SMOOTH TALKING STRANGER
New York Times Bestseller
This is a peek at my contemporary romance, titled “Smooth Talking Stranger.” Ella Varner has it all--a successful career as an advice columnist, a handsome boyfriend, and a circle of friends in Austin. When anyone has a problem, Ella knows the answers.
But one night she receives a call that changes everything. And as Ella's world is turned upside-down, she meets a man who is the opposite of everything she ever wanted . . . a man who will offer her the most irresistible challenge she has ever known . . .
Aware of a figure approaching from one of the hallways that branched out from the office reception area, I turned gratefully. I assumed it was the receptionist. Instead I saw three men were walking out, all dressed in dark, expensive-looking suits. One of them was fair and slim, the other short and a bit portly, and the third was the most striking man I had ever seen.
He was tall and lean, all hard muscle and easy masculinity, with dark eyes and heavy, well-cut black hair. The way he carried himself—the confidence in his walk, the relaxed set of his shoulders—proclaimed that he was accustomed to being in charge. Pausing in mid-conversation, he gave me an alert look, and my breath caught. A blush crept over my face, and a hectic pulse began at the front of my throat.
One glance and I knew exactly who and what he was. The classic alpha male, the kind who had spurred evolution forward about five million years ago by nailing every female in sight. They charmed, seduced, and behaved like bastards, and yet women were biologically incapable of resisting their magic DNA.
Still staring at me, he spoke in a deep voice that raised gooseflesh on my arms. "I thought I heard a baby out here."
"Mr. Travis?" I asked crisply, jostling my whimpering infant nephew.
He gave a short nod.
"I hoped I might catch you between meetings. I'm Ella. From Austin. Ella Varner. I need to talk to you briefly."
The receptionist came from another hallway, plastic baby bottle in hand. "Oh God," she muttered, hurrying forward. "Mr. Travis, I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Travis said, gesturing for her to give me the bottle, which she had warmed in the office microwave.
I took it, shook a few drops on my wrist, and shoved the nipple into the baby's mouth. Luke grunted in satisfaction and fell into a busy, sucking silence.
Looking back up into Travis's eyes, which were as dark and rich as blackstrap molasses, I asked, "May I speak with you for a few minutes?"
Travis studied me thoughtfully. I was struck by the contradictions about him, the expensive clothes and bold good looks, the sense of unpolished edges. He was unapologetically masculine in a way that suggested you should either scramble to get on his good side or get the hell out of his way.
I couldn't help contrasting him with my boyfriend Dane, whose golden handsomeness and jaw-softening stubble had always been so soothing and approachable. There was nothing soothing about Jack Travis. Except maybe his deep sugar-maple baritone.
"That depends," Travis said easily. "You gonna try to sell me something?" He had a heavy Texas accent, the kind in which dropped g's hit the floor like summer hailstones.
"No. It's a personal matter."
A touch of offhand amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth. "I usually save personal matters for after five," he told me.
"I can't wait that long." I took a deep breath before adding boldly, "And I should warn you that if you get rid of me now, you'll have to deal with me later. I'm very persistent."
The trace of a smile lingered on his lips as he turned to the other men. "Would y'all mind waiting for me at the bar on the seventh floor?"
"No hardship," one of them said in a brisk British accent. "We never mind loitering in the bar. Shall I order for you, Travis?"
"Yeah, I don't expect this'll take long. Dos Equis, lime wedge, no glass."
As the men left, Jack Travis turned his full attention to me. Although I was medium height, hardly a short woman, he towered over me. "My office." He motioned for me to precede him. "Last door on the right."
Carrying Luke, I went to the corner office. A large fanned wedge of windows revealed the skyline, where relentless sunlight ricocheted off a stand of glass-skinned buildings. In contrast to the sterile reception area, the office was comfortably cluttered, with deep leather chairs and piles of books and folders, and family pictures in black frames.
After positioning a chair for me, Travis half-sat on his desk, facing me. His features were emphatically defined, the nose straight and substantial, the jaw nearly lacerating in its precision.
"Let's make this fast, Ella-from-Austin," he said. "I got a deal on the stringer, and I'd rather not keep those guys waiting."
"You're going to manage property for them?"
"Hotel chain." His gaze flickered to Luke. "You might want to tilt that bottle; she's getting air."
I frowned and adjusted the bottle upward. "It's a boy. Why does everyone assume he's a girl?"
