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For the Love of a God:
Blurb:
Conservator Maia Douglas
is an expert on ancient Greece and its mythology. She would never tell anyone
at the museum where she works, but she's always had a secret crush on the
mythical Eryx, Greek god of love. There is nothing she loves more than to tend to
her favorite statue of him, and her nighttime dreams are filled with luscious
images of Eryx making love to her.
One day, the peace at
Maia's beloved museum is shattered when a new director arrives. A man who looks
exactly like her image of Eryx. As Maia watches, he manages to upset her
ordered museum world, at the same time he inflames her with unwanted desire.
Maia does not know that
her new boss is actually the god Eryx, disguised as a mortal so he may work in
antiquities. Although he is the god of love, he has forsaken his sexual nature
because of a curse that has killed any woman he's dared to love. Though he
fights it, Eryx is drawn to Maia with a force he's never experienced in a
thousand years. But can he convince her of his true identity? And can he
protect her from a vengeful goddess who seeks her destruction?
Excerpt:
And without knowing quite
how it happened, she found herself being led across Yonge Street to the Mad
Irishman Pub. As they crossed the busy road, Eric put his hand on the small of
her back. For some reason, she felt safe with his hand there. Warm and safe.
Maybe it was because the
cars were just peeling away from them. Even though they were jaywalking, all
the cars came to a halt before Eric. It was like Moses crossing the Red Sea.
Maia couldn’t count how many times she’d almost been hit in the past by
unfeeling downtown Toronto drivers. Yet those same drivers couldn’t make enough
space for Eric Lord.
It must be his shiny blond
hair. His golden highlights were a blinding beacon.
Dye job, she decided.
They got to the pub, and
he led her to a plush half-circular booth tucked in the back. As he let her
pass him to get into the booth, he placed his hand on her back again. Once
again, a blazing heat trailed from his fingers through her clothes and right
into her pores.
What was it with this man?
She’d known menopausal women who didn’t feel so hot to the touch all the time.
She sat down and blew up
her messy bangs with a breath, feeling hot herself. She then watched the
waitress drool all over Eric as she handed them menus. Maia made a face, but
plastered on a happy grin when she saw him looking at her. They ordered. A
Guinness for her and a cranberry juice for him.
“Aren’t you going to have
a real drink?” she asked.
“I’m good,” he chuckled
quietly. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
Oh God, she thought. Was
he an alcoholic? Or a health nut? She wasn’t sure which scenario alarmed her
more.
“So,” he continued. “Do
you mind if I call you by your first name?”
“Don’t like being so
formal with your peons?”
He stared back at her,
obviously holding back a retort. His eyes flashed as if lit from behind. For
the first time, she noticed all the golden specks surrounding his dark pupils.
They made his eyes seem an even deeper green, like the forest after a storm. It
was such an arresting effect. She had to look away for a moment.
“I hope, going forward,
you’ll call me Eric,” he said in his deep voice. “Not asshole or moron.”
It was her turn to laugh.
“Fine. Then you can call me Maia.”
“Thank you, Maia,” he replied,
almost in a whisper.
Her vagina clenched. It
actually seized. Feeling tremendous unease, Maia looked away again. He hadn’t
said anything sexual or vulgar. He’d only said her name. Yet, for some reason,
the way Eric Lord said it made her feel as if he was touching her, caressing
her most intimate places. She adjusted the way she was sitting, and angled away
from him a little.
God help her, her panties
were wet.
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Book
Blurb: Sweet Hell
Dionysus,
Greek god of wine and theater, is the world’s original playboy. But lately, he
has been restless, moody, and he knows something is wrong. His carefree and
bacchanal lifestyle is starting to feel like one long string of meaningless,
sexual escapades. Even worse, he is suddenly aroused by the idea of marriage.
And to top it all off, Josie Marino, the mouthy, disheveled, and eternally
annoying woman who serves him coffee at the local bakery, sets him on fire.
Josie,
a Toronto baker of Italian heritage, is not looking for love or lust.
Especially not with Dionysus Iros, the most aggravating, demanding customer
she'd ever had to serve. With his rippling muscles and sexy, knowing eyes, he's
obviously trouble with a capital T. Unfortunately, he's also the star of her
every X-rated dream. She’s known players like Dionysus before, and one of them
almost got the better of her. Josie determines she will not fall for his
considerable physical charms, come hell or high water.
