Thursday, June 23, 2016

THE BILLIONAIRE'S FAVORITE MISTATE by Jessica Clare blog Tour


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A hot one night stand between friends might spark true love in The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake by Jessica Clare!


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Billionaire's.jpgBlurb

A hot one night stand between friends might spark true love in the latest Billionaires and Bridesmaids novel from the New York Times bestselling author of Billionaire Takes a Bride.

Greer has always been there for Asher, but she wishes she could break through her shyness and show how much she truly loves him. But after a steamy, mindless fling at Hunter and Gretchen’s engagement party, Greer finds herself tossed aside and forced to admit that you can’t love someone who doesn’t acknowledge you exist.

It’s a shame he got her pregnant.

After his fiancée betrayed him and tanked his business in one fell swoop, Asher has spent his time trying to rebuild his wealth and forget the past. But he doesn’t understand why Greer blew him off after their night together—until he catches a glimpse of her belly.

Now Asher is willing to do whatever it takes to convince Greer she belongs with him. And he’s very skilled at the art of persuasion.

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Excerpt
When the group started to disperse into partying again, he got out of his chair and moved toward Greer’s table, stalking her. He saw her heading off with one of the waitstaff and jogged to catch up. “Greer!”
She turned and her face paled at the sight of him. Her mouth firmed into an angry line of distaste, and then she picked up her skirts and continued to walk away.
Yeah, he was definitely on the shit list.
That didn’t deter him, though. Asher headed after her, following her into the house and catching up despite her efforts to hurry. “Hey, wait up. I think we need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you, Asher.” She didn’t turn to look at him.
He reached out and clasped her arm, noting how warm her skin was, and how soft. And damn it all if he didn’t start to get another inappropriate boner. His body really needed to learn to calm the fuck down. “Just give me five minutes of your time, all right? Then I’ll leave you alone.”
She exchanged a look with the waitress, and then nodded at her. “I’ll be inside in a minute. Go ahead.” When the woman left, Greer sighed and turned back to him, smoothing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “What is it, Asher? I’m very busy tonight with the party.”
“I can imagine. This is a terrific party. I should have known you were behind it.” He knew she’d done weddings for some top-notch clients in New York and always took her job extremely seriously. Of course she’d put on a spectacular party for her father. “Listen. I feel like the last time we saw each other, we . . . well, we fucked up.”
Her eyebrows went up.
Shit. That was apparently the wrong thing to say. “I mean, it was a fuckup, but not that fucking you was a mistake.” God, where was his suaveness when he needed it? Why was he all diarrhea of the mouth when it came to Greer? He could sweet talk anyone, but the moment he came close to her, he babbled like a schoolboy. “Not that I think we should have fucked, of course. We’re friends, and friends don’t sleep with each other. Not if they want to stay friends. And you’ve been avoiding me. We haven’t had our Mondays in the last few months.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“It doesn’t have to be Mondays, you know. It can be any other day. Or it doesn’t have to be lunch. It can be anytime you need it to be if your schedule is all screwed.” He frowned to himself. “I should probably stop saying the word screwed, shouldn’t I?”
Her arms crossed over her chest, pressing her dress tighter against her body. “Is this conversation going somewhere, Asher? Like I said, I’m very busy tonight.”
Greer’s tits looked magnificent in that dress, he realized. They’d been small, perfect handfuls the night they’d slept together and now they seemed . . . doubly abundant. “Did you get a boob job?”
Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “I need to go.”
Fuck, why did he say that? “Sorry. It’s none of my business. Listen.” He reached out and grabbed her elbow when she turned to leave, stopping her. “The reason why I wanted to talk to you tonight is because I was behaving like an ass that night. I was drunk and I wasn’t myself. I was just lost in misery and in booze, and if I’d been thinking straight, I would have never dragged you off to the gardens and slept with you.” And damn if that didn’t sound all wrong, too. “Not because you’re not attractive, Greer. You are.”
“You’re not winning me over, Asher.” Her voice sounded hard. “Did you truly come to this party just to tell me that you find me repulsive and you wouldn’t have slept with me if you were sober?”
“What? No, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re hot. I mean, hell, you look smoking hot in that dress tonight.” She was all lush curves, which was surprising given that his memories of her were of her daintiness. But her body had changed in the last couple of months. And something about that was bothering him. “I just . . . don’t think we should have done that. As friends.”
“On that, I agree completely. May I go now?”
Why wasn’t she thawing toward him? He remembered Greer as all soft, shy smiles for him. They’d been friends, good friends. The cool, remote stranger in front of him . . . well, it reminded him of Stijn and the politely disinterested-because-you-are-dirt-to-me expression he wore at all times. “I just . . . you’re a good friend and I don’t want to lose you.”
“We can’t change what happened, Asher.” She hadn’t thawed an inch. One of the waitstaff moved nearby with an enormous cake, and she delicately sidestepped on the path to allow them more room. As she did, the long hem of her skirt got caught in a nearby bush and pulled taut against her body, outlining a slightly rounded stomach.
Asher’s eyes widened as realization struck him. “Greer . . . are you pregnant?”
She bit her lip and averted her gaze.
Oh fuck. She was pregnant.“Is it . . . Is it mine?”
She looked back up again. Her eyes narrowed. She crooked her finger at him, indicating he should lean down. He did—
—And she delivered a ringing slap to his face.