"He's wearing Hello Kitty socks." There was a distinct note of disapproval in his voice.
"They were the only ones available in his size," I said.
"You can't put a boy in pink socks."
"He's only a week old. Do I have to worry about gender bias already?"
"You really are from Austin, aren't you?" he asked wryly. "How can I help you, Ella?"
The task of explaining was so considerable, I hardly knew where to start. "Just so you're prepared," I said in a businesslike tone, "the story I'm going to tell you ends with a stinger."
"I'm used to that. Go on."
"My sister is Tara Varner. You went out with her last year." Seeing that the name didn't ring a bell, I added, "You know Liza Purcell? . . . she's my cousin. She fixed you up with Tara."
Travis thought for a moment. "I remember Tara," he finally said. "Tall, blonde, leggy."
"That's right." Seeing that Luke had finished the bottle, I put the empty container in the diaper bag and draped the baby over my shoulder to burp him. "This is Tara's son. Luke. She gave birth to him, left him with my mother, and took off somewhere. We're trying to locate her. Meanwhile I'm trying to secure some kind of situation for the baby."
Travis was very still. The atmosphere in the office took on a hostile chill. I saw that I had been identified as a threat, or perhaps just a nuisance. Either way, his faint smile was now edged with contempt.
"I think I get the stinger you're working around to," he said. "He's not mine, Ella."
Blue Eyed Devil
New York Times Bestseller
"Blue-Eyed Devil" is the story of the charming, volatile and ambitious Hardy Cates, who is determined to carry out his private revenge against the Travis family. Haven is the rebellious Travis daughter who struggles against her overpowering attraction to the most dangerous man in town. But when Hardy crashes a Travis family wedding, the heiress and the bad boy uncover an explosive chemistry that neither of them can deny. Hardy Cates is an unscrupulous rascal, but now he's trying to clean up his act. He is looking for the perfect society wife, the kind of woman Haven Travis could never be. Having once been burned by a love affair gone wrong, Haven vows to stay far away from the sexy heartbreaker. However, Haven discovers that the temptation of a blue-eyed devil is hard to resist. And then when a menace from Haven's past appears, Hardy may be the only one to save her...To my relief, I saw the familiar outline of Nick’s head and shoulders near the dark arched doorway that led to the dine-in wine cellar. He had gone through the small wrought-iron gate and left it ajar. It looked like he was heading into the vault, which was lined with oak barrel stays that sweetened the air. I figured Nick must have gotten tired of the crowds and had come early to meet me. I wanted him to hold me. I needed a moment of peace in the middle of all the cacophony.
Skirting around the dining table, I went to the wine cellar. The gate closed behind me with a smooth clack. Reaching for the light switch, I flipped it off and went into the cellar.
I heard Nick mutter “Hey—”
“Just me.” I found him easily in the darkness, giving a low laugh as my palms slid over his shoulders. “Mmmn. You feel nice in a tux.”
He started to say something, but I tugged his head down until my half-open mouth skimmed the edge of his jaw. “I missed you,” I whispered. “You didn’t dance with me.”
His breath caught, and his hands came to my hips as I wobbled a little in my high heels. The wine-sweet air filled my nostrils, and something else . . . the scent of male skin, fresh like nutmeg or ginger . . . a sun-warmed spice. Exerting pressure on the back of his neck, I urged his mouth to mine, finding softness and heat, the tang of champagne melting into the intimate taste of him.
One of his hands traveled up my spine, coaxing out a shiver, a sweet shock, as the warmth of his palm met my bare skin. I felt the strength of his hand, and the gentleness, as it closed over my nape and tilted my head back. His mouth barely grazed mine, more a promise of a kiss than an actual one. I made a little sound at the brush of his lips and kept my face upturned, straining for more. Another lush descent, a dizzying pressure as he opened my mouth with his. He reached deeper, his tongue finding ticklish places that drew a shivering laugh from my throat.
I tried to curl around him, holding him with my arching body. His mouth was slow and searching, the kisses hard at first, then loosening as if unraveling from their own heat. The pleasure thickened, hard flushes rising through me, bringing the desire to full-slip ripeness. I wasn’t aware of moving backward, but I felt the frame of the tasting table high against my bottom, the sharp edge digging into my flesh.
