From USA Today bestselling author K Webster comes a brand new forbidden romance that's going to leave you speechless. Money can buy anything. And anyone. As the head of the Constantine family, I'm used to people bowing to my will. Cruel, rigid, unyielding--I'm all those things. When I discover the one woman who doesn't wither under my gaze, but instead smiles right back at me, I'm intrigued. Ash Elliott needs cash, and I make her trade in crudeness and degradation for it. I crave her tears, her moans, her submission. I pay for each one. And every time, she comes back for more. When she challenges me with an offer of her own, I have to decide if I'm willing to give her far more than cold hard cash. But love can have deadly consequences when it comes from a Constantine. At the stroke of midnight, that choice may be lost for both of us.
Download today on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, Apple, Google Play!
I want to sit behind a desk and crunch numbers. Talk shop. Plan expansions. My dad is an economic analyst, which is what I want to be too. I’d always imagined us going into business together and heading up our own firm.
Cleaning won’t get me there.
I suppose playing nice with Manda the Maneater is my only resort at this point.
For the next hour, I rush through all the offices that don’t need much more than the trash cans emptied, and then make it to the CEO’s office. One day, I’ll have an office like Winston Constantine, but I won’t be some old fuddy duddy. I’ll be a boss babe with style. My employees will love me, because I imagine I’ll be cool as hell. Rather than hire a boring interior designer like whatever robot chose the furniture and décor for Halcyon, I’ll do it all myself.
I’m once again daydreaming of my future that seems more and more murky these days as I fumble through my email on my phone to find the code to get into Big Man’s office. Of all the offices, this one is the coldest and most boring. As though whoever Winston Constantine is, he doesn’t do any sort of work, but instead gazes out the windows all day.
Finally, I locate the code and punch it in.
It’s like twelve numbers long, and I fail a few times before it grants me entry. With a sigh of frustration, I push the door open and drag my rolling cart in after me into the dark office. I hit the light switch with my elbow and leave my cart in front of the door to prop it open. I fidget with the dumb uniform skirt I have to wear and wonder if anyone would notice if I wore jeans instead.
I grab the duster and make a beeline over to the painting on the wall. It’s the best part of the office besides the cool desk that moves up and down and the windows overlooking the most picturesque parts of New York City. I touch the bottom of the frame to check for dust. As I imagined it to be, there’s not a speck.
I’m just moving to the bookshelves when I hear a creak.
“You’re supposed to clean it, not pretend,” a deep, furious voice growls, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.
“What the fuck, man?” I snap, whirling around, dropping my duster in the process. “You can’t just sneak up…” I trail off as I drink in the man sitting in the desk chair.
Holy shit.
Was he here the whole time?
Fucking creepy!
But there’s nothing creepy about his looks. He’s not a fuddy duddy either, if this is Winston Constantine. He’s fine as hell.
Older. Dressed to the nines in a three-piece navy suit that looks custom-tailored and expensive. A handsome, villainous smirk on his face. His dark blond hair is shorter on the sides and longer on top, styled perfectly, making it look as though he came from a photoshoot at Gucci or something. Just enough scruff to give him an edge despite his otherwise clean-cut appearance. It’s his eyes that are mesmerizing.
Dark blue. Intense. Penetrating.
For some reason, it makes me think about my ex-boyfriend, Tate. The exact opposite of this man. Soft and sweet and gullible. Tate and I were a high school thing, but the moment we graduated a couple of weeks ago, we amicably broke it off knowing we were headed in different directions. This guy looks anything but soft, sweet, or gullible.
He looks scary.
Scary hot.
But still scary.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’ll just empty your trash and be out of your way.”
“No,” he rumbles, his voice dripping in a menacing tone. “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time we chat, little girl.”
Meet K Webster
K Webster is a USA Today Bestselling author. Her titles have claimed many bestseller tags in numerous categories, are translated in multiple languages, and have been adapted into audiobooks. She lives in ""Tornado Alley"" with her husband, two children, and her baby dog named Blue. When she's not writing, she's reading, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and researching aliens.
You can easily find K Webster on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, and Goodreads!
