Tempting Teaser

Have you read the first book in the Bryant Brothers series yet? (RACING HOME) Better get on it – book 2, To Love & Protect, is now up for pre-order, and releases on July 28!

What’s that, you say? You’d like a teaser from book 2? Well, as a matter of a fact, guess what I have for you today!

TO LOVE & PROTECT

Philip Bryant, second born son to a fine, upstanding family, is anything but.

He wants to amend his ways, though. Operate on the right side of the law. Be a positive, contributing member of society.

A buddy who works for a government agency gives him the perfect opportunity to change his stripes. But instead of doing what he was told to do, he kidnaps the witness to an attempted murder.

The witness’s name is Maecie McIntosh. She’s a hairstylist with a whole lot of opinions, and she isn’t afraid to put him in his place. And the more time he spends with her, the less he wants to let her go. Can kidnappers develop Stockholm Syndrome?

Or is this what true love feels like?

Bryant Brothers series

Each book has its own happily ever after, however it is recommended they be read in the following order:

Racing Home

To Love & Protect

The Right Tool

Picture This

Chapter One

“You look way more rumpled than usual,” Richard Gerrard commented as Philip slid into the booth across from him at the diner in downtown Detroit where they almost always met to talk business.

Philip glanced down at his V-neck sweater and white T-shirt. Although he hadn’t taken the time to trim his beard this morning, he didn’t think it looked scruffy, and his clothes weren’t overly wrinkled, so Richard must have noticed the bags under his eyes.

“You know what I do for a living,” Philip replied, stifling a yawn and waving at the server who was holding a coffee carafe in her hand, systematically refilling customers’ cups. “Unfortunately, most of my clientele don’t keep bankers’ hours.”

“Philip Bryant,” his buddy drawled, “serving and protecting the bad guys since 2016.”

The young server, wearing jeans and a green T-shirt with the name of the diner screen printed over her left breast, stepped up to their table and flipped over the ceramic mug that had already been placed in front of Philip’s seat. “Sugar and creamer’s right there,” she said, pointing at the table. “I’ll take your order in a minute.”

She left, and Philip grimaced. “Thanks for making it sound exactly as shady as it is.”

He grabbed the menu, even though he almost always ordered off the specials board. Today he had a choice of country eggs benedict, strawberry pancakes, or Detroit style corned beef hash. He had no idea what made it Detroit style, but he loved a good corned beef hash, so he tucked the menu behind the napkin dispenser and doctored his coffee while Richard contemplated his options.

The server returned, took their orders, and hurried away again.

Richard glanced around the restaurant. Philip had already scoped out the place before sliding into his seat, so he knew there were three tables of elderly couples, a few suits sipping coffee while working on their laptops, and a twenty-something couple who looked as if they hadn’t gone to bed in at least thirty-six hours.

“Hey, at least you’re making bank.”

Philip sighed. “I should try taking legit jobs once in a while. Working as contract security for people who don’t necessarily operate on the right side of the law definitely more than pays the bills, but it feels like my soul is shriveling up and dying.”

Richard snorted and took a hit of coffee. “You and me, we should have switched lives years ago. You’re the do-gooder who’s rolling in dough because you babysit people who are very likely—no, they are criminals. And I’m the poor shmuck who can’t catch a break, working for the man and making peanuts.”

“Not all my clients are criminals,” Philip argued, which he knew damn well was for his own benefit, not Richard’s. His buddy seemingly had no problem with some of Philip’s clients’ highly questionable ethics and morals.

Shaking his head, Richard said, “And here I’m protecting the world from illegal arms deals and terrorists and I can barely pay my mortgage.”

“That’s because you spend too damn much time at the casino and betting on your favorite football team. If you change nothing else but stopped buying lottery tickets every week, there’s your mortgage payment.”

Richard waved off his suggestion and then leaned back so that the server could place their plates on the table. While he squirted ketchup on his hash browns, he said, “I should be able to do both. You’re able to do both.”

Philip hated it when Richard was in this mood. It wasn’t a damn competition.

“I don’t play the lottery,” Philip said. Which Richard already knew. This wasn’t a new topic of conversation.

“But you could.”

Yeah, he could do a lot of things. “It’s a choice. One you could make, too, you know. And if you feel like you can’t, then maybe you need to get some help so you can.”

Richard dredged a triangular slice of buttered toast through runny egg yolk and crammed it into his mouth. “Stop. You sound like my ex when you talk like that.”

Philip sighed. He was pretty sure Richard had a gambling addiction, and like most addicts, he refused to see what was so obvious to everyone around him. And got defensive when someone suggested he needed help.

Richard’s ex, like Philip and Richard, had been a marine. She was also an exceedingly tolerant woman, but even she had gotten sick of begging him to seek help, which inevitably led to screaming arguments, and she’d divorced him two years ago.

After another scan of the restaurant, Richard said, “Maybe I can help with that soul of yours. I have a job for you if you’re interested.”

 Richard worked for the federal government, specifically for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, better known as ATF. Richard and Philip met while they were both in the Marine Corps, and they’d become fast friends. They both got out at about the same time, and when Richard was accepted as an ATF agent, Philip had considered going that route too. Until a contract job landed in his lap and introduced him to the lucrative world of “securities.”

Maybe this was a sign. While technically Philip had not broken the law himself, he certainly had plenty of dirt on some pretty grimy people, and Richard knew it. Richard also knew Philip was loyal, if to the wrong people.

But if his friend was offering him contract employment with the ATF, that must mean Philip had a shot at going legit.

He rested his forearms on the table and tried not to look too excited. “I’m listening.”

“Frank Charles. Does that name sound familiar?”

“Pyrotechnics. Isn’t he the guy in charge of the Detroit fireworks?”

Richard nodded. “We’ve been watching him for a while now.”

“How come?”

“We believe he’s using his pyrotechnics distribution license to illegally sell explosives to terrorist groups.”

Philip let out a low whistle. Frank Charles, by all appearances, had been an upstanding member of the Detroit community for decades. His fireworks displays were arguably the best in the country, and he was well-known for giving back to the residents of the city that embraced the colorful and spectacular way he lit up the sky over the riverfront each summer.

Unfortunately, Philip knew from firsthand experience that the ones who put on the most positive public image were often the most corrupt.

He rubbed his hand over his face. “What do you need me to do?”

Hey, at least this one was clear-cut: he was definitely working for the good guys.

PRE-ORDER HERE!

They are Oil and Water

Camila knew damn well that Tommy wanted to sleep with her. He flirted in that raunchy way of overconfident men everywhere, clearly used to women falling all over themselves for the opportunity to share Mr. Egomaniac’s bed for a night. She dealt with guys like him every shift she worked at the bar.

No, thank you.

To be fair, though, bits of a polite, funny guy peeked through here and there. Enough to stir Camila’s interest. If there was one thing she was a sucker for, it was a guy who could make her laugh. Bonus that he was made of solid muscle and looked like sex on a stick.

But she wasn’t interested in some guy who traveled all the time, who couldn’t even be bothered to unpack his bag when he got home after his latest tour. A guy who probably had a motocross fan club that called themselves Tommy’s Tinas or some other stupid name.

After they returned to the house and helped unpack groceries, Deanna shooed them all upstairs, insisting they change into their swimsuits and hang out at the pool for the rest of the day. It was exactly what Camila had been hoping for when her sister said she could stay for the week, except she hadn’t counted on Tommy’s presence as part of the relax-and-take-her-mind-off-her-stalker agenda.

While she donned her royal-blue bikini, she did a quick Google search. According to several articles she skimmed, Tommy was one of the best racers in the industry and had been for quite a few years. Guess that made him a celebrity.

She also couldn’t help pausing on the various pics of him with this or that woman’s body twisted around his like Saran Wrap. In every one of them, he wore a cat-got-the-canary grin. Cocky. Sure of himself. And of what was about to happen with that clinging woman on his arm.

Ugh. Stop thinking about him.

After twisting her braid into a bun and securing it with a hair clip, she hurried downstairs. She could hear the sounds of splashing and playful shrieks that indicated someone had already dived into the undoubtedly cool and refreshing pool. She was more than ready to join them.

Tommy stood on the deck, next to the sliding glass door, a copper mug in each hand, like he was waiting for her. He wore a pair of aviator shades, a baseball cap over his messy, almost- ready-for-a-cut hair, and blue and white swim trunks resting low on his hips, showing off muscles from his neck all the way down to the elastic waist of those shorts. Oh yeah, and don’t forget the legs.

Jesus, he should be a model.

She mentally picked her jaw up off the floor and shook herself. She did not need this man to know she found him attractive.

Just attractive? Yeah right, I’m practically drooling.

His smile crawled across his face in slow motion, lighting him up and drawing her attention away from the muscles to the beauty that she’d swear was descended from a Greek god. Or maybe Roman. Whichever ones were the more gorgeous.

He offered her one of the mugs and said, “I can think of a thousand compliments to give you right now and every single one could be construed as hitting on you. Which they would be, for the record. So is it corny if I just say you’re beautiful?”

She took a swallow of her drink. “Not corny. But still sounds like you’re hitting on me.”

RELEASES JUNE 30 – Keep reading HERE

Desperate for Another Chapter?

LET GO MY GARGOYLE

Taming the Dragon Book 5

Four years ago, Sofia had an affair with a gargoyle. The next morning, he disappeared—leaving her with an infant.

