin — an ex-sheep shearer and more “blokey” than any other male Jack knew — doing living in an upmarket, trendy looking city apartment complex?

The door swung open and a tall, willowy redhead regarded him with laughing gray eyes. A tall, willowy redhead with laughing gray eyes, long, long legs encased in worn black denim, and the fullest, softest lips Jack had ever seen. “Yes?”

He frowned, even as his body said Heeello. The redhead wasn’t Bruce. Bruce had never looked this good. “Um.” He bit back a muttered curse. Bloody brilliant conversation starter that is, Jack.

The redhead smiled, interest flickering in her smoky eyes. She tilted her head to the side a little and placed her hand against the doorjamb, unwittingly drawing Jack’s attention to the small, round perfection of her breasts snugged behind a pure white T-shirt. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” Jack began, and again mentally cringed at his inarticulate clumsiness. What was going on with him? Jet lag? Or had Tiffany sucked from him his ability to talk to a beautiful woman? She didn’t want him anymore, but she sure as hell didn’t want him to find anyone else? Okay, now you’re being paranoid.

He gave the redhead a slightly puzzled smile. “Is Bruce home?”

One finely arched auburn eyebrow cocked. “Bruce?”

Jack hitched his backpack higher onto his shoulder, trying not to shiver. The hallway was chilly, the snowstorm outside permeating Serendipity Estate’s internal structure, and his only jacket was most likely somewhere between Australia and Who-Knows-Where. “Bruce McKenzie.” He paused, waiting for the entirely too gorgeous woman to acknowledge his cousin’s name.

She didn’t.

“The bloke that lives here.” The statement sounded like a question, and Jack’s gut began to tighten. Why did this feel wrong?

“There’s no Bruce McKenzie here,” the woman replied, the sides of her mouth playing with a grin.

Jack studied her, looking for some sign she was pulling his leg. He’d just flown halfway around the planet. His girlfriend of six years had dumped him for her boss two days ago. It was nine p.m., Christmas Eve. He wanted a beer, some hot toast, an even hotter shower and a bed. Not necessarily in that order. He raked his right hand through his hair, realizing he was messing it up even more but not caring. Christ. Where the bloody hell was his cousin?

He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper, unfolding it to read the address scrawled on it in Bruce’s normal black print.

Apartment 7C,

Serendipity Estates,

155 Cherry Lane,

Charlie, Texas, USA.

Jack shot the door another look. The silver 7 and the silver C hadn’t changed. This was the right address. So where was Bruce?

“Can I help you?”

The husky murmur lifted Jack’s attention from his cousin’s lessthan flowery penmanship to the woman still standing in the door of apartment 7C. She was studying him with an unreadable expression. “You’re Australian, yes?”

Jack nodded. “Yes. And so’s my cousin who told me he lived here.” He shoved the small slip of paper back into his pocket. “Do you know of any Bruce McKenzie living around here? Maybe he just wrote the apartment number wrong.”

The woman shook her head, her long auburn hair tumbling over her straight shoulders in a glossy cascade that made Jack’s stomach and groin grow tight. “I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve lived in Serendipity Estates since they were built. Trust me, your cousin has never lived in 7C.”

Jack suppressed a sigh. “Damn it.”

No luggage, no jacket and now no cousin. Which meant no shower, no toast, no beer and no bed. All with a bloody snowstorm cold enough to freeze the tits off a bull wrecking havoc outside. When he found Bruce, if he found Bruce, he was going to kill him. That was, if he didn’t freeze to death in the interim trying to hail a taxi. What a fantastic Christmas this was going to be.

Jack hitched his backpack further up his shoulder and gave the woman — damn, she was gorgeous — a wry, lopsided smile. “Well, I’m sorry to be a nuisance.” He took a step away from the door. “Have a nice –”

“Do you want to come in?”

The question stopped Jack dead in his tracks.

“You’ve obviously got nowhere else to go, and I couldn’t live with the guilt of you turning into an icicle out on the street. Not on Christmas Eve, at least…” The rest of the sentence hung on the air between them and Jack felt his heartbeat quicken. He should say no. He should thank her for the kind offer and find a cab. Not because he was worried she was going to try and cut him up into little pieces once she had him behind closed doors. He was a professional tae kwon do instructor. He could take care of any nut-job trying to take him out, no matter how deceptively willow they may be.

No, he should say no because his body was saying yes, yes, you bloody moron, yes — and right at point in time, he didn’t think he had the energy or the inclination to ignore it.

Tiffany had ripped out his heart and shoved it in his face, his always dependable cousin had given him a bum steer, shit, even the airline had messed him up, and here was one very gorgeous, very sexy woman with legs that didn’t quit, lips made for kissing, and an accent that made his balls feel heavy and his blood feel hot, inviting him into her home.