Can't find a certain book? Maybe it's too hot for Amazon! Don't worry because titles like Bad Bad Bad, This is War, Baby, The Wild, and Hale can all be found for sale on K's website in both ebook and paperback format.
Be our guest into this twisted tale where nothing is what it seems, and Winterland is even more dark, sexy, and naughty.
Dinah Liddell has always been the responsible, sensible one. Everything in her life was structured and planned, but ever since her sister, Alice, returned from a mental institution two years ago, Dinah is slowly feeling like she is the one losing her mind.
Nightmares, voices, and visons of things that should not exist crack at the walls of her sanity, bubbling up things from her childhood she’d like to keep boxed up. Especially when two of those visions are sexy as hell brothers. One warm and friendly, the other cold and bitter.
There is a draw to them she can’t deny, pushing at her barriers, and ripping her sanity away.
Her life was going exactly as planned—school, work, and building a life with her longtime boyfriend, Scott. But the harder she tries to keep everything in order, the faster it falls apart, shattering it like glass.
Dinah’s controlled world is about to descend into madness.
When the beauty breaks, the beast will arise. And it is out for vengeance…
Alice in Wonderland meets Beauty and the Beast with a holiday twist. The bad-boys of Winterland are back…and they brought friends.
Be careful what you wish for.
♦ ♦ ♦
Stacey Marie Brown is a lover of hot fictional bad boys and sarcastic heroines who kick butt. She also enjoys books, travel, TV shows, hiking, writing, design, and archery. Stacey swears she is part gypsy, being lucky enough to live and travel all over the world.
She grew up in Northern California, where she ran around on her family’s farm, raising animals, riding horses, playing flashlight tag, and turning hay bales into cool forts. She volunteers helping animals and is Eco-friendly. She feels all animals, people, and environment should be treated kindly.
One year, 365 days—and then one knock at my door changes everything.
The Cabin, an all-new beautifully written, emotion filled romance from Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is available now!
One year ago, I buried my husband.
One year ago, I held his hand and said goodbye.
Now I spend most of my days lost somewhere between trying to remember every smallest detail of our lives, and trying to forget it all. I fill my hours with work until I’m too exhausted to remember him, to feel anything at all.
One year, 365 days—and then one knock at my door changes everything. A letter from him, a last request, a secret will:
My dearest Nadia,
Trust me, my love. One last time, trust me. Sometimes the epilogue to one story is the beginning of another.
Enter to win an Exclusive Cabin Recovery Kit! Join Jasinda's Reader Group during release week and enter the big Giveaway pinned at the top of the group → https://bit.ly/35pQlKR
Excerpt
1: NDA
“All right, Mr. Bell. You’re all set here, I think.”
The nurse is that peculiar, unique brand of brusque efficiency and Zen-like kindness you only find in an oncology department. She fiddles with the IV line puncturing my left arm, the off-white, veiny medical tape securing it to my forearm. Her eyes are brown, the exact shade of a chocolate Labrador’s fur. She is warm, and caring, but lurking beneath that veneer of caregiver kindness is the detached iciness of someone whose job it is to watch people die.
“It will take a couple hours for this to drip through, and then we have to monitor you for—”
“I know,” I interrupt. I open the lid of my laptop. “I’ve been through this a few times.”
She smiles. “Of course, Mr. Bell. If you need anything, just press the call button.”
I hesitate a few seconds and then say, “There is something.” Then I glance at the curtain which is not quite pulled shut.
She catches my meaning and brings the two ends of the curtain together, the metal rings rasping with a rattling ring. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bell?”
I reach into my messenger bag, sitting on the floor next to this monstrosity of a chair—a freakish, Frankensteinian thing, not quite a lounger and not quite a clinical, medical device, but something in between. It’s made from a rubbery plastic or vinyl material that squeaks at every slight movement, and is too hard and too upright to be truly comfortable, but when you kick back in it and lift the footrest, it forces you into a near-horizontal recline in an unnatural defiance of gravity.
The chair is distracting, and I hate the chair almost as much as I hate the ward, the IV, and the whole damned morbid circus.