Now he’s back, and Sofia is afraid he wants to claim the child she’s been raising as her own.

Griffin isn’t back because he wants the child. What Sofia doesn’t know is that the kid isn’t even his. He’s back because his boss told him to protect Sofia and the baby. A task he doesn’t think he’s capable of doing.

Unfortunately, the more time he spends with Sofia and her adopted daughter Penelope, the less he wants to leave.

And the more danger he’s putting them in.

Taming the Dragon series

Each book has its own happily ever after; however, it is recommended they be read in the following order:

Dragon His Heels

Hungry Like a Dragon

Dragon in Denial

Bewitching the Dragon

Let Go My Gargoyle

Did you check out chapter one in my last post? Here it is, if you want to read it first: LET GO MY GARGOYLE CHAPTER ONE

Now, ready for chapter two? If you love it, don’t worry, the book releases on June 2nd. Only six short days away!!

Chapter Two

The first thing Sofia Glycon did after dropping her drinks and screaming at Griffin was lock herself in the ladies’ room and call Clarice, her babysitter for the evening. She’d needed reassurance that Penelope was all right.

That the gargoyle who’d just disrupted her evening—and her life, again—hadn’t already stopped by and taken her baby girl from her.

Once Clarice assured her that no one had been to the house and there was no suspicious activity and that she would call if for some reason an incredibly attractive guy with a northern accent showed up, Sofia had forced herself to stay at the bar and finish out her shift.

She hadn’t had that much excitement in her life since the night she’d spent with Griffin the Disappearing Gargoyle. She supposed that when she wasn’t feeling resentful or angry—which wasn’t often—Sofia could admit that particular night had been pretty remarkable.

But spectacular orgasms came with a price. Always.

Damn, she had honestly thought she’d never see the guy again. Four years ago, he’d told her he was from Canada. A place called New Brunswick. And when she woke up the next morning and he was gone, leaving behind his very precious three-month-old cargo and no note, she’d presumed he’d hightailed it back north to his homeland. Considering what he left behind, she’d assumed he never planned to return.

Yet here he was. And in the bar where she worked as a waitress. Seriously? What were the odds? Unless, of course, he’d deliberately looked her up. Certainly possible, but why wait four years to do it?

Because by this point, she’d built up enough resentment, enough rage that she would never forgive the guy for what he did.

“You all right, cher?” Mitch, the bar’s owner, asked as he pushed through the swinging doors that led into the kitchen and storage area.

“Yeah. I’ll pay for all that glassware and those drinks I dropped.” She pulled a wad of tip money out of her apron.

Mitch waved away her offer. “Accidents happen. What caught you so off guard, anyway?”

She swallowed thickly. The story she’d given everyone had not involved her sleeping with a gargoyle and him leaving her high and dry the next morning. In fact, she’d never once mentioned to anyone that she had any involvement with gargoyles at all.

“I tripped. Somebody’s foot was sticking out.”

Mitch nodded. “That explains.”

“What?”

He lifted an envelope that had been lying next to the cash register. “This money and the note, stating it was to cover the drinks you dropped.”

She hurried over and snatched the envelope, ignored the bills, and pulled out the folded piece of paper. She didn’t even need to open it and read it; she knew it was from Griffin. It faintly bore his scent, but more than that, she could feel his magic on the note.

Please accept my humble apologies for startling your waitress. This should more than cover the expenses incurred. Consider giving her whatever is left over as a tip. Thank you. G

“I don’t want any of it. If there’s any left over,” she hastily added.

“Why not? There’s enough in there to double the tips you made tonight.”

It was tempting. She could definitely use the money. Toddlers were expensive. But— “No. Keep it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She almost always worked weekends because first, there were far more tips to be made than on a random Tuesday afternoon, and second, it was easier to secure a babysitter than during the week when everyone else worked too.

After bidding her boss good night, Sofia shivered as she stepped out into the cooling night air. It was September, and New Orleans didn’t usually see relief from the oppressive heat until October, at least. Yet in the last few hours the temperature had dropped into the sixties, which was chilly for a girl wearing shorts and a thin T-shirt and who had been raised in the Deep South. Even if she was a dragon.

She lived only a few blocks from Mitch’s Place, so she always walked to and from work, which meant sometimes she was striding down the street alone at two in the morning. Twice since she started working there she’d encountered some asshole human who decided she was a helpless girl. She’d simply growled and let steam escape from her nostrils, and each time, the guy had hightailed it out of there like his pants were on fire. Which they would have been had he attempted to lay a hand on her.

Helpless girl she most certainly was not.

Angry? Yeah, she was definitely angry. Especially when she reached the path leading to her front door and there was a gargoyle perched on the stoop. Stopping on the sidewalk, she snapped, “I thought I told you to get the hell out of here.”

He rose to his feet, and Sofia cursed herself for enjoying the fluid motion of his movements. Everything the guy had done four years ago had been smooth and velvety and gentle and seemingly caring. Until he left—without his infant daughter.

Now, she hated his stylish light brown hair, his thick stubble, those chocolaty-brown eyes, and she especially hated his soft, kissable lips. Oh yeah, and those abs. She hated his abs. And his biceps. And his muscular thighs. And…she hated everything about him.

Except his baby girl. Oh gods, was he really here to take her back? Because he sure as hell hadn’t wanted the child four years ago, and Sofia had become attached—for crying out loud, little Penelope called her Mommy—and she was not about to let this guy have her.

No matter what.

“You did,” he acknowledged, stalking toward her in the same way that had seduced her the first time they met. Except last time there had been a tiny infant snuggled in his big, strong arms. “But I can’t.”

“Why not? Your wings broken?” She crossed her arms and thrust a hip, frowning, deliberately trying to send him go away vibes.

“No, but I can’t leave all the same.”

Well, if that wasn’t cryptic as all get out…

The front door opened and Clarice, the young human woman who babysat for her most weekends, stepped onto the tiny porch with her backpack slung over one shoulder. She was a med student who wanted to go into pediatrics, and when she wasn’t doing rotations, she was more than happy to spend her weekends babysitting and studying.

Clarice glanced at Griffin, and her eyes flared in the same way probably every woman who saw him for the first time did. “Erm, hi.” She dragged her gaze away from his chest and waved at Sofia. “Is this the hot guy with the northern accent?”

Sofia was certain her face was turning seventeen shades of red as she refused to look in Griffin’s direction. “This is the guy I was worried would show up, yes.”

“Did you tell her I was hot, or did she deduce that on her own?” Griffin wanted to know.

Sofia ignored him. After a pause in the conversation that stretched into uncomfortable territory, Clarice said, “Well, um, Penelope’s been out since eight. She ate all her vegetables, and I gave her a bath and took her for a walk before bedtime since it was so nice out today.”

It was their usual routine. Clarice rattled off Penelope’s evening while Sofia dipped into her tips for payment. Except Griffin was also here tonight, and he had his wallet in his hand, opening the flap.

“What are you doing?” Sofia demanded.

“I take it this is the babysitter?” he asked, nodding at Clarice.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Clarice responded.

“So how much do I owe you?”

She gave him a puzzled look. Sofia didn’t blame the poor girl. For one thing, Sofia had never brought a man home after her shift at the bar, and, if she had, he probably wouldn’t be offering to pay the babysitter. Hell, few people even knew she was raising a toddler. Sofia kept a low profile.

“You are not paying my babysitter.” She strode up the walk and thrust cash into Clarice’s hand.

Clarice glanced at Griffin again and then said, “I’ll be back tomorrow at four.”

“You’re working again tomorrow?” Griffin said, looking to Sofia for an answer.

 “Thanks, Clarice. Have a good night.”

The babysitter skirted around them and headed toward her car.

“I can’t decide if I should go with you to work or stay here and take care of the child.”

Sofia stared at Griffin as if he’d just turned into a dragon, dropped to one knee, and declared them fated mates. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard you. I just don’t understand you.”

He frowned. “Seems pretty self-explanatory. Either I go with you or—”

She slashed her hand through the air, cutting him off. “You aren’t doing anything at all that has to do with me or Penelope. All you are doing is leaving. Now.”

“You kept her name.”

“Of course I did. My world was flipped on its side plenty enough with an infant abandoned on my bedroom floor without me trying to come up with a new name for the poor kid.”

He winced like she’d slapped him, which admittedly gave her a tiny bit of self-satisfaction.

“I probably could have handled that whole situation a little better.”

Probably?” Was this man serious? Wait, it didn’t matter. She did not need to spend a single second longer thinking about him or what he did to her. With her nose in the air, she deliberately skirted around him and headed into the house, slamming the door and flipping the deadbolt.

A scant moment later, the lock twisted of its own accord, the door opened again, and Griffin stepped inside.

Sofia sighed. Gargoyles and their annoying magic. Penelope was starting to show signs of being able to create magic, although so far, she’d not experienced any sort of shifting capabilities. Sofia had no idea if that was normal, since she knew precious little about gargoyles. All she knew was that they were great in bed and they left you with their unwanted offspring when they were done.

“I want to see her,” Griffin demanded. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag by the front door, and moved deeper into the house.

Bringing an overnight bag was damned presumptuous of the man.

“Why now? Why are you back, four years later?”