Nick lifted me with astonishing ease until I sat on the chilled table. He took my mouth again, longer, deeper, while I tried to catch his tongue, tried to draw him as far inside as possible. I wanted to lie back on the table, an offering of aching flesh on sterile marble, and let him do anything he wanted. Something had been cut loose in me. I was saturated with excitement, drunk with it, and part of it was because Nick, who always seemed so in control, was fighting for self-restraint. His breath came in ragged puffs, his hands gripping my body.
He kissed my throat, tasting the thin, susceptible skin, his lips stroking the throb of my pulse. Panting, I slid my hands up to his hair, so soft and thick, layers of heavy silk in my palms.
Not at all like Nick’s.
A cold shot of horror went down to my stomach. “Oh God.” I was barely able to force the words out. I touched his face in the darkness, encountering hard, unfamiliar features, the scrape of shaven bristle. The corners of my eyes stung, but I wasn’t sure whether the imminent tears were caused by embarrassment, anger, fear, disappointment, or some unholy combination of all of them. “Nick?”
My wrist was caught in a powerful hand, and his mouth dragged softly over the insides of my fingers. A kiss burned the center of my palm, and then I heard a voice so smoky and deep I would have sworn it belonged to the devil.
“Who’s Nick?”
Sugar Daddy
Excerpt from Sugar Daddy:
The heroine of Sugar Daddy, Liberty Jones, works for the billionaire Churchill Travis, who has broken his leg in a riding accident. The oldest Travis son, Gage, has made it clear that Liberty and the eight year-old sister she is raising by herself are not welcome at the family mansion... Every time Gage Travis looked at me, you could tell he wanted to tear me limb from limb. Not in a fury, but in a process of slow and methodical dismemberment.
The day we moved in, our possessions crammed into cardboard boxes, I thought Gage would throw me out bodily. I had begun to unpack in the bedroom I had chosen, a beautiful space with wide windows and pale moss-green walls, and cream-colored molding. What had decided me on the room was the grouping of black and white photographs on one wall. They were Texas images; a cactus, a bob-wire fence, a horse, and to my delight, a front shot of an armadillo looking straight into the camera.
As I opened my suitcase on the king-size bed, Gage appeared in the doorway. My fingers curled around the edge of the suitcase, my knuckles jutting until you could have shredded carrots on them. Even knowing I was reasonably safe--surely Churchill would keep him from killing me--I was still alarmed. He filled up the doorway, looking big and mean and pitiless.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His soft voice unsettled me far more than shouting would have.
I answered through dry lips. "Churchill said I could choose any room I wanted."
"You can either leave voluntarily, or I'll throw you out. Believe me, you'd rather go on your own."
I didn't move. "You have a problem, you talk to your father. He wants me here."
"I don't give a damn. Get going."
A little trickle of sweat went down the middle of my back. I didn't move.
He reached me in three strides and took my upper arm in a painful grip.
A gasp of surprise was torn from my throat. "Take your hands off me!" I strained and shoved at him, but his chest was as unyielding as the trunk of a live oak.
"I told you before I wasn't going to--" He broke off. I was released with a suddenness that caused me to stagger back a step. Our sharp respirations pierced the silence. He was staring at the dresser, where I had set out a few pictures in standup frames. Trembling, I put my hand on the part of my arm he'd gripped. I rubbed the spot as if to erase his touch. But I could still feel an invisible hand print embedded in my skin.
He went to the dresser and picked up one of the photos. "Who is this?"
It was a picture of Mama, taken not long after she'd married my father. She had been impossibly young and blonde and beautiful. "Don't touch that," I cried, rushing forward to snatch the photo from him.
"Who is it?" he repeated.
"My mother."
His head bent as he stood over me, looking into my face with a speculative gaze. I was so bewildered by the abrupt halt of our conflict that I couldn't summon the words to ask what in God's name was going through his mind. I was absurdly conscious of the sound of my breathing, and his, the counterpoint gradually evening until the rhythm of our lungs was identical. Light from the plantation shutters made bright stripes across both of us, casting shadow spokes from his lashes down the crests of his cheek. I could see the whisker grain of his close-shaven skin, foretelling a heavy five o'clock shadow.
I dampened my dry lips with my tongue, and his gaze followed the movement. We were standing too close. I could smell the bite of starch in his collar, and a whiff of warm male skin, and I was shocked by my response. In spite of everything, I wanted to lean even closer. I wanted a deep breath of him.
A frown tugged between his brows. "We're not finished," he muttered, and left the room without another word.
I had no doubt he'd gone straight to Churchill, but it would be a long time before I found out what was said between them, or why Gage had decided to abandon that particular battle.
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