About the Author
Jessica Clare is a pen name for Jill Myles.  Jill Myles has been an incurable romantic since childhood. She reads all the 'naughty parts' of books first, looks for a dirty joke in just about everything, and thinks to this day that the Little House on the Prairie books should have been steamier.

After devouring hundreds of paperback romances, mythology books, and archaeological tomes, she decided to write a few books of her own - stories with a wild adventure, sharp banter, and lots of super-sexy situations. She prefers her heroes alpha and half-dressed, her heroines witty, and she loves nothing more than watching them overcome adversity to fall into bed together.





THANK YOU!
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Wednesday, June 15, 2016

THE ANGEL WORE FANGS: Deadly Angels by Sandra Hill

New York Times bestselling author Sandra Hill continues her sexy Deadly Angels series, as a Viking vangel's otherworldly mission pairs him with a beautiful chef who whets his thousand-year-old appetite...


Once guilty of the deadly sin of gluttony, thousand-year-old Viking vampire angel, Cnut Sigurdsson is now a lean, mean, vampire-devil fighting machine. His new side-job: No biggie: just ridding the world of a thereat called ISIS while keeping the evil Lucipires (demon vampires) at bay. So when Chef Amanda Stewart hires him to rescue her sister from a cult recruiting terrorists at a Montana dude ranch, vangel turns cowboy. Yeehaw!

The too-tempting mortal  insists on accompanying him, surprising Cnut with her bravery at every turn. But with terrorists stalking the ranch in demoniod form, Cnut tele-transports Andrea and himself out of danger-accidently into the 10th Century Norselands. Suddenly, they have to find their way back to the future to save her family and the world...and to satisfy their insatiable attraction.


Purchase Here:

About the Author
Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories. She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons


Connect with Sandra Hill
Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/177305.Sandra_Hill
Rafflecopter giveaway:








Excerpt from THE ANGELS WORE FANGS:



Weight Watchers, where art thou? . . .



Cnut Sigurdsson was a big man. A really big man! He was taller than the average man, of course, being a Viking, but more than that, he was . . . well . . . truth to tell . . . fat.

Obesity was a highly unusual condition for Men of the North, Cnut had to admit, because Norsemen were normally vain of appearance, sometimes to a ridiculous extent. Long hair, combed to a high sheen. Braided beards. Clean teeth. Gold and silver arm rings to show off muscles. Tight braies delineating buttocks and ballocks.

But not him.

Cnut did not care.

Even now, when three of his six brothers, who’d come (uninvited, by the by) to his Frigg’s-day feast here at Hoggstead in the Norselands, were having great fun making jests about just that. They were half-brothers, actually, all with different mothers, but that was neither here nor there. Cnut cared not one whit what the lackwits said. Not even when Trond made oinking noises, as if Cnut’s estate were named for a porcine animal when he knew good and well it was the name of the original owner decades ago, Bjorn Hoggson. Besides, Trond had no room to make mock of others when he was known to be the laziest Viking to ever ride a longship. Some said he did not even have the energy to lift his cock for pissing, that he sat like a wench on the privy hole. That was probably not true, but it made a good story.