He dragged his hand through his thick hair, setting it to standing on end. He looked like he had after their first round of rather energetic sex. Incredibly hot. Hot enough that she’d dived in for round two.

And three.

Ugh.

“I should probably explain a few things to you,” he said, taking in her tiny abode and probably finding it lacking. Well, too bad; it was hard to survive when one was ostracized from one’s colony and unexpectedly left to raise a helpless child, alone.

Sofia decided to go with honesty. Maybe it would convince him to leave. “You know, if you’d shown up six months later, maybe even up to a year, I would have been willing to hear you out. But that child has been fatherless for four years now, and I am not interested in rocking her world just because you suddenly decided to man up. You should never have left her, and as far as I’m concerned, you have no rights to her whatsoever any longer.”

He raked his hand through his hair again. She really wished he’d stop doing that.

“One thing I should have told you back then was that she isn’t mine.”

…ooooh, keep reading on June 2nd: LET GO MY GARGOYLE

Tami Lund drinks wine and writes books, often at the same time. She’s multi-talented like that. Check out her website for all the books she’s written: https://tamilund.com/

Baby, I’m Home & Now I’m Available Almost Everywhere

Once upon a time, I wrote this book I titled, Baby, I’m Home. It was supposed to be part of a Father’s Day anthology. But the antho fell through only a couple of months before it was supposed to be published. The book had already been edited, and, frankly, I loved this story, so I decided to publish it on my own.

I reached out to a cover artist, and asked my editor to have a look at it (it was originally edited by the group who was supposed to publish the anthology) because I trust her opinion explicitly, and if I’m going to put this thing out into the world on my own, I wanted to ensure I did it right.

And when it was all said and done, this adorable story was published on May 29, 2018.

Baby, I'm Home

I chose to enroll it in KU because the series I wrote with Misti Murphy (the Sexy Bad series), as well as my Detroit Mafia series, do pretty well in KU.

This book didn’t.

It definitely sees more book sales vs. page reads. Which means it’s time for a change. If book sales are where it’s at, then let’s make sure I’m maximizing those sales, aka, making it available to as many people as might possibly want to read it.

Which meant it was time to say bye-bye to KU and helloooooo iBooks, Kobo, and Nook.

So yeah, if you read on your iPhone (like I do) or you have a Nook or the Kobo app or whatever other way you read, you can now enjoy this super cute, totes adorbs surprise baby book.

Oh yeah, and it’s only a buck ninety-nine. (Here’s a LINK) If that isn’t enough incentive, here’s a little teaser:

“So am I taking you to your parents’ house or…?”

“Hell no.” He tapped her abdomen with his pointer finger.

It was weird when a woman was pregnant; complete strangers tried to palm her belly in elevators and in restaurants. And Lord help her when dealing with the elderly women in her office. She hated it, every second of it. And here she was with Chad, wishing he’d never take his hand away.

“I think we need to go back to your place. Clearly, we have a lot to discuss,” he said.

“Your parents aren’t expecting you to go home?” The first time Chad had introduced her to his hoity-toity parents, they had been on their way to golf thirty-six holes and were dressed the part. His mom had looked down her nose at Jenna’s complexion and said, “What a fascinating skin tone.” And now it was entirely possible their first grandchild would have that same “fascinating” coloring.

“First of all, they’re still in Scotland. They’re trying to figure out what to do with the estate now that Gramps is gone. And don’t you think I deserve a little time to wrap my head around this before we announce it to the rest of the world?”

Yeah, probably. Although it was too damn late for that, and yes, she’d have to suffer the guilt for that one for the rest of her life. “Considering, as you put it, I’m so big, I should probably warn you that the rest of the world already knows. At least, the part that has come into visual contact with me for the past few months.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. And besides, you’re the one who texted and said you had a ‘big surprise’ for me.” He cupped her belly again, as if the action was helping him come to terms with this reality. “I admit, this was not even remotely what I was thinking.”

“Oh yeah? What were you thinking?”

“Ironically, much smaller. And lacy. And red.”

She laughed. “There may still be red and lacy in my wardrobe, but I can assure you, there is nothing whatsoever small at the moment.”

“Well, you look great. Is that the wrong thing to say?”

Smiling, she shook her head. “No. And thanks.”

Now are you ready to read? Here’s the link, to help you out: Baby, I’m Home

Baby, I'm Home

Tami Lund writes practically everything from surprise baby romance to romantic suspense to romcom to paranormal, including dragons, witches, vampires, and the like. Chances are, you’ll enjoy at least one of her books. Probably a bunch of them. Here’s her website: https://tamilund.com/

 

A New Release & an Excerpt from Tami Lund

 

Naked Truth Cover-indie

He’s a playboy FBI agent, working undercover as a male stripper. She’s a burned divorcee, struggling to make ends meet and embarrassed by how her marriage ended.

They both insist it’s a no-strings-attached affair.

Until she gets caught up in his case.

Now, both their hearts and lives are in danger.

 

Released: 10/8/2019

AMAZON

 

Other books in the series:

Undercover Heat – releasing 10/15/2019

Delicious Deception – releasing 10/22/2019

Excerpt from Naked Truth:

 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Hitting on you. Is it working?”

“Um…”

“Want to go somewhere more private?”

“Umm…”

He twirled her away, pulled her back and caught her, squeezing her more tightly than he had been a moment before. Kennedy forgot to breathe. She was distantly aware of the fact that he was backing her off the dance floor. She knew she should, but she made no move to stop him. Sabrina’s warning echoed in her head, but all she could think was, I deserve to have fun tonight. I can handle a one-night stand.

I want a one-night stand.

A few minutes later, he led her up a set of stairs that climbed from a hallway near the kitchen to the second floor.

“How did you know these stairs were even here?” she wondered as she held his hand and followed.

“I scoped out the place when we first arrived. Force of habit,” he admitted. She knew he was talking about his job, not his past liaisons, which she appreciated. For the moment, she wanted to pretend she was the only one. Otherwise, she might back out.

At the top of the stairs, he paused to flash her a grin over his shoulder. She gave him a wobbly smile in return. He tugged her hand, leading her to the bride’s room.

Where they found Cullen and Sabrina, prematurely sealing their wedding vows.

“Guess they can’t get it annulled now,” Jack remarked as he quietly pulled the door closed.

She shook her head, the reality of this decision finally pushing through the haze of alcohol and lust. “This is a bad idea. Sabrina says I’m supposed to stay away from you.”

“I’m going to have a talk with Sabrina about interfering with my sex life,” Jack muttered. “Why did she say that?”

Kennedy shrugged. “You’re a player.”

“Are you looking for forever, Kennedy?”

She gasped and vehemently shook her head. Been there, done that, didn’t work out the way it was supposed to, she almost said out loud.

“Me neither. So how is this a bad thing again?”

“Umm…”

“I’m usually pretty good with the intuition thing. And my intuition is telling me that you are attracted to me.”

Kennedy cleared her throat. “I–I think your intuition is correct.”

Jack grinned. “I thought so. And I’m sure it’s pretty damn obvious that I’m attracted to you.”

To prove his point, he backed her up to the wall, pressed his palms against the wallpaper and dipped his head to nibble at her throat. She made a small, strangled noise and grabbed his shoulders to keep herself from falling when her knees buckled.

Jack sucked her earlobe into his mouth. “I promise, babe, you won’t regret it. I’m a very attentive lover.”

“Oh God.”

“I want to hear you scream that.”

“Limo,” she managed to say on a gasp, and she grabbed his hand and dragged him back down the hall to the stairs. She had no idea what caused her to think of the stretched vehicle out in the parking lot, all she knew was that three years of self-enforced celibacy had pushed her libido to the limit. She wanted to break her fast, and she wanted to do it right now, with this man.

Whatever happened tomorrow didn’t matter. Whatever happened in two hours wouldn’t matter. She just needed right now, and she needed it to involve she and Jack and a distinct lack of clothing.

The driver sat in the front seat, reading a newspaper and tapping his foot to the beat of a country song blaring from the speakers. Jack handed him a wad of cash and tucked Kennedy into the back of the limo. As soon as they were inside, the car lurched into motion, sending her tumbling into the groomsman’s lap. He pushed the button to raise the darkened glass that separated them from the front.

“We aren’t really doing this, are we?” she asked as Jack smoothed her skirt up her legs so she could straddle his lap without tearing her dress.

“Hell yes, we are. You don’t want to know how much I just paid that guy to drive around in circles for half an hour.”

“Half an hour?”

“Trust me, babe.”

AMAZON

***

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund is an author, a wine drinker, an award winner, and a lover of romance. She writes happily ever afters of both the contemporary and paranormal kind. There’s probably a new release coming soon. You should sign up for her newsletter so you know when: http://www.subscribepage.com/Tami_Lund

 

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No Jerks On Monday

“No, no, no. This is all wrong,” a woman’s shrill voice penetrates the quiet of the cellar. The normally echo-y building has been peaceful to this point. I lift my gaze from the emails I’ve been going over and glance around.

“This is not what I wanted. The linen is the wrong shade of white, the flowers aren’t pink enough, and you haven’t changed the menu despite my express wishes. The spot you picked out for the ceremony just won’t do. You’re ruining my wedding.”

I roll my gaze to the ceiling. Bloody drama queen.