In my bag is a thin manila folder. On the label I’ve written three letters in neat block handwriting, in black Sharpie: NDA. I withdraw a single sheet of paper, on which are two and a half paragraphs, single-spaced. It’s in tight, clear legalese, drawn up by my attorney, printed on formal, intimidating letterhead. I hand it to the nurse whose nametag, clipped to her pale green sleeve, announces her as Tiffany Snell, R.N, O.C.N.
“This is an NDA, a nondisclosure agreement.”
She allows a frown, briefly. “Okay?”
I keep my voice low, not whispering, but pitched for her ears only. “I’m here alone, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Yes. Which is why your observation period has to be so long.”
“I know.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a pen—it’s a nice pen, hefty, metal, with a satisfying clicker, and on the side is my name: Adrian Bell, and my logo, a coat of arms with my monogram. It’s recognizable to most people, that logo; you see it on the title page of my books, on my website, and expensively animated as a production company logo during the title sequences when you watch movies made from my books. I hand her the pen, tap the NDA with it.
“This says you will not disclose to anyone that I was here at all, let alone why. I’m paying for this with cash, so there’s no insurance paperwork trail.”
She frowns again as she reads. “Why is it a secret, may I ask?”
“I have my reasons,” I say. “Whatever else must be done in the process of this infusion, I would like you to do, including observation and my eventual discharge. All right? This means that just one person has to sign this little item.” I tap the NDA again.
“And if I don’t sign it?” It’s not meant belligerently, just…a simple question.
I smile. “Tiffany—Miss Snell. Do I really need to spell this out? You know who I am. I don’t want this getting out. That’s all. I’m protecting my privacy.”
She breathes out gently—it’s not a sigh, more of a thoughtful breath. “What about your wife? Why isn’t she here?”
It takes all I have to not wince at the question. “I’m going to have to decline to answer that, Miss Snell. Can you please just sign? It just means you don’t tell anyone I was here. If coworkers ask, you simply say you can’t talk about it. Don’t make a big deal about it, just that—I can’t talk about it. That’s all.” I pause, smile again. “Would it help you to know I’m a yearly donor to this facility?”
She rolls a shoulder. “Not really. I’m just a nurse.” Another of those thoughtful out-breaths. “Mr. Bell, I’ll sign your NDA. But I have to register my thoughts with you. Hiding this is not fair.” Her warm brown eyes momentarily reveal the sadness she normally keeps hidden. “I’ve seen your file, obviously. What you’re dealing with, it’s…it’s not…”
“It doesn’t have a stellar survival rate,” I finish. “I know.”
“Hiding it from your wife, Mr. Bell—”
“Adrian.”
“It’s really, really not fair of you, Adrian. You’re not doing her any favors. I obviously don’t know a thing about your marriage, but if she loves you—”
I let out a shaky breath, cut her off. “She does, Tiffany. More than I deserve. More than…More than is, perhaps, healthy.”
“So why—”
“I have my reasons,” I say again. Now I do not smile. I frown in a way that says this conversation has to be over. “It’s not fair of me, I know. Believe me, I know. But it’s not fair that I have this. That I’m here. It’s not fair that I’m paying as much for this treatment as I am. What in your life can you list as unfair, Tiffany? A lot, I’m sure. Fair is a myth. Fair does not exist.”
She gazes at me evenly, steadily and then takes the pen from me. Signs the NDA in a nurse’s hasty scrawl. Dates it. Hands me the pen.
“Keep it.”
She lets a small smile cross her lips. “I’ve read all your books, you know. I enjoy them. They make me feel like I can believe in love again.” She gestures with the pen. “Thank you.”
“If you happen to have a copy with you, I’ll sign it for you.”
She bites a lip. “I do, actually.”
“Bring it when you come to check on me.”
She nods, hooks the pen by the clip at an angle in the V of her scrub top. Smiles at me again, and leaves.
You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, my mother used to tell me.
I enter the passcode on my laptop; there’s Wi-Fi here, so I could check email, but I don’t. In fact, I turn Wi-Fi off, so I won’t be distracted by the siren song of email, pull my wireless earbuds from my bag, and turn on Rostropovich via my phone.
I open my manuscript. Close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. Repeat four times. Pushing away, mentally, the fog of the chemo, the pinch of the IV, the continual beeping of IV machines indicating a bag is finished, the occasional static PA announcements, the squeak of sensible sneakers, and the murmur of quiet conversations.
Push it all away. Find my flow.
It’s there, under the surface. It’s always there; it’s always been there. Like Louis L’Amour said, I could sit in the middle of Sunset Boulevard with a typewriter on my knees, and once I’m in the flow, I wouldn’t notice a thing but the words on the page.
With this story I’m working on now, though, it’s harder, and it takes more effort to sink down into it, more mental gymnastics to get into the flow. I need to find the right balance, tap into the necessary emotions, while still remaining the objective storyteller.
This one is personal. More than all the other books I’ve written over my career, this one…this one requires more of me.
And I have to get it right.
I’m writing it for an audience of one. Well, two. But really, just one. Her.
My love. My Nadia.
Meet Jasinda
NEW YORK TIMES, USA TODAY, WALL STREET JOURNAL and international bestselling author Jasinda Wilder is a Michigan native with a penchant for titillating tales about sexy men and strong women. Her bestselling titles include ALPHA, STRIPPED, WOUNDED, and the #1 Amazon and international bestseller FALLING INTO YOU. You can find her on her farm in Northern Michigan with her husband, author Jack Wilder, her six children and menagerie of animals.
Austin Mathers is a boy I grew up with. An awkward dorky boy. His father is the catalyst for the worst day of my life. I’m dead set on making Mr. Mathers pay. Until Austin comes in his place. The boy I grew up with is now a man. A hot, sexy, angry man with the world’s largest chip on his shoulder. The moment he walks into my house, our connection sizzles back to life. I can’t get his dark, pained eyes out of my head. Until I walk in on him freshly showered and naked. Now it’s the rest of him I’m obsessing over.
Austin
Natalia Thomas was my first friend. My oldest friend. Then she turned into a cold-hearted shrew. Twelve years have passed since I last saw her. Now she’s meaner, colder than before. In my darkest hours she did nothing to help or make it better. Instead she promised to ruin my father and tarnish his reputation. As much as I try to keep her at a distance, I’m drawn to her. She’s the right girl, but the timing is wrong. Or is it?
Amazon AU https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07Z8JD9J8/
Amazon CA https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07Z8JD9J8/
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
BLURB:
Maximus Aurelius Moore, CEO of Moore Enterprises, and his wife, Vegas Entertainer Siri Wright, return to Alabama to live a low-key “normal” life among family and friends, but what happens Friday night is anything but low-key or normal.
When Aurei is called away for a family emergency, he doesn’t realize Siri has left her phone in the back of his truck, and that she has been in an accident, or that Ruth, his stalker, has found her alone and vulnerable.
Aidan Deveraux has secrets. His secrets could get her killed.
Aiden Deveraux is a hot-shot lawyer with a secret identity—the mask wearing street-fighter named Number Nine. But when his family's company is threatened, Aiden faces his toughest opponent yet, the brilliant and gorgeous Ella Zhao. Ella is in New York to bring down the people to blame for her father's death—the Deveraux family—and she's not about to let some Prince Charming lawyer like Aiden stop her. But as Aiden and Ella scramble to uncover the past that no one, including their own families, wants revealed, they find themselves running from a murderer who knows the Deveraux and Zhao all too well. With their hearts, lives, and millions of dollars on the line, Aiden and Ella may have to trust each other with their secrets if they want to make it out of this fight alive.
Bethany Maines, a native of Tacoma WA, is the award-winning author of romantic action-adventure tales that focus on women who know when to apply lipstick and when to apply a foot to someone’s hind end. When she’s not traveling to exotic lands, or kicking some serious butt with her black belt in karate, she can be found chasing after her daughter, or glued to the computer working on her next novel. You can also catch up with her onTwitter, Facebook, Instagram, and BookBub.