But
Dionysus turns strangely protective when a sinister character arrives at
Josie's bakery, and they can no longer deny their unwanted feelings for one
another. They are forced to embark on a bizarre, sexually-charged journey to
hell itself, which threatens to either change them for the better, or destroy
them.
Excerpt:
There
were usually two men Josie Marino had contact with at the ungodly hour of five
in the morning. Not good contact. Certainly not sweaty, chest-heaving, “take
me, take me” contact. And definitely not contact with Petter, the Norwegian
male model who lived next door.
Nah.
That would have been too perfect, wouldn’t it?
Instead,
most mornings, Josie had to settle for haggling with her two least favorite men
on the planet. Nelson Tate, the deliveryman from her most important supplier.
And Dionysus Iros. Worst. Customer. Ever.
Because
of the business, she just had to put up with Nelson. He’d been delivering dry
goods to her family bakery for years. Had known her parents, schmoozed with her
brothers, and basically enjoyed making life hell for her. Not that he was a
vicious sort. He was just far too handsy for her liking.
In
the case of Dionysus, he was just an early bird and a womanizer. And couldn’t
function without the coffee she brewed first thing in the morning. Invariably,
he was already waiting for her when she got to the bakery each day.
Oh,
joy of joys.
Not
that he was a horrible person either. He just intimidated her with his
unearthly good looks. Men like him, not that most men came close to looking
like him, rattled her. They were best kept at a distance.
Dionysus
was so bloody perfect; Josie wanted to shake him to see if she could muss his
seemingly unmussable hair. Most days, though, she just contented herself with a
lot of grumbling in his presence. He unnerved her, with his sexy brown eyes and
long, dark waves of hair any woman would die for. To say nothing of his body…
No, it was best not to say anything about that smoking body at all. She
couldn’t help hating him, just a little. No man should look so divine at dawn,
when she felt about as put together as a cavewoman.
To
makes things worse, the man acted as if he were a Greek god. His parents, in a
tragic case of bad judgment, had even named him after one. It was no wonder he
was so obnoxious.
On
this morning, too, he was waiting at the door when she got there. Looking as if
he’d just tumbled off the cover of GQ, and the birds weren’t even up yet. At
least today he didn’t have a sleepy bimbo on his arm, like he often did.
“Mr.
Iros,” Josie drawled, yawning, as she unlatched the bakery door. “You’re losing
your touch. I haven’t seen you with a woman in, what, forty-eight hours?” She
pushed ahead of him into the bakery, catching the scent of wine on him.
God,
how much did the man drink? She was sure he dabbed a little bit of the stuff
behind his ears, and splashed it on his face instead of aftershave.
On
any other man, the strange cologne would have been a red flag. An indication he
drank more than coffee in the morning. But on this man, it just smelled
delicious. As if the scent were his pheromone, oozing out of every pore,
inviting her to mate with him. In very dirty ways.
He
chuckled, low and deep, and sauntered in after her as if he owned the place.
Within seconds, he was seated at his usual spot at Josie’s counter. “Just be a
good girl and fetch my coffee.” He lowered his shades and peered at her through
sensuous dark eyes that should have been bloodshot at that time of the morning,
but weren’t. “And don’t forget. Make it a tall, half-skinny, half-one percent,
extra hot, two shots decaf, two shots regular latte with whip. And exactly…”
“I
know, I know,” she interrupted. “One hundred fifty degrees. Has it ever been
anything less, Your Highness?” She pasted on her sweetest of smiles and turned
to prepare the elixir of the gods. She heard him huff as he flipped open the
day’s newspaper.
“No
need to call me that, Josie. ‘My Lord’ or ‘He From Whom All Good Things Come’
will do just fine.”
She
reached for the one percent milk, and contemplated tossing in some heavy,
artery-clogging cream just to soften up some of his sculpted muscles. A man
with that kind of body had to be on some sort of special diet. With that brawny
physique he must spend hours a day at the gym and ingest copious amounts of
protein powders.
She
snuck a peek at the bulges rippling under his sleeves, turning her head sharply
when he grinned.
It
was one thing to look like God’s gift to women. It was another thing to act
like it.
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