“I’m sure we can figure this out,” Sarah, our new cellar manager, says. “How about we sit and talk about the changes you would like, and then I can show you several more spots on the property where you might prefer to host the ceremony.”

I go back to reading. Sarah was Evan’s assistant for the last few years, and while she isn’t quite where I would have liked her to be training-wise before I promoted her, she’s been part of Anders long enough that she should have this handled.

“The only good thing about this awful place is the wine,” the woman snaps. “If you can’t do the job I’m paying you for, I want my deposit back. And don’t expect that I’ll keep quiet about your ineptitude. I’ll contact every bridal magazine and tell them not to bother with this place.”

Well, that would be fine by me. The wine’s all that matters.

Except my mother would be heartbroken, and the business that comes in from weddings might suffer if the bride follows through with her threat.

I blow out a breath and shut my laptop before joining them. Sarah doesn’t have it handled. In fact, her eyes are a wide as a bunny’s, her breath speeding like she’s caught in a spotlight, and this bridezilla in her tacky orange spray tan and teensy tiny white dress is holding the rifle with her candy-colored talon resting on the trigger.

Not good.

“How’s everything going, ladies?”

They both turn their gazes on me; Sarah’s full of worry, our bridezilla shooting me a look from under heavy mascara that could intimidate someone other than myself. It sweeps over me and lights up as I take her hand. I don’t know why, but women seem to like me on first meeting. Most of them. Except one in particular.

“I’m Jake Anders. And you must be…”

“Candy St. James,” she says, the shrill replaced by a huskier tone.

“Sarah, could you please go get us a bottle of…” I scan Candy from head to toe. American. Likes to think she’s sophisticated, but I doubt that she’s as refined as she thinks she is. Definitely a bubbly drinker. Probably a three-dollar bottle of Passion Pop kind of girl, but I’m not about to suggest it. “Moscato. Sparkling. The batch from 2012.”

Candy’s lips sweep open on an “oh.”

“Are you sure?” Sarah asks. That wasn’t our best year. But her asking probably makes it sound like it’s better than it is, which works in our favor.

“Absolutely,” I say.

Sarah leaves us to search out a bottle, and with a hand to her elbow, I guide Candy toward a table at the front of the building with a panoramic view of the sprawling emerald lawn surrounded by rows and rows of vines. It’s a pretty view. One that never fails to make my chest swell. “Why don’t we take a seat and you can tell me what we can do to make your day perfect.”

“Well…” Candy pulls a binder out of her Mary Poppins-sized tote, places it on the table, and starts flipping through the pages. And then she rattles off a list of grievances so long I zone out.

I have never understood the fascination of weddings. Women become downright swoony at the idea of a white dress and vows. Obsessive. Lithe, hungry demons really. I’ve yet to meet a woman who doesn’t get a far-off look in her eye when it comes to weddings.

But it’s the commitment after that matters. Not whether it’s fucking sunny on that particular day or if the flowers are the right color. Pink is pink, for Christ’s sake.

Hell, my mother spent thirty years with a man who not only put work above her but didn’t tell her he was sick until he found out it was terminal. And my sister is trying to get a divorce from a man she never should have married in the first place.

And the one time I considered it…

Sarah comes back with the wine and glasses. I pour one for the bride and hand it to her. “Okay, let’s start with the biggest issue. Location? What would you need to make it perfect?”

“I want it outside. With the vines in the background. Your planner showed me your usual spots, but the one that would work is next to a pond. There are ducks. I don’t want water fowl waddling around, crapping everywhere.”

Is Monday the kind of girl who falls for this whole cock and bull? Probably. I shift in my chair. Who gives a shit if the auditor is a romantic at heart? It’s none of my business.

“Okay, I have a couple of ideas for you.” I gesture for Sarah to bring the photo album of locations at the vinery. “Let’s have a look at your options and then we can take a tour and check them out before you make your decision.”

“Mmm,” Candy says, sipping her sparkling wine. “One thing I know for sure is, this wine is incredible. How’d you know?”

“Call it my wine sense. It’s sort of a sixth sense for pairing people with wine.”

“Whatever it is, you nailed it. We absolutely must serve it at the reception.”

“Of course.” Whatever the bride wants, she gets.

It’s a good two hours before we finally have all her issues rectified. Sarah joined us to take notes as we went through every little detail. Now Sarah’s walking the bride-to-be to her car.

I head behind the bar to filch the bottle of scotch I keep stashed there. Wine is my world, but after that meeting, I need a proper drink. I pour two fingers into a glass and settle in front of my laptop.

Sarah joins me at the bar a few minutes later. “I’m sorry. Evan always handled the difficult cases.”

“He had a way with the bridezillas,” I agree.

She smiles and tucks a tendril of brunette hair behind her ear. “He learned from the best. Your mum is brilliant with all this stuff. I’m just…”

“It’s fine. I’ve thrown you in the deep end with this one. And that woman is a bridezilla if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well, at least she left happy,” Sarah says, collecting the glasses and the leftover wine.

“Yeah.” And I didn’t have a drink tossed in my face.

I roll my gaze to the beams overhead. Monday wasn’t happy at our meeting. Neither was I. And I’m pretty sure I acted like a tosser during it.

Perhaps I should try to make peace with her since my business is in her hands. A little light-hearted banter ought to bring her around. Grinning, I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text.

 

Me: Clearly not all American women think I’m an arse.

 

I don’t get a response until much later in the evening while I’m in the shower. Dripping wet, shampoo still in my hair, I stumble out of the bathroom half-blinded by soap to pick up my phone. Who does that? Me. I’ll do anything for the winery, including trying not to irritate the gorgeous blonde who holds the power to stop the largest distributer in the US from dealing with my business. A deal I need if I want to grow Anders Valley Vineyard as aggressively as I plan to.

 

Monday: Sorry. Who is this?

 

I have her number and she has mine, but I suppose it would make sense that she doesn’t have my information stored in her cell phone. I consider telling her, but where’s the fun in that? I reply on my way back to the bathroom.

 

Me: The jerk.

Monday: Which jerk?

 

I raise an eyebrow as I study those two words on the lock screen through the glass shower paneling. So it’s not just me then? Either she has a thing for jackasses or she’s uptight and judgemental. It’s hard to tell. I wash out the shampoo and take a moment to dry off before responding again.

 

Me: You know more than one?

 

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Those little dots go on forever. Long enough for me to clean up the bathroom and stretch out in bed. One hand tucked under my head, I glare at the dots. Is she writing a damn essay on how all men are dicks? If so, that would explain a lot. Sure, I wasn’t having a great night when we met, but her reaction was over the top. If this is a standard thing for her though… Maybe she just needs someone to show her we’re not all arseholes.

 

Me: All women like my wine. This one drank it like a civilized being though instead of tossing it in my face.

Monday: Jake Anders????

 

That wasn’t so hard. My lip tugs up on one side. I’m never going to let her live it down. The experience was unforgettable.

 

Me: That’s the one. Knew you’d be able to figure it out.

Monday: Why are you telling me this?

 

Good question. I guess I want to prove I’m not as big a jerk as she thinks I am. It’s as a good excuse as any to text her. And come on, it’s funny.

 

Me: Thought you might like to know most women don’t find it necessary to douse me in rosé.

 

I wait for her to respond. Or send a laughing emoji or a winky face or something to suggest she finds it as funny as I do. I get nothing.

What if she didn’t find it funny at all?

No Jerks on Monday

 

^^^That is a tidbit from my latest release, NO JERKS ON MONDAY.

Here’s what it’s about:

Jake Anders looks like he should be on the cover of an Australian firefighters calendar;

instead he owns a winery that makes a fabulous rosé.

The first time I met him, he was a jerk.

And then he became my client.

And he started acting distinctly non-jerky.

So I set out to prove it was all a ruse.

My ploy didn’t work.

And now, we’ve slept together.

If this is nothing but a one-night stand, I am so screwed.

You can grab it on Amazon. Happy reading!