Nor did Cnut bother to rise and clout his eldest brother, Vikar, when he asked the skald to make a rhyme of Cnut’s name:

Cnut is a brute

And a glutton, of some repute.

He is so fat that, when he goes a-Viking for loot,

He can scarce lift a bow with an arrow to shoot.

But when it comes to woman-pursuit,

None can refute

That Cnut can “salute” with the best of them.

Thus and therefore, let it be known

And this is a truth absolute,

Size matters.

“Ha, ha, ha!” Cnut commented, while everyone in the great hall howled with laughter, and Vikar was bent over, gasping with mirth.

Cnut did not care, especially since Vikar was known to be such a prideful man he fair reeked of self-love. At least the skald had not told the poem about how, if Cnut spelled his name with a slight exchange of letters, he would be a vulgar woman part. That was one joke Cnut did not appreciate.

But mockery was a game to Norsemen. And, alas and alack, Cnut was often the butt of the jests.

He. Did. Not. Care.

Yea, some said he resembled a walking tree with a massive trunk, limbs like hairy battering rams, and fingers so chubby he could scarce make a fist. Even his face was bloated, surrounded by a mass of wild, tangled hair on head and beard, which was dark blond, though its color was indiscernible most times since it was usually greasy and teeming with lice. Unlike most Vikings, he rarely bathed. In his defense, what tub would hold him? And the water chute into the steam hut was often clogged. And the water in the fjords was frigid except for summer months. What man in his right mind wanted to turn his cock into an icicle?

A disgrace to the ideal of handsome, virile Vikinghood, he overheard some fellow jarls say about him on more than one occasion.

And as for his brother Harek, who considered himself smarter than the average Viking, Cnut glared his way and spoke loud enough for all to hear, “Methinks your first wife, Dagne, has put on a bit of blubber herself in recent years. Last time I saw her in Kaupang, she was as wide as she was tall. And she farted as she walked, rather waddled. Phhhttt, phhhttt, phhhttt! Now, there is something to make mock of!”

“You got me there,” Harek agreed with a smile, raising his horn of mead high in salute.

One of the good things about Vikings was that they could laugh at themselves. The sagas were great evidence of that fact.

At least Cnut was smart enough not to take on any wives of his own, despite his twenty and eight years. Concubines and the odd wench here and there served him well. Truly, as long as Cnut’s voracious hunger for all bodily appetites—food, drink, sex—was being met, he cared little what others thought of him.

When his brothers were departing two days later (he thought they’d never leave), Vikar warned him, “Jesting aside, Cnut, be careful. One of these days your excesses are going to be your downfall.”

“Not one of these days. Now,” Cnut proclaimed jovially as he crooked a chubby forefinger at Inga, a passing chambermaid with a bosom not unlike the figurehead of his favorite longship, Sea Nymph. “Wait for me in the bed furs,” he called out to her. “I plan to fall down with you for a bit of bedplay.”

Vikar, Trond, and Harek just shook their heads at him, as if he were a hopeless case.

Cnut did not care.

But Vikar’s words came back to haunt Cnut several months later when he was riding Hugo, one of his two war horses, across his vast estate. A normal-size palfrey could not handle his weight; he would squash it like an oatcake. Besides, his long legs dragged on the ground. So he had purchased two Percherons from Le Perche, a province north of Norsemandy in the Franklands known for breeding the huge beasts. They’d cost him a fortune.

But even with the sturdy destrier and his well-padded arse, not to mention the warm, sunny weather, Cnut was ready to return to the keep for a midday repast. Most Vikings had only two meals a day. The first, dagmál or “day-meal,” breaking of fast, was held two hours after morning work was started, and the second, náttmál or “night meal.” was held in the evening when the day’s work was completed. But Cnut needed a midday meal, as well. And right now, a long draught of mead and an afternoon nap would not come amiss. But he could not go back yet. His steward, Finngeir the Frugal (whom he was coming to regard as Finn the Bothersome Worrier), insisted that he see the extent of the dry season on the Hoggstead cotters’ lands.

Ho-hum. Cnut didn’t even bother to stifle his yawn.

“Even in the best of times, the gods have not blessed the Norselands with much arable land, being too mountainous and rocky. Why else would we go a-Viking but to settle new, more fertile lands?”