He should say no. So why was he hesitating?

He wanted a shower, he wanted a beer, but right at this very moment he wanted something more. He wanted to feel like he had a place to relax on Christmas Eve, a place to be himself. If only for fifteen minutes or so. And feeling like that would be a whole lot finer in 7C’s company.

The woman gave him a wide grin. “I won’t bite. Promise.”

Not unless I ask you to?

The entirely too sexual thought flittered through Jack’s head. He opened his mouth, ready to say no, he should go, when the woman offered him her hand, her eyes shining with daring merriment, as if she could hear the very thoughts running through his conflicted mind. “I’m Holly.”

(Join me on Chapter Two on my blog tomorrow. Hee hee hee. Ho ho ho)

Carl Holston: Scumbag Papparazzo

I’ve written quite a few villains in my time who are sexy. Who make me kinda think, damn, I’d love to write a book about this guy’s redemption. There’s one villain however, who will never see redemption. That man is Australian paparazzo, Carl Holston.

Those that have read Love’s Rhythm and Twister have already had an introduction to the notorious celebrity photographer. He tracked Nick down in Murriundah and he stalked Lachlan and Cameron thoughout the Northern Beaches in Sydney.

Holston is tenacious, scrupleless and reprehsible. When he has a target in his sights, he will stop at nothing to get the money-making shot. Holston is soon to taint the world again in Muscle for Hire (coming January 29) and unfortunately, he’s also causing major problems for my characters in my current WIP. Because that’s what Holston thrives on the most; causing problems for his targets.

World, allow me to formally introduce Carl Holston: scumbag papparazzo…

 

From Love’s Rhythm

She shot Nick a look over her shoulder. He stood a few steps behind her, half-dressed, his upper body naked and still slicked in a fine sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling with each steadying breath he pulled, his lean muscles sculpted and defined with the exertion of their fucking. His fly was zipped, the top of the treble cleft tattooed on his lower abdomen peaking from above the low-slung waistline of his jeans. His thick black hair hung around his face, awry from her hands, brushing eyes that studied her with an unreadable intensity.

He looked like a sexual god.

He looked like a rock star.

Closing her eyes, she raked her fingers through her hair, took a deep breath and then turned back to the door and pulled it open.

White light exploded in her eyes. Soundless. Blinding. White light followed by Nick snarling, “You fucking prick, Holston.”

White light speared into her eyes again. A flash so bright she gasped.

“Having a good time, Blackthorne?” the man in front of her asked, although it wasn’t so much a question but a chuckling sneer. And she couldn’t see him. All she could see was painful yellow glare dancing on her retina, glaring yellow light making it impossible to see, just like the kind left over from a powerful camera flash.

Camera.

She blinked. She could see a man on her front step, and yet she couldn’t. He was hiding behind the dancing yellow burn from his camera’s flash.

“You guys need to get a life,” she heard Nick growl. And then he was pushing past her. White light exploded in front of her again as the man’s voice called out, telling her to smile, to give Nick a kiss, asking her how long they’d been together. White, rapid-fire flash bombs accompanied by the distinct click of a camera attacked her, capturing her stupor seconds before the sound of her door slamming shut smacked at her ears.

From Twister

Oh God, no.

The dismayed thought had barely finished forming in Cameron’s head when Lachlan leapt to his feet.

He turned and ran for the tree line, fists bunched, body leaning into a sprint. A shadow bolted from behind the closest tree, a shadow the size of a man.

“Finally fucking a model, ‘eh McDermott?” the man-shaped shadow shouted. The flash fired again, farther away this time, but still Cameron flinched. “Just like your old man now, right?”

Cameron’s mouth turned dry. She scrambled to her feet, snatching her top from where it lay in a crumpled mound of silver silk as she did so. The moon picked that moment to escape the blanket of the clouds, bathing Lachlan and the fleeing photographer in pale light.

The paparazzo was stumbling over the grassy area between soccer field and car park, throwing the pursing Lachlan backward glances even as he continued to take photos. The click of the camera’s shutter sounded like a scream in the night, although Cameron doubted any shots the paparazzo fired would garner anything by blurred smudges of movement. But that wasn’t the point.

They’d been photographed. Making love on a public soccer field. Her and Lachlan. The country’s most powerful businessman and the ex-model who’d dropped out of existence.

Her stomach rolled, sick tension knotting inside her. Oh God, the media was going to have a wet dream over this.

Unless the photographer hadn’t captured anything. Was that possible?

“Yeah, right,” she snarled, shucking her shirt over her head and down her torso to cover her breasts, breasts so recently worshipped by Lachlan’s lips and tongue and teeth.