~Tami Lund & Misti Murphy

Tami Lund Makes Mafia Romance Funny

Trapped by the Mob Cover

I posted this on my personal blog last week and decided to reblog it here… Enjoy a sneak peek at my latest release!!

~~~

Why yes, I did take a beloved trope and put my own spin on it. Because that’s what authors do, right? That’s why you keep reading; because we keep introducing new stories, new ideas, new ways to enjoy a storyline you’ve read before.

Such as the mafia. Or better yet, mafia romance. Like this one. Which is mafia romance a’la the Tami Lund special. What does that mean?

It’s means this book is gonna make you chuckle.

Here’s the premise:

TRAPPED BY THE MOB

Sure, Antonio Sarvilli is the money man behind his brother’s criminal empire, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. He’s not the one out there killing people. All he does is make greenbacks and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

That attitude changes when his brother assigns him to get to know Phoebe Cavanaugh, a Good Samaritan who witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to.

Now, all Antonio wants is to get out so he can be with Phoebe.

Except that’s not how it works when you’re part of the mob.

 

And here’s the first chapter, even before Amazon will offer it to you:

Chapter One

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

 

“I swear, I’ll never do that again,” Phoebe Cavanaugh muttered to her reflection, which stared back at her with mussed hair—and not the sexy bedhead kind, either—and bags the size of Lake Michigan under her eyes, accentuating a horribly pallid complexion.

“I am not a bad girl,” she added before shoving the toothbrush into her mouth and attempting to scrub away the cotton and lingering taste of tequila. Or maybe that was worm. God, the end of the evening was hazy, but she suspected her evil co-workers had convinced her to eat the damn thing when the last shot had been poured.

“Why did I think I could keep up?” She hadn’t been a heavy drinker when she had been in college, let alone in the five years since graduating. “And on a weekday, no less.”

She trudged back to her bedroom and huffed out a sigh. The digital clock on her bedside table flipped to 8:02.

Phoebe should have been to work an hour ago, and she hadn’t even showered yet. Hell, she was still wearing the jeans and boatneck, striped shirt she’d worn to the bar last night.

Not to mention the roiling in her stomach. Ugh. How the heck did one cure a weekday hangover?

She kicked a running shoe out of her way, and for the first time since dragging herself out of bed, something inside her body perked up. “I’ll sweat it out.”

She nodded, stripping out of last night’s clothes and reaching for her favorite pair of running shorts. “Thirty-minute jog, ten-minute shower, bare minimum makeup, and I’ll stop at McDonald’s on the way to work. I’ll be two hours late, but at least they won’t be able to say I couldn’t hang.”

Hell, she was feeling better already.

A swath of oak trees with massive, sprawling branches lined up on either side of a narrow, winding drive that separated Phoebe’s apartment complex from the main road. The natural barrier helped cut down on the city noises that slammed into her as soon as she hit the sidewalk, running along the road that normally took her to her job, the grocery store, the nearby bar she never intended to step foot into again.

She passed a gas station and hung a left, running along the gravel shoulder of a residential road that cut through a swampy area, which meant it was underdeveloped and thus much quieter with far less traffic. Lots of school buses, though. Usually she was already at work by this point, so she didn’t have to share road time with the big yellow vehicles with their flashing red lights and the stop signs that popped out from the side every time the gears ground to a halt to take on yet another kid.

The bout of nausea hit when she was jogging through a particularly quiet stretch. A wall of eight-foot tall cattails swayed in the gentle breeze to her left, and a gravel path jutted from the main road to her right. A two-story house with dust-covered, white siding stood sentinel, with a smaller cottage tucked behind it, like maybe it was a servant’s quarters or, more likely, a guesthouse. A dark-haired girl stood at the end of the dirt road, presumably waiting for the bus. She kicked pebbles while fiddling with the straps on her purple backpack.

“Oh God.” Phoebe’s stomach had about two seconds before she expelled whatever contents were left from last night, so she dove through the wall of cattails. She preferred to puke in private, thankyouverymuch. Her running shoes sank into muck as she bent at the waist and hacked up what looked like she might very well have eaten that damn worm from the bottom of the tequila bottle.

Sucking in deep breaths and wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, she remained doubled over at the waist until the sound of a car door caught her attention. Glad for the distraction from the grossness at her feet, she gingerly pulled her shoes from the mud and separated the foliage with her hands so she could look out at the road.

A newer model black town car had stopped near the young girl still standing across the street. That was weird. Phoebe glanced up and down the road, but there were no other cars. Or buses. She didn’t see someone who might resemble a parent either. And that guy climbing out of the driver’s seat didn’t look like any father Phoebe would want. Not that she knew her own father or believed they all should look a certain way, but this guy, he would be a better fit in a mafia movie than in, say, a Disney princess book.

Unless the story was about kidnapper dads.

“Holy shit!” She stared through the gap she’d made in the cattails as the guy walked around the car, grabbed the kid by the strap of her purple backpack, and tossed her into the backseat of his car. Okay, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that, but that little girl had definitely not intended to go with that guy. She was waiting for the bus, wasn’t she?

“Ohmigod, he’s kidnapping her!” Phoebe leaped from her hiding place, waving her arms and shouting, “Stop! Stop! Help! Police! Somebody call the cops!”

The kidnapper’s head snapped up, and for a second she was afraid he was about to pull out a gun and aim it at her. Maybe she watched too many movies. Except the guy was kidnapping that kid, for crying out loud!

Instead of shooting her, he hustled around the car and hopped into the driver’s seat, the tires spinning and kicking dirt and pebbles at her as she raced across the street like she thought she was going to be able to stop him.

“Nina?”

Phoebe jerked her attention to the woman jogging toward her on the dirt road. She must have come from the smaller house tucked behind the big one. The woman wore a pale pink, scoop neck T-shirt and a pair of khaki capris. Her hair was dark, pulled back into a ponytail, and her features were dainty and elfin. Just like the little girl who was speeding away in the backseat of a black sedan with some creepy mob guy.

“Nina,” the woman said again when she reached Phoebe. “Did the bus come?” She sounded on the edge of panic, like she needed Phoebe to lie to her.

“Some guy just kidnapped her,” Phoebe said. “At least, I think so. That was your daughter, right? Dark hair, purple backpack, looks just like you?”

The lady twisted her head back and forth, looking up and down the road. “Yes. Nina. What do you mean, some guy just kidnapped her? Who?”

Phoebe tugged her phone from her shorts pocket and dialed 9-1-1. “How the hell do I know who he was? But I can describe the car and him, although damn it, I didn’t think to get the license—hello? Yes, this is an emergency. I just witnessed a kidnapping. Yes, I’ll—”

“No!” The woman jerked the phone from Phoebe’s hand and pressed the red button on the screen to disconnect the call. “Don’t involve the cops.”

“Don’t what? Are you crazy? Some mafia-looking guy just kidnapped your daughter, lady.” She enunciated the words the way people did when they were speaking to someone who didn’t understand English very well.

“Which is why you can’t involve the police.”

Phoebe’s phone rang. Emergency dispatch flashed on the screen. She took a couple steps away from the crazy lady and answered the call. “Yes, hello? Yes, I did just call and yes, I did witness a kidnapping. I’m at” —she glanced up at the street sign—“the corner of Hiller and Dirk Avenue. Yes, I’ll stay here until the police arrive. Thank you. Uh-uh. Bye.”

She disconnected the call and glanced at the woman who was now frowning at her like she’d done something wrong instead of try to help her get her daughter back. “Are you going into shock? Is that the problem?”

The lady flung out her hand and stormed away, heading down the road that, now that Phoebe got a good look at it, was actually a long, winding driveway. The mother of the year muttered as she walked. Something about ruining everything and now Gino was going to be a complete ass and probably punish her even though she wasn’t the one who called the cops and why couldn’t people just mind their own damn business.

“Hey,” Phoebe said, chasing after her. “If I hadn’t noticed that guy taking your kid, you wouldn’t even know she was gone until she didn’t get off the school bus this afternoon.”

The lady sighed and turned around. “Yes, I would have. I’m sure Gino will call, probably within the hour. He didn’t take her because he actually wants to see her; he took her because I went out on a date last night. Apparently he can screw anyone he damn well pleases, but I can’t even go on one lousy date. And that’s the best part: It was a lousy date.”

Phoebe canted her head and furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

The lady flapped her hand again. “Gino. My ex-husband. I’m sure that’s who took Nina. Well, one of his minions, at any rate, since he never does his own dirty work.”

“Oh. I take it he’s her dad?”

“Of course he is,” she snapped, like the answer was obvious.

“So he won’t hurt her?”

“Doubtful. I mean, I’m pretty sure Gino isn’t actually capable of love, but whatever passes closest to it in his mind is what he feels for Nina. So no, he won’t hurt her. He only did this to torment me.”

“Yeah, you said that. Because you went on a date last night. But didn’t you say he’s your ex-husband?”

“Yes, thank God.”

“Then how is it he has any say over your life whatsoever?”

“Trust me, once you get caught in Gino Sarvilli’s web, you never truly get out again. Even though he granted me the divorce two years ago, the ground rules were clear. I’m only allowed to do whatever Gino says I can do. And having a life, enjoying the company of another man, isn’t on that list.”

“That makes no sense.”

She shrugged. “It does in Gino’s world.”

“You make the guy sound like a dictator or something.”

“You said it,” she said as a police cruiser slowed and turned onto the dirt road, inching toward them. “And this”—she pointed at the cop car— “just made it ten times worse.”

Thanks to an unfortunate situation last fall—which, by the way, hadn’t been her fault—Phoebe had lost her job as a wedding planner. One career change later and she wasn’t quite to the ninety-day mark in her current position. Now she had no idea if she’d even be able to make it in today.

Not the way to impress the new boss.

~~~

And here’s the link to keep reading when it releases on February 28, 2019: PRE-ORDER. 

PS – It will be available in KU!

PSS – The sequel, FREED FROM THE MOB, is scheduled for release on March 28, 2019.

Happy reading!

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund writes all sorts of tropes, from dragons to witches to demigods to contemporary suspense and romcom. All all sexy, all are funny, and all will satisfy your need for a happy ever after… https://tamilund.com/

HUNGRY LIKE A DRAGON Excerpt

Hungry Like A Dragon COVER

Guess what? I just released a new book–yesterday! Here’s what it contains:

  • dragons
  • a sexy dragon chef
  • a stubborn, strong, badass dragon heroine
  • a cute dragon baby
  • dragon humor
  • witches (and dragons)
  • gargoyles (and dragons)
  • dragon sexy times
  • a dragon-licious happy ending

And here’s a teaser for additional temptation:

“Okay, baby girl,” she murmured as she lifted the child onto her shoulder and gently patted her back. “Let’s get that gas out and then fall back asleep for at least twenty minutes. I need a shower.” Never, until three months ago, had she considered showers to be a novelty, a privilege, a damn-near euphoric experience.