“And women,” Cnut muttered. “Fertile or not.”

Finn ignored his sarcasm and went on. Endlessly. “One year of bad crops is crippling, but two years, and it will be a disaster, I tell you. Look at the fields. The grains are half as high as they should be by this time of year. If it does not rain soon—”

Blather, blather, blather. I should have brought a horn of ale with me. And an oatcake, or five. Cnut did not like Finn’s lecturing tone, but Finn was a good and loyal subject, and Cnut would hate the thought of replacing him. So Cnut bit back a snide retort. “What would you have me do? A rain dance? I can scarce walk, let alone dance. Ha, ha, ha.”

Finn did not smile.

The humorless wretch.

“Dost think I have a magic wand to open the clouds? The only wand I have is betwixt my legs. Ha, ha, ha.”

No reaction, except for a continuing frown, and a resumption of his tirade. “You must forgive the taxes for this year. Then you must open your storerooms to feed the masses. That is what you must do.”

“Are you barmy? I cannot do that! I need the taxes for upkeep of my household and to maintain a fighting troop of housecarls. As for my giving away foodstuffs, forget about that, too.

Last harvest did not nearly fill my oat and barley bins. Nay, ’tis impossible!”

“There is more. Look about you, my jarl. Notice how the people regard you. You will have an uprising on your own lands, if you are not careful.”

“What? Where? I do not know—” Cnut’s words cut off as he glanced to his right and left, passing through a narrow lane that traversed through his crofters’ huts. Here and there, he saw men leaning on rakes or hauling manure to the fields. They were gaunt-faced and grimy, glaring at him through angry eyes. One man even spat on the ground, narrowly missing Hugo’s hoof. And the women were no better, raising their skinny children up for him to see.

“That horse would feed a family of five for a month,” one toothless old graybeard yelled.

His wife—Cnut assumed it was his wife, being equally aged and toothless—cackled and said, “Forget that. If the master skipped one meal a month, the whole village could feast.”

Many of those standing about laughed.

Cnut did not.

Good thing they did not know how many mancuses it had taken to purchase Hugo and the other Percheron. It was none of their concern! Cnut had a right to spend his wealth as he chose. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.

Now, instead of being softened by what he saw, Cnut hardened his heart. “If they think to threaten me, they are in for a surprise,” he said to Finn once they’d left the village behind and were returning to the castle keep. “Tell the taxman to evict those who do not pay their rents this year.”

By late autumn, when the last of the meager crops was harvested, Cnut had reason to reconsider. Already, he’d had to buy extra grains and vegetables from the markets in Birka and Hedeby, just for his keep. Funerals were held back to back in the village. And he was not convinced that Hugo had died of natural causes last sennight, especially when his carcass had disappeared overnight. Cnut had been forced to post guards about his stables and storage shed since then. Everywhere he turned, people were grumbling, if not outright complaining.

That night, in a drukkinn fit of rage, he left his great hall midway through the dinner meal. Highly unusual for him. But then, who wouldn’t lose his appetite with all those sour faces silently accusing him? It wasn’t Cnut who’d brought the drought; even the most sane-minded

Creature must know that. Blame the gods, or lazy field hands who should have worked harder, or bad seed.

As he was leaving, he declined an invitation from some of his hersirs who were engaged in a game of hneftafl. Even his favorite board game with its military strategies and rousing side bets held no interest tonight. Bodil, a chambermaid, gave him a sultry wink of invitation in passing, but he was not in the mood for bedplay tonight, either.

He decided to visit the garderobe before taking to his bed, alone, and nigh froze his balls when he sat on the privy hole. He was further annoyed to find that someone had forgotten to replenish the supply of moss and grape leaves for wiping.

When Cnut thought things could not get any worse, he opened the garderobe door and almost tripped over the threshold at what he saw. A man stood across the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. A stranger. Could it be one of his desperate, starving tenants come to seek revenge on him, as Finn had warned?

No. Despite the darkness, the only light coming from a sputtering wall torch, Cnut could see that this man was handsome in appearance, noble in bearing. Long, black hair. Tall and lean, though well-muscled, like a warrior. And oddly, he wore a long white robe with a twisted rope belt, and a gold crucifix hung from a chain about his neck. Even odder, there appeared to be wings half folded behind his back.

Was it a man or something else?

I must be more drukkinn than I thought. “Who are you?”

“St. Michael the Archangel.”

One of those flying creatures the Christians believe in? This is some alehead madness I am imagining! A walking dream.

’Tis no dream, fool,” the stranger said, as if he’d read Cnut’s thoughts.

“What do you want?” Cnut demanded.

“Not you, if I had a choice, that is for certain,” the man/creature/angel said with a tone of disgust. “Thou art a dire sinner, Cnut Sigurdsson, and God is not pleased with you.”

“Which god would that be? Odin? Thor?”

“For shame! There is only one God.”

Ah! Of course. He referred to the Christian One-God. Vikings might follow the Old Norse religions, but they were well aware of the Christian dogma, and, in truth, many of them allowed themselves to be baptized, just for the sake of expediency.

“So, your God is not pleased with me. And I should care about that . . . why?” Cnut inquired, holding on to the doorjamb to straighten himself with authority. He was a high jarl, after all, and this person was trespassing. Cnut glanced about for help, but none of his guardsmen were about. Surprise, surprise. They are probably still scowling and complaining about the lack of meat back in the hall. I am going to kick some arse for this neglect.

“Attend me well, Viking; you should care because thou are about to meet your maker.” He said Viking as if it were a foul word. “As are your brothers. Sinners, all of you!”

“Huh?”

“Seven brothers, each guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride. Lust. Sloth. Wrath. Gluttony. Envy. Greed.” He gave Cnut a pointed look. “Wouldst care to guess which one is yours?”

Nay, he would not. “So I eat and drink overmuch. I can afford the excess. What sin is that?”

“Fool!” the angel said, and immediately a strange fog swirled in the air. In its mist, Cnut saw flashing images:

  • Starving and dead children.
  • Him gnawing on a boar shank so voraciously that a greasy drool slipped down his chin. Not at all attractive.
  • One of his cotters being beaten to a bloody pulp for stealing bread for his family.
  • Honey being spread on slice after slice of manchet bread on his high table.
  • A young Cnut, no more than eight years old, slim and sprightly, chasing his older brothers about their father’s courtyard.
  • A naked, adult Cnut, gross and ugly with folds of fat and swollen limbs. He could not run now, if he’d wanted to.
  • A family, wearing only threadbare garb and carrying cloth bundles of its meager belongings, being evicted from its home with no place to go in the snowy weather.
  • Warm hearths and roofs overhead on the Hoggstead keep.
  • A big-bosomed concubine riding Cnut in the bed furs, not an easy task with his big belly.
  • The same woman weeping as she unwrapped a linen cloth holding scraps of bread and meat, half-eaten oatcakes, and several shrunken apples, before her three young children.



Cnut had seen enough. “This farce has gone on long enough! You say I am going to die? Now? And all my brothers, too? Excuse me if I find that hard to believe.”

“Not all at once. Some have already passed. Others will go shortly.”

Really? Three of his brothers had been here several months past, and he had not received news of any deaths in his family since, but then their estates were distant and the roads were nigh impassable this time of year. The fjords were no better, already icing over, making passage difficult for longships.

“I should toss you down the privy hole and let you die in the filth,” the angel said, “but you would not fit. Better yet, I should lock you in the garderobe and let you starve to death, like your serfs do.”

Ah, so that’s what this was about. “You cannot blame me for lack of rain or poor harvests. In fact, your God—”

Before he could finish the thought, the angel pointed a forefinger at him, and a flash of light passed forth, hitting Cnut right in the chest, like a bolt of lightning. Cnut found himself dangling off the floor. He clutched his heart, which felt as if a giant stake had passed through his body, securing him to the wall.

“Let it be known hither and yon, the Viking race has become too arrogant and brutish, and it is God’s will that it should die out. But you and your brothers are being given a second chance, though why, only God knows.”

What? Wait. Did he say I won’t be dying, after all?

“This is thy choice. Repent and agree to become a vangel in God’s army for seven hundred years, and thou wilt have a chance to make up for your mortal sins. Otherwise, die and spend eternity at Satan’s hearth.”

A sudden smell of rotten eggs filled the air. Brimstone, Cnut guessed, which was said to be a characteristic of the Christian afterlife for those who had offended their god. At the same time, he could swear his toes felt a mite warm. Yea, fire and brimstone, for a certainty.

So, I am being given a choice between seven hundred years in God’s army or forever roasting in Hell. Some choice! Still, he should not be too quick to agree. “Vangel? What in bloody hell is a vangel?” Cnut gasped out.

“A Viking vampire angel who will fight the forces of Satan’s Lucipires, demon vampires who roam the world spreading evil.”

That was clear as fjord mud. Cnut was still pinned high on the wall, and he figured he was in no position to negotiate. Besides, seven hundred years didn’t sound too bad.

But he forgot to ask what exactly a vampire was.

He soon found out.

With a wave of his hand, the angel loosened Cnut’s invisible ties, and he fell to the floor. If he’d thought the heart pain was bad, it was nothing compared to the excruciating feel of bones being crushed and reformed. If that wasn’t bad enough, he could swear he felt fangs forming on each side of his mouth, like a wolf. And his shoulders were being ripped apart, literally, and replaced with what, Cnut could not be sure, as he writhed about the rush-covered floor.

“First things first,” the angel said then, leaning over him with a menacing smile. “You are going on a diet.”



Praise for Sandra Hill’s Deadly Angels series:

Fans of paranormal and time travel will get a kick out of this sexy and often humorous addition to the Deadly Angels series. Viking vampire angel Cnut is a completely strong hero, and Andrea, his accompaniment, is matched with him perfectly. Their antics will make readers giggle, and their adventures will keep fans at the edge of their seats. Hill’s vivid imagination really shines!”
RT Book Reviews on The Angel Wore Fangs

An awesome…series! Kept me up late into the night reading. Looking forward to the next installment.” — New York Times bestselling author Lynsay Sands

Hill has written another winner featuring her Viking vampire angels. In her fourth in the passion-driven Deadly Angels series, two of the most unlikely characters, Mordr and Miranda, are thrown together and the result is laugh-out-loud humor and unrivaled sex appeal.”
Romantic Times Book Reviews on Kiss of Wrath

With her clever dialogue, often bawdy situations, and great cast of characters, including a warrior woman, a proverb-spouting wise man/healer from the East, and a saucy cook, Hill has created another wickedly wonderful story.” —Booklist (starred review) on Kiss of Wrath

The third book in Sandra Hill’s Deadly Angels series, Kiss of Temptation, comes out Tuesday. Along with it comes the temptation to play hooky that day so I can hang out with Ivak, who’s guilty of the sin of lust. Aren’t we all, when it comes to Sandra Hill’s books?”
USA Today on Kiss of Temptation

Thanks for the laughs and the heartfelt emotions, Ms. Hill. I loved this one and am looking forward to the next book in this exciting series.” —The Romance Reviews on Kiss of Temptation

Earthy, laugh-out-loud hilarious, and lusty, this tenth-century revel takes readers back to a much-less-refined time and is just plain fun. Hill’s (Viking Heat) Viking series are legendary; her fans are sure to enjoy this latest addition.” —Library Journal on Kiss of Surrender

Sixth in the Deadly Angels series, Even Vampires Get the Blues is entertaining, solid and consistent in its storytelling. Fans of the Vampire Viking Angels series will be pleased.”
Romantic Times Book Reviews on Even Vampires Get the Blues

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Contest & Excerpt for FAN THE FLAMES: Rocky Mountain Search & Rescue by Katie Ruggel


In the remote Rocky Mountains, lives depend on the Search & Rescue brotherhood. But in a place this far off the map, trust is hard to come by and secrets can be murder…

As a Motorcycle Club member and firefighter, Ian Walsh is used to riding the line between the good guys and the bad. He may owe the Club his life, but his heart rests with his fire station brothers…and with the girl he’s loved since they were kids, Rory Sorenson. Ian would do anything for Rory. He’d die for her. Kill for her. Defend her to his last breath—and he may just have to.

Every con in the Rockies knows Rory is the go-to girl for less-than-legal firearms, and for the past few years, she’s managed to keep the peace between dangerous factions by remaining strictly neutral. But when she defends herself against a brutal attack, Rory finds herself catapulted into the center of a Motorcycle Club war—with only Ian standing between her and a threat greater than either of them could have imagined.