Had the paparazzo captured that? How long had the guy been there for before the moon went behind the clouds and his autoflash fired?

Cameron’s stomach rolled again. How could she have been so foolish? She knew Lachlan was a target for the press. She knew that.

And still she’d let him make love to her. Almost make love to her. And it wasn’t Lachlan that had stripped her shirt from her body. It had been her. It wasn’t Lachlan that had begged for more. It had been her. Oh God, if the photographer’s flash hadn’t fired what else would he have photographed? And worse still, who would he sell the images to first? How long before they found their way onto the net? How much longer after that before they graced the front pages of newspapers around the world?

The crunch of heavy feet on grass made her start. She blinked, hugging herself as Lachlan stormed back toward her. Even in the darkness she could see the rage in his face. The icy contempt and disgusted fury.

“Did you…” She bit back the question before it could finish forming. It was a stupid question. The paparazzi knew how to get away. How to escape a furious target was an inherent talent. It went hand in hand with how to be a low-life scum feeding on another’s right to privacy.

Lachlan’s nostrils flared. He stopped a few feet away from her, jaw bunched. He didn’t look at her. Icy rage radiated from him, a menacing storm that made Cameron’s already knotted stomach twist.

“What the hell was I thinking?” The words fell from his lips in a flat grunt. His hands didn’t so much as drag through his hair, but gouge through it.

Cameron licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. “Do you know who it was?”

Unlike her previous question, this one wasn’t stupid. The Sydney paparazzi were a small band of carrion feeders. Those who were exposed to their particular talents grew to recognize them.

“A prick called Holston.”

Cameron bit back a groan. Carl Holston, Sydney’s most notorious paparazzo. The guy had been around even in Kole’s days, climbing trees into people’s backyards, following them into doctors’ surgeries, hanging outside their children’s school all in the hope of catching that one photo he could sell for thousands. There were even rumours he’d attempted to muscle his way into the private funeral of Nick Blackthorne’s parents in the hopes of scoring a shot of the grieving singer.

From Muscle for Hire

He tore his mouth from her lips, sucking in a steady breath as he stared down into her eyes. “I can fuck you here and now, Rowan. On my bike. Where anyone can stumble upon us. I don’t care. I’m beyond caring. But it’s your call. I don’t want you to—”

A sudden white flash bleached Rowan’s face, followed by another, and another.

Aslin spun around, his glare falling on a familiar man standing but a few feet away, a large SLR camera held up to his face.

Aslin’s gut clenched, cold fury storming through him.

Holston.

“Now that’s what I call an action shot, Rhodes,” the notorious Australian paparazzo called out, removing the memory card from the camera with swift hands. “You been taking lessons from that boss of yours?” He shoved the card into his back pocket with a smirk. “How is Nick by the way? Fucking around on his wife yet? I was hoping you’d lead me to him but instead I found—”

Rowan stiffened in Aslin’s arms. For a second. Only one. And then she was off his bike and sprinting toward Holston, a feline grace claiming her body.

 

And now here’s is an exclusive, never-seen-before (totally unedited) snippet from Guarded Hearts, the follow up to Muscle for Hire. (Guarded Hearts is only a working title. Still waiting to see what my editor thinks of it *grin*) It’s only the first mention of Holston, but trust me, what he does to American sit-com star Chris Huntley while Chris is in Australia is, well…just let me say, you’re going to want to strangle him.

“Excellent.” Bethany’s answering smile was stunning. If Liev wasn’t already so unsettled by his sexual attraction to the American actor sitting opposite him, he’d be floored by the young woman standing beside him. Come to think it, his horny bloody brain had already started to create a debauched fantasy involving all three of them. “I shall arrange a taxi to meet you at Circular Key to drive you home. Is that okay?”

“Perfect.” It would be easier if more expensive to call a taxi to collect him from the harbour-side home, but Liev didn’t want too many people knowing the location. And with Chris being in town, the paparazzi were already out in force. Images of Chris arriving at the airport were already online. Liev had scanned the celebrity gossip sites during the trip across the harbour, noting more than one image of the actor in the airport terminal attributed to the infamous Australian paparazzo, Carl Holston. Rhodes had pre-warned him Holston would be a nuisance.

Paparazzi weren’t something Liev had to deal with guarding politicians. It was only the odd job he had taken protecting Nick Blackthorne with Aslin that exposed him to their particular kind of scum. And in Australia, Holston was the king shit of them—

“Chris!”

So there you have it. Carl Holston. I fear, given that Nick Blackthorne is not finished with my muse, I shall be not be free of Holston any time soon. *sigh*

Sometimes, Everyone Needs A Hug…