For once, the bundle of adorableness decided to comply, belching loudly enough to make a grown man jealous and then promptly sighing and closing her eyes. She was so damn cute, Petra was tempted to just hold her like this, but reality called in the form of being clean for the date she’d managed to line up for tonight.

Gently placing the sleeping babe in the bouncy seat that was already parked on the bathroom floor, Petra quickly turned on the water and stripped down, ignoring the soft paunch she glimpsed in the mirror before climbing into the shower.

Sadie started crying five minutes later.

“Oh come on,” Petra complained as she rinsed conditioner out of her hair. “I need to shave. It’s been way too long. Birds are starting to look at my legs as possible relocation options.”

Sadie stopped crying.

Petra paused in the act of turning off the water. When the baby didn’t start up again, she picked up her razor, quickly lathered her leg, and got to work scraping off enough hair she worried the drain would clog.

Good thing she was able to get through the task, because she couldn’t wear long pants tonight even if she wanted to. She didn’t have any that were clean. Her choices were shorts or a skirt. Because she sure as hell couldn’t fit into the dozens of outfits she bought for Sadie. Working at a kids’ clothing store was probably not the wisest choice for someone who wasn’t good at self-control.

Clean and freshly shaved, she turned off the water and shoved aside the shower curtain, reaching for her towel.

And saw a man standing in the bathroom, holding her daughter in his arms, his body gently swaying to some silent beat.

Petra immediately summoned the magic, ready to shift into dragon form and scare the living daylights out of whoever the hell dared sneak into her house and pick up her baby girl and…

Her dragon, in stark contrast to Petra’s reaction, was doing a jig, a rather seductive one, at that. Why the hell wasn’t her dragon roaring in her head and demanding to come out so she could rip this guy’s limbs from his body?

The internal confusion gave the man enough time to turn to face her, and Petra’s heart stopped for a long moment, then kicked into triple overtime.

Oh. My. Gods.

Noah.

And jeez, did he ever look good, holding her baby like that.

Their baby.

Oh shit.

“Uh…” She finally tore her gaze away from the man she’d been fantasizing about pretty regularly ever since she sauntered away from him after the most amazing sex ever in the woods behind Gabe’s house. She snagged her towel and quickly wrapped it around herself, hiding her mom bod from view.

His gaze dropped south of the hem of the terrycloth. “Did I give you enough time to shave?”

Her face heated. “Uh…” Crap, was she incapable of forming words? Standing in the tub, water dripping from the ends of her hair, clutching the towel above her heaving breasts, she finally managed the concept of actual speech. “Wha-what are you doing here?”

He indicated the child sleeping on his shoulder. “Meeting my daughter. She is mine, isn’t she?”

Want to keep reading? Of course you do! Head on over to the Bad Alpha Dads website for all the buy links. While you’re there, take a look at the first book in the Taming the Dragon series, DRAGON HIS HEELS, which is on sale for 99c until 1/31/2019!

Happy (dragon) reading!

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Tami Lund is an author, award winner, wine drinker, and writer of dragon romance. She also writes mafia romance, and the first book in her Detroit Mafia Romance series releases on 2/28/2019. Stay tuned for more deets…https://tamilund.com/

Need a Distraction From Football?

Or really just don’t care about it? I feel ya.

Despite my ambivalence over football, I do love a fantastic sports hero. I’m talking in romance books, of course!

And my friend Christa Maurice put together a nice list of sports romance, including my own book, Sexy Bad Daddy, which is about a golf pro and his nanny and all the naughty things that occur, despite their best intentions. (Also, in this book, you’ll find an adorable three-year-old daughter, a trouble-causing goat, and possibly a duck… yeah, you’re gonna have to read it to believe it.)

Here’s a teaser:

“So anyway, Paynt here thinks I’m not nearly as good at picking up the ladies as I am,” Garrett says.

“Actually, what I said was, you shouldn’t be,” his brother corrects him. “He sleeps around too damn much,” he explains for my benefit.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I’m guessing they’re drunk, or at least Garrett is.

“So tell me,” Garrett says, glancing up at me with puppy dog eyes that no doubt are at least partially to blame for the whole sleeping-around-too-damn-much issue. That muscle tone under his shirt certainly wouldn’t be a deterrent, either.

“I have a boyfriend,” I blurt. Danny’s not remotely my boyfriend—he’s more like my sibling, or maybe the perfect just friend to tag along when you want to hang out at a sports bar—but I need an out here. I know my own shortcomings when it comes to good-looking, older guys who smell like money. Best to put up that wall before this conversation goes any further.

“Too bad,” Garrett says. “But for the sake of argument, pretend you don’t. If I hit on you, would you go home with me?”

Before I decided to try to grow the hell up and get my life on track, the answer might have been yes, but for all the wrong reasons. Not anymore, though. I’m a new woman. A better woman.

“She’s hesitating.” Garrett stabs his finger at Paynter. “Told you. They can’t resist me.”

“You’re such an ass,” Paynter says.

“Nah, I’m living the dream. Just because you’re tied down to a goat and a hot executive doesn’t mean you gotta beat up on my perfectly satisfying lifestyle.”

A goat and a hot executive? I can’t decide if I want to stay and learn more or run away.

***

Here’s the link to SEXY BAD DADDYhttps://www.amazon.com/Sexy-Bad-Daddy-Book-ebook/dp/B071J2K6PH

And here’s the link to a whole bunch of sports romance, for your reading pleasure: https://christamaurice.com/2018/09/30/sports-romance/

 

Happy reading!

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Tami Lund writes romance, including, on occasion, sports romance. And baby daddy romance. And funny romance. And FBI romance. And dragon romance. And vampire romance. Okay, Tami writes a lot of romance. Check out her website for the rather extensive list: https://sexybadbooks.com/books-by-tami-lund/

 

Sexy Bad Halloween Freebie – Only ‘Til 10/11

Guess what? Guess what? Guess what? I just released another book! This one’s contemporary — another in the Sexy Bad series, for those keeping track — and it’s a Halloween read. And it’s F*R*E*E* until Thursday, 10/11. So grab it, read it, leave a review and tell me what you think. Gooooooo!

SEXY BAD HALLOWEEN – What’s it about?

Alex

I stepped into the costume shop looking for something to wear to a Halloween party. What I got was a chance meeting with my childhood best friend, Victoria Ruben. We haven’t spoken since her mom and my dad had an affair and took her and moved across the country, twelve years ago.

Despite a less-than-stellar shared past, I want to get to know my friend again. Maybe as more than friends. But she’s hesitant.

So I suggest a game with only one rule: Let’s go on ten dates… without sex.

Victoria

My life is complicated enough without Alex Darling stepping back into it. So I definitely should not have taken him up on his challenge of ten dates without sex. Because, yeah, the more reacquainted we become, the more I want to get to know him better, a lot better. Like maybe forever better.

Which can’t happen. Because I have a secret, and it involves Alex, and when he finds out, he’ll want nothing to do with me ever again.

 

Chapter One

ALEX

“I’m not usually such a procrastinator,” I say as I burst through the door of the costume shoppe—so the sign hanging from the eaves proclaims—and bustle inside, determined to get this annoying task over with.

The single occupant of the store pauses in the process of doing who knows what to a silver and blue dress with a billowing, floor-length skirt, and glances over her shoulder. “Welcome to Victoria’s Vintage Costumes.”

“Are you Victoria?” I move away from the door, glancing at a grouping of mannequins dressed in suits with frilly cuffs and dresses with skirts as wide as they are long. There are other statues dressed in flapper dresses and some in zoot suits and still others in—are those animals? They look frighteningly real. Although ridiculously large. Like, nightmare-inducing large.

“Technically, yes. But I go by Tori, even though I’m not.”

There might be a political joke in her statement, but I’m too focused on my task to try to work it out, so I say nothing.

“Well, anyway, I take it you have to attend a party tonight?” She climbs down from a stepladder and whips a tape measure out of the pocket in her capris as she strides toward me. Her hair is a rainbow—pink and blue and green and purple, twisted into a braid that drapes over her shoulder and topped with one of those fake flower wreath-like decorations sold at county fairs and German festivals. And here, apparently, as I note a tarnished silver rack perched on a nearby glass case is dripping with them.

She’s wearing a simple white tank top, and there’s a tattoo on her shoulder that disappears down her back. I’ve never really cared one way or the other about tattoos, but I want to get closer to inspect this one. Maybe it’s the smooth, satin-looking skin on her neck.

Or maybe it’s the braless boobs staring me in the face.

Shaking my head, I say, “No. I need a Halloween costume.”

She freezes mid-step and stares at me like I’ve said something insanely ridiculous. “Did you say Halloween?”

“Yes.”

“The holiday that falls on October thirty-first each year?”

I frown. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“The one that’s two months away?”

Yes, this is the Halloween I’m speaking of. Not sure why she needs so much clarification. Last time I checked, that particular holiday hasn’t changed in, well, not in my lifetime at least. And considering we look to be about the same age, I’d say not in hers either.