About Katie Ruggle:
When she’s not writing, Katie Ruggle rides horses, shoots guns, and travels to warm places where she can SCUBA dive. Graduating from the Police Academy, Katie received her ice-rescue certification and can attest that the reservoirs in the Colorado mountains really are that cold. While she still misses her off-grid, solar- and wind-powered house in the Rocky Mountains, she now lives in Rochester, Minnesota near her family.



Excerpt
If Zup didn’t decide on the rifle within the next two minutes, Rory was going to shoot him.
Unfortunately, because he was the son of the local motorcycle club’s president, killing him—or even just putting a hole where no hole had been before—would pretty much guarantee severe consequences. Since Rory was moderately content with her life at the moment, she’d rather not have it end abruptly. Drawing a long breath in through her nose and praying for patience, she employed her subpar salesmanship skills.
“What’s the problem?”
Zup looked up from his scowling appraisal of the SUB 2000. “Maze said he had a Kel-Tec, and it jammed all the time.”
“Tell Maze to quit using crap ammo.” He just frowned at her. With another deep breath, she tried again. “These rifles are built to use common pistol magazines.”
“I know.” He held the rifle to his shoulder again. “That’s why I want one. That, and it can fold in half, so it’d be small enough to carry around in a laptop case.”
“Well, the recoil spring and bolt are heavier than in a pistol.” With a great effort, she kept most of the condescension out of her voice. Rory hated having to explain things to people, especially guys like Zup, who just ignored her anyway. This was why she hadn’t become a teacher. Well, that, and she’d most likely fail the background check—and probably the psych exam. “If you use poor quality rounds, you’re going to get some failures.”
Zup’s frown turned from the rifle to her. “Maze loads all our ammo. Are you telling me he’s fucking it up?”
“What I’m saying,” she gritted through clenched teeth, “is that if you run good ammo through this rifle, it’s going to be reliable.”
After eyeing her suspiciously for a few seconds, he grunted and brought the stock to his shoulder again. He shifted his position several times as he peered through the sights, and then complained, “This steel pipe sucks as a cheek rest.”
“That’s it.” She jumped off the counter where she’d been sitting and held out her hands. “Give it to me.”
Instead, he turned away from her while tucking the rifle close to his chest. “Hang on,” he told her. “I’m still deciding.”
“No, I’ve decided for you.” Rory flicked her fingers in a “gimme” gesture. There was a beep indicating someone had just come through the front door of her shop, and the last of her patience disappeared. “If you can’t appreciate an accurate, dependable, untraceable Kel-Tec SUB 2000 because it’s not comfy enough, then you don’t deserve it. Hand it over.”
Reluctantly, he relinquished the rifle. “I do want it. How much?”
“Nope. Too late.” She pulled down on the trigger guard and swung the barrel assembly up and over the receiver, marveling at the ingenuity it took to completely redesign a rifle so it could fold in half. As she gently placed it into its case, she couldn’t refrain from stroking her fingers over the gun’s practical shape. It wasn’t the most attractive of rifles, but it did its job. She’d take functional over pretty any day.
Zup watched the gun disappear. Although it was hard to tell under his bushy beard, she was pretty sure he was pouting. “Ro-ry…”
“What are you whining about now, Zup?” a low voice asked.
It took all her willpower not to look. If she glanced at Ian Walsh in all his dark, muscle-bound glory, she’d start stammering and blushing. Every time he walked into her store, his melty brown eyes focused on her, black hair mussed by his fireman’s helmet or a motorcycle ride, those full, beautiful lips curving into a friendly smile, she marveled that this incredible person was in her life. They were just friends, of course, but she told herself that it was enough—more than she could expect, really. With his model-perfect features and body, he looked as if he should be attending photo shoots, not leaning on the wall behind the counter, chatting with plain, weird Rory Sorenson.
Plain, weird Rory Sorenson, who right now couldn’t even look at him.
After that first breath-stealing moment when she first saw him, she could usually turn on casual-and-friendly mode, but not after the dream she’d had the night before—a dream that had featured her, Ian, his bike, and not many clothes. Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Keeping her gaze focused downward, she latched the case with more care than was required.