“That’s two months away,” she repeats, still staring at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “I haven’t even begun to set up my Halloween displays. My costumes left over from last year are still in storage, and the new ones I ordered won’t be here for at least two weeks. It’s still summer, for Christ’s sake.”

My gaze bounces around the shop again. “There are a ton of costumes here.”

“Yes, but they aren’t Halloween costumes.”

Something about this exchange feels a lot like dèjá vu. As if someone snapped their fingers and took me back to my childhood. There was this girl who lived next door to me. Her name was Victoria, and we were polar opposites. I said tomahto, she said tomato, and we’d argue until I got sick of it and let her have her way. She’d never let me have the last word…ever.

“Wait—Victoria Ruben?”

She looks up sharply.

“Vicks?” I give the rainbow hair a cursory glance and then dismiss it. Hair could easily be altered. But eyes…those vivid green eyes had always felt as though they were staring into my soul whenever they looked at me. Considering we lived next door to each other for ten years, that happened a lot.

“Ugh. No one has called me Vicks VapoRub in a decade, at least. Not since middle school.” She narrows her eyes and studies me until the light pops on over her head. Not literally, of course, but her face brightens with recognition after a few moments.

“Alex? Holy cripes, Alex Darling? Well, aren’t you a blast from my past. How the hell are you?” She grasps my bicep and gives it a squeeze, then leaves her hand there while staring at my shirtsleeve. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” I glance down at her hand now roaming my arm and shoulder, almost like she’s giving me a massage. It feels kind of good. Must to her, too, if the state of her nipples is any indication.

“You’ve filled out. I mean, you’re still on the skinny side and, not surprisingly, tall as all get out, but damn.”

While Victoria, er, Tori’s childhood nickname had been based around her name, mine were all about my stature. Bean Pole, Daddy Long Legs, Gandalf, Q-Tip. I’ve heard them all—and I’m pretty sure Victoria came up with every single one of them.

“So have you,” I retort, and then snap my mouth shut because where the hell did my filter run off to?

She glances down at her perky nips and chuckles. “Yeah, they tend to do that when I rub buff guys’ arms.”

Unlike me, Vicks never had a filter. I clear my throat and avert my gaze like the polite guy my mother raised me to be. “So, you’ve moved back to Chicago?”

“Yep. Your mom may have run mine off, but she can’t keep me away.”

“She didn’t run her off,” I protest, but it’s weak. Because we both know what happened that summer after eighth grade.

“Well, technically, your mom caught my mom and your dad fooling around in a department store dressing room.”

Yeah, I remember. I was with my mother that day. We were at Macy’s, shopping for shorts because I’d grown another few inches since the summer before. My dad was supposed to be at work, and who the hell knew what Vicks’s mom should have been doing. Certainly not bending over and begging my dad to give it to her from behind while in a public place. Or any place, really.

“And after she went home and stewed on it for a few hours, your mom came over to my house and threatened mine with a cleaver. It was the first time I’d ever seen a cleaver. After your mom calmly walked back out the door, I had to ask mine what it was.”

I grimace. “You guys moved out the next day.”

“Actually, we went to a hotel while my mom regrouped and figured out what the hell to do.”

“Which turned out to be stealing my dad and moving to Washington.”

“I wouldn’t say it was stealing, per se. He went quite willingly.”

Yeah, I remember that part, too. My mom was a wreck. I’d had to push aside my grieving over losing my father—which was okay because it wasn’t really much of a loss anyway—to help her figure out how to get along as a single parent.

“So.” I clear my throat. “How is my dad anyway?” I haven’t talked to him since the day he chose her mom over mine. Her kids over me.

Vicks lifts one shoulder. “No idea. Haven’t seen him in, I don’t know, ten years or so. I think he moved to LA. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“Oh man, that sucks. I’m sorry.” Sure, her mother shouldn’t have hooked up with my dad, a married man at the time, but neither did she deserve for him to treat her the same way he treated me.

She flaps her hand. “Trust me, he wasn’t worth keeping.”

I agree with her, despite the nights I laid awake, listening to my mother cry herself to sleep for months after he left. Or maybe I agree because of that.

After a moment, I ask, “So, how is the rest of your family? Your mom, your brother? Did they move back too?”

“Two brothers now.” She lifts her pointer and middle finger. “And no, Mom and Jace didn’t come back to Chicago. Mom’s still in Washington, and I’m not really sure where Jace is at the moment.”

“Your mom had another kid?” I know I shouldn’t judge—glass houses and all—but that means unless Ms. Ruben, or whatever her last name is now, got back together with either Vicks’s or Jaces’s dad, she now has three kids from three different men.

Vicks toys with her tape measure, tugging the strip out of the small plastic holder and then letting it snap back in, over and over, until my arm lifts of its own accord, ready to grab the thing from her hand.

Finally, she stops and stuffs the contraption into her pocket. “Yeah, well, she’s not very good at using protection when she’s mad, and apparently she’s a big fan of angry sex.”

Not something I ever needed to know about her mother. Or anyone’s mother, really.

“She’s way better at producing children than she is at taking care of them,” she adds. “Hence the reason I’m back here.”

Poor Vicks. I can’t imagine what her life has been like since they left Chicago twelve years ago. I mean, sure, my mom had to go back into the workforce after being a stay-at-home parent for my entire life up to that point, had to fight for every pitiful penny my dad coughed up for child support, but not once did I ever feel like she did not love me, did not want me, did not have every intention of taking care of me to the best of her ability.

And if Vicks is still anything like she was when we hung out in elementary and middle school, I cannot tell her I feel sorry for her. Even at a young age, she had pride by the bucket full.

She shakes her head and chuckles humorlessly as she steps behind the glass-encased counter positioned to the left of the entrance. “I think we could both use a stiff one, huh?”

“A stiff one?” I glance over my shoulder at the glowing ‘open’ sign. “Now?”

She snorts out a laugh as she reaches underneath an ancient cash register, pulling out a bottle of golden liquid with a cork stopper and no label.

“What is that?” I ask, giving her offering a dubious look.

“Honey mead. I make my own. It’s quite good, actually.”

“No thanks. I don’t usually drink before five.” And I’ve never had homemade booze in my life. Even though I’m salivating, despite my words. Not sure if that’s because I want to forget the stuff Vicks just told me or if it’s to help process it.

She pulls two lowball glasses from under the counter and pours a hefty amount into both of them. Either she can read minds or she ignored me when I declined her offer. She pushes one of them across the glass surface toward my hand, and I grab it before it tips over the edge and races to shatter on the floor.

“If I didn’t know your mother, I’d find that statement very strange. I still do, but at least I understand where it comes from.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your mom is pretty damn neurotic. So it’s not surprising some of her issues rubbed off on you.”

Hey, that’s my mom she’s talking about. And me, for that matter. “Your mom isn’t exactly a saint, either.”

“Never said she was. In fact, her very obvious lack of sainthood is probably what lured your dad away from your mom. I bet your mom was just as high-strung in bed as she was in the rest of her life.”

An unbidden image of my parents having sex pops into my head. Ugh. I lift the glass of mead to my lips and take a shaky sip. It’s spicy and sweet, like honey laced with jalapeño, and it helps push the idea of my mother having sex—any sex, high-strung or not—out of my head.

“This feels like it’s turning into a mother bashing contest,” I say, taking another drink. This one goes down far more smoothly. Which is saying something, because that first swallow wasn’t bad at all.

“Okay, let’s stop,” Vicks says easily enough. She lifts her glass. “How is it?”

“Surprisingly good.”

She gives her drink a dubious look. “Surprisingly?”

“Nothing personal,” I assure her while continuing to sip away. “It’s just I’ve never had honey mead before, and certainly not homemade. But I like it.”

“Oh. Okay.” She touches the rim of her glass to mine. “To rekindled friendships.”

I like that. As much as she teased me and I harassed her when we were kids, Vicks had been the calming influence in my life before my dad and her mom managed to turn our worlds upside down with their stupid affair. I haven’t felt that same sense of relaxation since. I didn’t even realize I missed it until this moment.

“It’s so good to have you back, Vicks.”

She lifts her glass, touches the rim to mine. “It’s surprisingly good to be here, although I returned to Chicago eight years ago.”

“What the hell took you so long to come back into my life?” I ask, my filter giving out again. Or maybe it’s the mead, because my glass is empty.

“Can I have a refill?”

KEEP READING FOR FREE IF YOU GRAB IT BY 10/11/18: https://www.amazon.com/Sexy-Bad-Halloween-Tami-Lund-ebook/dp/B07J3PBC8L/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1539042683&sr=8-1&keywords=tami+lund+sexy+bad+halloween

While each book in the Sexy Bad Series contains a stand-alone happily ever after, this is the suggested reading order:

Sexy Bad Neighbor
Sexy Bad Daddy
Sexy Bad Boss
Sexy Bad Valentine
Sexy Bad Escort
Sexy Bad Halloween

And here’s the Sexy Bad website, if you want more, more, more: https://sexybadbooks.com/

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund writes Sexy Bad contemporary and paranormal books. A whole lot of them. You should check out the Sexy Bad website above to see all of them….

 

 

Vampire Love

BloodCourtesansBoxImage2SmallsansJJ

Happy Valentine’s Day! Seems to me such a drenched-in-red holiday should be celebrated with…vampires!

And I have the perfect boxed set to help immerse you in the vampire culture. While those other folks are gorging on chocolate, you’ll be indulging in something far more decadent, yet entirely unharmful to your thighs. In fact, you’ll probably end up accidentally exercising, as you clench them while reading these rather sinful stories.

So here’s the deal: I wrote a couple vampire books, and they are part of this series called Blood Courtesans.

What’s that, you ask?

In the Blood Courtesan world, humans are aware of vampires’ existence. In fact, humans can make a lot of money if they play their cards right, because vampires need blood to sustain themselves, and they’re willing to pay big bucks for the opportunity to put fang to neck.

Where’s the sexy come in?

You see, these vampires don’t just drink blood out of necessity. Oh no. The process of seeing to their needs involves seduction, wine, and sex. Once someone becomes a vampire, they no longer have need of food, but they still enjoy a delicious glass of wine. Especially if that wine is tasted through the blood of their courtesan.

Oh yeah, and drinking blood makes vampires horny.

If a Blood Courtesan is lucky enough to get chosen to provide sustenance for a vampire, she’s likely to be wined, dined, and then dined on. While experiencing the best sex of her life, I might add. These vamps have been around the block a few thousand times in their long, long existence. They’ve got the Kama Sutra down. They’ve probably written parts of it.

And you can read all about it.

There are 11 full-length novels or novellas in this set. All new stories, all taking place in the Blood Courtesan world. All written by different authors. Some are best sellers. Some are award winners. All are excellent story-tellers.

Want a taste? A nip? A sample?

Here’s a teaser from ETERNITY, the book I wrote as part of this boxed set:

“You don’t fight fair,” I stated flatly. “I can barely resist you.”

“Then don’t.”

An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me to her so that her front pressed against my back. She slid her hand under the hem of my shirt, her nails gently scraping my skin. I closed my eyes and didn’t move away like I should. Instead, I turned my head slightly and breathed in her scent: Magnolias and wine and sugar and cocoa from that cake she’d eaten earlier. I wasn’t hungry; I’d indulged in a courtesan only last night, but I still wanted a nip, a taste of her blood. There was no better dessert than my precious Abigail.

She swivelled her hips, rubbing against my ass, while her hand travelled south. When her fingertips grazed my erection, it was like she’d flipped a switch. I was gone. I couldn’t say no any longer. I needed this as much as she seemed to.

One night. I could handle one more night, couldn’t I? Letting her go the first time had nearly broke me, so I should know better, but clearly, she was a master at seduction. Or perhaps it was my obsession for her. I’d had far more skilled women in my long existence, and none made me remotely as lust-crazed as this one did.

Wrapping my arm around her back, I twisted us both, switching our positions so that her ass now rested against my throbbing erection. Dipping my head, I nipped at her bare shoulder, sliding my fang back and forth over her skin but not penetrating. Yet.

She cupped my backside and her other hand threaded into my hair. I pressed my hardness against her ass and gathered the hem of her dress in my hand so I could get to what was underneath. Her naked flesh, the gathering wetness and heat that was all for me.

“One more night,” I said, vocalizing my thoughts, as if that would somehow give me strength to follow through on the promise. I slipped my hand under the elastic of her panties; my fingers found her shaved mound.

“What?” she said, wiggling, which I took to mean she wanted more. So I pushed my hand lower until it slid through wetness. She arched and moaned and then said, “What did you say?”

No idea. I couldn’t even recall speaking at this point. My entire focus was on the task at hand. She needed an orgasm, multiple ones. I needed to ensure she never forgot this night when I sent her back to her human life.

“I want more,” she said, shifting her hips.

“I’ll give you more. We’ve all night, love.”

“No.” There was a touch of impatience to her voice now, and I finally realized she wasn’t struggling for more, she was trying to get away from me. I tugged my hand out of her panties and turned her around to face me. Her eyes were bright, her color high, her hair mused, and she looked so damn fuckable, I wanted to pick her up and toss her onto the bed and ravish her for the rest of our time together.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my impatience matching hers. Now that I’ve made this decision, I didn’t want to waste a single moment.

“This.” She waved her finger between the two of us. “This isn’t just one night. I don’t want one night. I want all of eternity.”

All of eternity?

She wanted me to turn her.

Despite what I kept telling myself

And here’s one from UNDONE by Skye Jones:

I leaned forward and took a bite of the mango. As the sweet ripeness hit my taste buds, I gave a small moan. I had never tasted mango like it. This fruit was nothing like the mangos we got in our supermarkets back home. Some juice ran onto my chin and I reached for a napkin, but Dimitri got there first.

He tipped my chin and licked the juice from my skin, ending his shocking display by kissing me on the lips with sensual skill.

Oh my God, if he could make a kiss so damn hot, what would he do with the rest of my body to play with. My nipples, the traitorous things, went hard as granite in my dress, and when Dimitri finally broke the kiss and leaned back his gaze traveled down my body as he smiled to himself.

I felt vulnerable, on display, and horribly turned on. Why did he have this effect on me? I hardly knew him. He represented most of the things I hated in this world—apart from the cool factor of him being Russian—yet he made me tremble with a mere glance.

“Can I kiss your throat?” he murmured, his voice deeper than usual. Husky.

I swallowed and nodded. As he pressed close to me, I closed my eyes and waited for the soft touch of his lips on mine, but before he kissed me, he ran his nose up the length of my neck, inhaling as he did so and making me shiver.

“You smell amazing.”

“It’s Givenchy,” I told him.

“No, pretty one. Not your perfume. You.”

“Ah.” Not sure what to say, I shut up as his lips found the skin right below my ear by my jaw.

He kissed me there, feather light and oh so soft, and began to work his way down my throat. The kisses were so light, so chaste as to be almost nothing but wisps of breath against my skin, but they still made me shiver and sigh. I wanted more. So much more. To feel his lips pressed hard against me. His tongue laving me.

One of his hands slid under the table and gathered up the silky folds of my dress, pulling it up as his hand climbed my leg. When he reached the apex of my thighs, he stilled and left his hand there, cool and tempting against my overheated skin. So close to where I needed him, but still a million miles away.

His other hand played with my hair. He lifted it and let if fall through his fingers. Every now and again, he caught a heavy handful of it and gave a gentle tug, and when he did, he pressed his mouth that bit more firmly against my throat.

I wanted so much more. Between my legs grew obscenely damp, and I’d bet I had soaked the gossamer material of the dress. My breath came in rapid gasps, yet he’d hardly done anything of real consequence. But I needed him to.

“What do you want, pretty one?” He kissed my collarbone, murmuring something in Russian against my skin, and hearing the low words in that exotic accent made me weak at the knees.

“I want more.”

“How much more?”

I wanted it all, and he wanted me to say it, but I had my pride. He’d paid for me. He’d bought me. Why should I be the one to beg?

About to say as much, he chuckled darkly against my skin. “You deny yourself because of pride? I don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.”

Those deft fingers of his moved from their resting place at the top of my thigh, and stroked right between my folds, pressing against my most sensitive spot.

“So proud. So beautiful. So different.” He kissed me again when he finished speaking, and this time, it wasn’t gentle or soft. It was insistent and demanding and wild.

 

And, because this is so much fun (and hot), here’s one more. This one is from CONCEALED by Rosalie Redd:

“Don’t touch the Stradivarius.” Gavin’s cool, minty breath eased over my cheeks, tickling my skin.

Confusion wracked my brain, stalling my thoughts. “What?”

He smiled, and this close, I got a good look at his fangs. Long and pointed, they were nothing like the plastic pair I used to play with as a child.

He dropped his head to my neck, his lips trailing over my jugular once again. “I said, don’t touch the Stradivarius.”

“Why not?” My breaths, short and quick, eased from my mouth.

“Over the last one hundred and twenty years, only my hands have touched that violin.” He grazed his tooth along my neck, pricking at me.

120 years… “How old are you?”

“I was born January 14th, 1879.”

“So that makes you one hundred and thirty-nine.”

“Very good. Smart as well as…beautiful.” He chuckled, and the vibration travelled along my nerves, lighting up my senses.

I gasped as much from his touch as from the hateful word he said even after I’d told him how much I despised it.

With his free hand, he trailed his finger down my rib cage and over my hip. The movement was sensual, possessive, and I couldn’t stop the slow moan as it eased from my lips.

He pressed his knee harder against the wall, pushing up my skirt and encouraging me to spread my legs.

With a soft whimper, I complied.

“And, my spunky Alexandra, how young are you?” Gavin slid his fingers along my thigh until he reached the juncture between my legs.

“Twenty-two.”

“Ah, the perfect age.” He brushed his fingers over my panties, circling the outer edges of my mound. My body responded, my nipples peaking under the sheer top.

A groan eased from Gavin’s lips, and he rubbed his chest against mine, teasing the hard nubs. His one eye, vibrant red, stared at me.

Caught like a fly in a web, I couldn’t look away. “The perfect age for what?”

“For sex, of course, dearest Alexandra.”

Want more? Click here for a list of all the various ways you can download this delightful gift to yourself: AWAKENINGS

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Tami Lund Headshot 2014

Tami Lund writes books, drinks wine, and wins awards. She also participates in fun, sexy boxed sets and anthologies. She currently has a short story published as part of the 12 Magical Nights of Christmas Anthology. If you purchase this anthology, all proceeds are donated to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Grab it here: 12 MAGICAL NIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS