Thursday, February 26, 2015

Blog Tour: Interference by Dakota Madison

Author: Dakota Madison
Genre: New Adult Sports Romance
Standalone Novel
USA TODAY Bestselling Author Dakota Madison returns with another spicy sports romance. This story set in the world of college basketball.

Neuroscience student SEDONA MILLER is perfectly imperfect. She’s slightly nerdy and slightly eccentric, but completely brilliant.

When an unfortunate accident leaves Sedona with an injured arm and she’s fired from her part-time job shelving books at the university library she has to find a new gig fast.

The only job available mid-semester is working as a tutor for the athletic academic center. And the notorious bad boy of the university’s basketball team, JESSE WALKER, is the one and only guy on the new tutor’s roster.

But when SEDONA discovers a secret that could ruin the school’s winning basketball team doing the right thing could mean destroying the only guy she’s ever loved.

When I finally hit the last room in a long row of rooms I see a guy sitting there looking bored and staring at two fast food containers in front of him on the table.

He glances up at me when I enter. The first thing I notice is his piercing green eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that green on a human being that weren’t Photoshopped 

The second thing I notice is his messy, light brown hair. It doesn’t look like it’s been combed it in a week. It makes me wonder if it’s some new hair trend or if he just doesn’t bother to style it. Not that I have too much room to talk when it comes to hair. My curly red mop has been the bane of my existence since I was a kid. About the only thing I can ever do with it is pull it back into a pony tail. 


I nod.

“Have a seat.” He points to the chair right next to him. 

I remember Lewis’s warning and take a seat across the table instead. I want to be as close to the door as possible. The guy is big and muscular and much more intimidating than I imagined he’d be. 

My heart is thumping in my chest because his size and rough demeanor are making me nervous. 

When he pushes one of the fast food containers in my direction I cringe. I rarely eat fast food and when I do it’s from Just Veggies, an organic vegetarian place near campus.

He doesn’t hesitate to open his container and take a bite of the messy burger that’s dripping some kind of white sauce all over his pile of fries. 

My stomach turns in response. 

“I bought you a burger.” He points to the second container he’s pushed in my direction. “Ambrose scheduled our sessions during lunch.”

I make a point of pushing the container back over to him. “No thank you.”

He frowns. “It’s from Frankie’s. Everybody loves Frankie’s burgers.”

“Clearly not everyone.”

His brows knit like he can’t believe I refused the food he bought.

“You don’t want it?” He actually sounds hurt.

“No, I don’t.”


I lift my book bag from the ground and point to one of the many political cause buttons I have covering the knitted tote my mom made for me. 

He barely acknowledges it. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Now I’m the one who’s frowning. “Meat is murder. It’s a slogan. It means that I don’t eat animal flesh.”

“You’re one of those vegans?” He doesn’t bother hiding the condescension in his voice.

“Technically I’m a vegetarian. I eat free range, organic dairy products.”

“Fine. I’ll eat the burger.” He glares at me as he opens the second container and takes a huge bite of the burger.

I’m appalled until I notice that he slyly pushes both containers away and doesn’t take another bite of either burger.

“I guess I should have brought an apple for the teacher.”

“Only if it’s organic. And I’m not actually a teacher. I’m a tutor.”

We both stare at each other for a long moment. Awkward does not even begin to describe our pairing. We’re like two people from different planets trying to communicate when we don’t speak each other’s languages.

I remove a slip of paper from my bag. “Mr. Ambrose gave me your schedule of classes for the semester. You’re taking Film Appreciation, The History of Jazz, Advanced Yoga and Stress Management. What’s your major?”

He shrugs. “Undeclared right now. But I’ll probably go with Sports Management.”

“So these are Gen Ed classes?”

He cocks his head and looks confused. 

“General Education classes,” I clarify. “Elective classes you need to take to fulfill requirements that aren’t directly related to your major.”

“I guess so.”

I’m a little disturbed by his lackadaisical attitude, but I let it go for the moment. We’re clearly not going to be able to develop much of a rapport so maybe it’s best just to get down to business.

“We’re just handed a class schedule,” he clarifies. “Assigned classes. We don’t pick them ourselves.”

“And they assigned you the History of Jazz? That’s the class that you’re having trouble with?”

“The dude who was supposed to teach the class croaked and they got this new chick who apparently doesn’t like basketball.”

There is so much wrong with his statement I don’t even know where to begin. “Might I suggest that you call your professors either professor or doctor and not chick.” 

I bristle at my own use of the derogatory word, but I continue, “And what does her not liking basketball have to do with your performance in the class.”

At this he gives me a sly smile. “Let’s just say she’s not willing to play ball the way the other professors are.”

I’m not sure exactly what he means by that, but there seems to be some kind of sports reference that is lost on me.

“So you’re saying your other classes are going well and you’re just having trouble with the one class, History of Jazz?”

He leans back in his chair and eyes me for a few seconds before he nods. I don’t like when he looks at me like that. It’s like he’s examining some weird, new specimen and trying to make sense of it.

“All of my other teachers are huge basketball fans and they know I’m the in the starting lineup. I’m not sure what the jazz goddess’s problem is.”

I take in a deep breath before I say something that’s sure to get me fired. “Why don’t we start by calling her Dr. Fisher? I think that might help. And why do you think she has a problem?”

“She doesn’t like basketball. That’s not normal. Everybody loves basketball. This entire campus lives and breathes the sport.”

“I don’t love basketball. I don’t even like it. Not even a little bit.”

He actually looks stunned for a moment. Like I slapped him. Then he regains his cocky composure.

“You’re one weird chick,” he mutters almost to himself, but still loud enough that I can hear him.

“Excuse me?” I say even though I heard him. I just didn’t like having an insult hurled at me by someone I don’t even know.

“You. Are. One. Weird. Chick.” His words are slower and louder as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

“I actually heard what you said. I just didn’t like it.”

A smug smirk appears on his face that I would love to slap right off if I could. 

I continue. “In case you haven’t noticed I’m not a bird I’m a human being. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t refer to me as a chick.”

He bites his bottom lip as if he’s actually giving it some thought. Then he says, “You’re one weird woman. Is that better?”

“I’m not sure why you have to bring gender into the equation at all. Why not just call me a weird person?”

That makes him laugh. “You don’t care that I think you’re weird. You just don’t want me to call you a chick?”

“I’ve been weird my whole life. I’m used to it.” 

“At least you’re willing to own it.”

“So did you bring your textbook with you or are you just going to spend the next ninety minutes taunting me?” 

“I kind of like taunting you.”

~ Dakota Madison ~

DAKOTA MADISON is a USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR. She has been writing since she learned to read and fell in love with books. When she's not at her computer creating spicy new romances, Dakota is traveling to exotic locales or spending time with her husband and their bloodhounds.

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Frist chapter release: Hush Hush #1 by Anneliese Vandell

Title: Hush Hush
Series: Hush Hush, book #1
Author: Anneliese Vandell

Fifty Shades of Grey meets Revenge in this tantalizing new series about a young woman who’s willing to do anything in the name of vengeance. 

Something terrible happened to April Morrison when she was eleven years old. When she returns home to New Orleans fourteen years later as “Sophia,” she has only one word on her mind: revenge. She’s got her eye on Charles and Barbara Hawthorne, the crowning jewel of New Orleans’ elite and the ones responsible for turning her life upside down. 

Enter Liam Hawthorne, the couple’s successful, strikingly handsome, and irresistibly dominant thirty-two year old son. When Liam makes a provocative proposal, it occurs to April that he may be just the “in” she needs. But what she doesn’t bargain for is Liam’s insatiable—and thrilling—sexual appetite. And as Liam begins to test April’s limits, she realizes that appearances are not what they seem. 

This book is intended for mature audiences. 

This book includes an exclusive excerpt of Hush Hush #2.

Add to Goodreads




Clack, clack, ccc-clack.

I feel like I'm walking on a tightrope. With cats strapped to my feet.

I look down. No, no cats there. Just ten pedicured toes and two very red—and very sore, might I add—feet bound up in strappy stilettos. They wobble precariously as I stagger into the bar room of the country club. 

As I elbow my way through the tightly-packed crowd, I nearly trip over the trailing hem of a woman's glittery purple gown. She snaps her head over to shoot me a dirty look.

"Sorry...” I mumble, but the woman doesn't hear me. Just at that moment, the eight-piece band onstage wails out a crescendo of trumpets, French horns, and clarinets. 

One of the trumpet players steps forward amid the din, smiling bashfully and fidgeting with the colorful beads around his neck. He brings his instrument to his lips. 

The sound is beautiful, bold, and all-enveloping. And suddenly, it’s as if everyone in the room has drawn a breath; the noise of the crowd wanes as the musician blasts his horn. Heads begin to turn toward the stage.

I take advantage of the momentary pause in activity to careen myself toward the bar. I grab an empty seat and tuck my legs beneath me. As I massage my aching feet, I briefly wonder what kind of genius decided that these four-inch, leather instruments of torture should be considered "fashion." I mean, sure, I guess they make my legs look amazing, but I've never been one to put looks over comfort. Forget heels—give me my roomy high-tops any day of the week.

"What'll ya have?"

A bartender in a pinstriped vest and bow tie is shouting at me over the counter. He wears a slightly harried expression as he waits for my order. 

I can only imagine the night he’s having—and we’re only an hour into the country club’s big pre-Mardi Gras celebration. The club hosts it every year for its members and their guests—and, unknown to them this evening, me. 

Across the bar, a gray-haired woman snaps her fingers impatiently at the bartender. Her voice is reedy when she calls out: “Hel-lo! What does it take to get some service around here?”

I give the bartender a sympathetic smile. “A tonic water with lime, please. In a tumbler.”

“No gin? You’re one ingredient away from one of my favorite cocktails,” says the bartender, already leaning down to scoop ice into a glass. 

That’s kind of the point, I think to myself. 

I need to concentrate tonight, and I can’t have alcohol muddling my thoughts. The fake drink is only so that I fit in with the rest of the crowd. 

But of course I don’t say this. Instead I just murmur, “Yeah. Something like that.” 

I lift myself slightly on my chair and take a look around. All I see are manes of peroxide-blonde hair, or floppy purple-and-gold hats. Their faces are all turned away from me; everyone is still transfixed by the trumpet player’s solo. I sink back onto my seat disappointedly.

“How much?” I ask the bartender as he slides my alcohol-free drink over to me.

He shakes his head. “No charge. Open bar tonight.”

“Oh, great. Thanks,” I say. 

I withdraw a few dollars from my cream-colored clutch and hold them out to him. He takes his tip gratefully before hurrying off to the scowling woman at the other end of the bar. 

The trumpet player blasts a few final notes, ending his solo. When he takes a bow, the crowd roars in applause—well, as much as a crowd like this can “roar,” anyway. New Orleans’ elite may be a little less stuffy than your standard country club crowd, but I’d still hardly consider them to be raucous. Everyone is dressed to the nines, and it’s clear from the way they’re holding their cocktails high in the air that they’re terrified of spilling their drinks on their designer gowns and tuxedos.

The crowd begins to disperse. People stream back toward the bar, and I’m able to catch some glimpses of the faces coming my way. But I still don’t recognize anyone—yet. I twist around in my seat and scan the crowd urgently. 

It’s been fourteen years since I’ve seen Barbara and Charles Hawthorne, but I remember their pinched, cruel faces like it was yesterday. Barbara always had a face like a hawk, with her beaked nose and that persistent holier-than-thou look in her eyes. Charles was barely taller than Barbara, but he was much wider, with hands like ping-pong paddles. His hair was just beginning to thin back then, too—I figure he’s probably bald by now. 

I scan the crowd, looking for shiny, bald heads. There are a few, but still no luck—none belong to the person I’m looking for.

“Ex-boyfriend or boss?” says a smooth voice beside me. 

I look down. A man with short, wavy hair and sloping shoulders is leaning against the bar, drumming his fingers on the lacquered wood. He’s young, at least compared to the rest of the members of the country club. Judging from the look of him, I’d put him in his early thirties—about six or seven years older than me. He’s wearing a crisp, tailored suit that looks like it cost him a couple thousand dollars, at least.

“Excuse me?” I say to him.

His eyes are fixed on me as I lower myself, for the second time, back onto my seat. They’re a shocking blue, and I’m reminded of the blue glaciers that sometimes drift across the television screen when I flip on a wildlife documentary. Cold and unyielding. Rough.

“Who are you looking for? Ex-boyfriend or boss?” he says again.

There’s a bite in his tone, almost as if he’s annoyed at having to repeat himself. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Oh, uh, both,” I lie. “Bad breakup.”

He stares at me critically for a moment, and then I catch it—the tiniest, almost unwilling flick of his lips. It’s like he’s trying to contain his laughter.

“Come on, you can tell me,” I say to him playfully. “My mom used to tell me all the time.”

And then I immediately hear myself, and try not to wince.

Tense, April! Remember your tense! The character I’m pretending to be is from a normal family, with normal parents. She uses the present tense when referring to her mother, not the past. 

Unlike me, her parents aren’t in jail. 

But the man in front of me seems not to notice my inner struggle. He says, “What did she tell you?”

“That I’m terribly funny,” I say, my voice quavering slightly.

“Terrible, yes. Funny? Maybe,” the man says. 

At last, his lips curve upward into a smile. The grin seems to make his entire face light up. Instantly, his cheekbones become high and pronounced, and his jaw is sharp and strong. I realize I’m speaking with a Class 10 hottie. Class 11, even. As he looks down toward me with those sparkling eyes, it occurs to me that this hunk may go off the charts.

“So is everyone from New Orleans this witty, or is it just you?” I say coyly—or at least, I hope it sounds that way. How have I suddenly forgotten how to flirt? And why is my heart suddenly beating so quickly?

My words only make his grin grow wider. “It’s just me.”

I turn away and pretend to ignore him as the bartender comes by to take his order. As my eyes begin to sweep the crowd once again in search of the Hawthornes’ familiar faces, I still can’t manage to hide my grimace as the man beside me orders a “Whiskey, neat.” 

I can almost hear him smirking. I resist the impulse to turn back toward him, even though I can feel his eyes piercing through me.

Watch the crowd. Ignore the ridiculously gorgeous man standing next to you. Remember why you’re here, April. 

I repeat these words over and over in my head like a mantra, forcing myself to keep my gaze on the throng of people filtering in and out of the large room. But hardly a minute passes before I relent and turn back to him.

“What?” I say breathlessly.

Keeping those penetrating eyes locked on me, he takes a long, dramatic sip of his whiskey. Only after this does he speak. 

“Not a whiskey fan?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t stand the stuff.”

“So only gin and tonics for you, then.”

I look down at my gin-free drink and permit myself a tiny, knowing smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

And that’s when I see it—a flash of glittering diamonds and white hair catches my eye. 

I swing my head to see a woman with a beaked nose flitting toward the bar, her portly husband trailing behind her. She lands on the far end of the counter, where only moments before the angry gray-haired woman had been snapping her fingers. My heartbeat goes into overdrive as I watch them. 


I’ve found them.

After all these years—exactly fourteen years, three months, and twenty-six days of wondering what had become of the people who ruined my life—here they are, mere yards away from me. 

The Hawthornes have always been New Orleans’ most powerful couple. Even their last name is like currency here. Charles Hawthorne is the founder and CEO of one of the largest financial companies in the country, and his wife Barbara sits on the board of directors for at least a dozen major Louisiana nonprofits. With their wealth and influence combined, they practically run this town. 

Unfortunately for me, this means that if they decide they don’t like someone—like my parents—it’s only a matter of time before they flex their muscle. You’d think that people with that kind of power would be more careful about wielding it. But judging by the wide smiles on their faces as the bartender pours them each a glass of scotch—the oldest, most expensive scotch in the house, I’m sure—it’s clear that their consciences don’t weigh too heavily on their mind.

But no matter. That’s why I’m here.

A skinny blonde with implants like inflated balloons shoves her way in between the handsome man and me.

“Lii-aaam, hiiiii,” she squeals, throwing a sharp elbow onto the bar. Her skin, exposed beneath a low-back dress, is way too tan to possibly be natural.

Whatever meager ounce of humor that may have been on Liam’s face is immediately drained. His voice flattens to a dull tone.

“Hello, Courtney.”

“I keep looking for you on jazz nights here, but you hardly come by the country club anymore. I was starting to think that you left the club and canceled your membership. Imagine what a shame that would be, to deny yourself the pleasure of my company.” Courtney shifts against the bar, knocking into my chair and sending the legs into a dangerous wobble.

But I hardly notice. My eyes are already drifting back to the Hawthornes. A group of older men and women have begun to gather around the couple. I wonder who they are. Business associates of Mr. Hawthorne? Neighbors? Some kind of demented fan club?

“Of course I haven’t left the club,” Liam says, annoyed. 

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I sneak a peek back at him. He’s still leaning against the counter, but there’s an unmistakable air of irritation about him. His shoulders are tense—bristling even. 

“Then why don’t you come around anymore, huh?” Courtney demands.

He flicks an eyebrow at her tone. 

“Let’s just say I like the quiet,” he replies, his words punctuated with meaning. “People tend to be a little too chatty in this place. They don’t seem to realize when a person wants to be left alone.”

It takes Courtney a whole minute to realize that he’s talking about her. She spins on her heel, and for a wild second I think she’s going to fall. But unlike me, she clearly has tons of experience walking around in stilettos. She flounces away from the bar, indignant. 

Liam looks up and catches me watching him.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he says. He takes another sip of his whiskey. This sip, I notice, is longer and deeper than the last.


Liam’s glass is nearly empty when he places it back onto the counter with a clink

“I hate this place. Everyone always wants something from you.”

“And what did she want?” I ask, nodding vaguely in the direction that Courtney was heading.

“Bragging rights. Among other things.”

“You’re that hot of a commodity, huh?” I say, and my tongue wraps around the word hot like a lollipop. 

Suddenly parched, I take another sip of my drink.

Liam studies me for a moment appraisingly. I realize my hair is hanging in front of my face, and I push it self-consciously behind my ears.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” 

“You’re ‘Liam,’ obviously.”

This earns a chuckle from him. He waves for the bartender and gestures for another drink, then turns back to me.

“And you in town, I take it?” he says.

“Sophia,” I say, offering a hand. A lie. “I just flew in yesterday. I’m here for a few weeks visiting family. My uncle’s a member here.” Another lie. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine.”

The way he says pleasure is slow and pointed. His eyes wrinkle, just the slightest bit, when he smiles at me.

His hand wraps around mine, and I attempt to ignore the sudden warm, almost electric sensation that trails up and down my spine. 

Keep it together, April, I warn myself.

I glance back over at the end of the bar—and realize that the older couple who is now standing there is not, in fact, the Hawthornes. They must have left sometime during the exchange with Courtney. 

And I was too distracted to notice. 

Damn it!

My eyes swing wildly back at the crowd, but the band has started up again, and all I can see is the backs of people’s heads. Heads of curly blonde hair, bushy brown hair, thinning gray hair—but none that match the bald head and white coif that belong to the Hawthornes. They could be anywhere.

My shoulders drop in disappointment at having let the Hawthornes slip through my grasp. They were right there only moments ago. 

Why hadn’t I seized the opportunity and approached them immediately? Was it fear—that somehow after all these years, I’d botch the plan? Was it safer to spend my life wishing and plotting and loathing? 

With a feeling of dread, I realize that my cousin Miranda is going to kill me. But that hardly compares with the anger I feel at myself.

I turn back to Liam, who is now sipping his second whiskey. Suddenly in need of something stronger than my virgin lime-tonic, I hold out my hand, as if to ask, can I try some?

Liam smiles and obliges. The whiskey is sour and strong on my tongue. I shudder as I swallow. It burns at the back of my throat, but on the bright side, I can immediately feel the liquor’s woozy rush to my head. Either I’ve got a weak constitution or this is one potent whiskey. 

Or maybe a little bit of both, I think.

Our fingers brush as I hand the glass back to him. There are those electric shivers again.

“I hate this place, too,” I say.

“It was worse at last year’s party,” he replies. “Three hours on a steamboat along the Mississippi River. You couldn’t even escape it if you wanted to. Unless you were willing to jump into the water, alligators and all. And I’ve got to tell you, when Mrs. Fleming over there”—he nods toward a corpulent woman wearing a clinging red dress and dripping with pearls, who is currently attempting to climb onto the grand piano onstage—“when she manhandled the microphone out of the emcee’s hands, I was getting damn near close to preparing for a swim with the ‘gators.”

I laugh. “I think a steamboat ride on the river doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Romantic, even. Except for that whole two-hundred-other-people part.”

Liam’s eyes gleam. “Tell me about it.”

He takes a sip of his whiskey, and I marvel at how he doesn’t even seem to wince as he swallows the stuff down. 

“So we both hate it here—we have that in common,” he says. “Tell me, what dragged you out here tonight? Was it your uncle?”

Where do I even begin? I think. To seek revenge against the people who put my parents in jail? To infiltrate their lives and seek out opportunities to turn their every movement against them?

Certainly not anything I can say to a stranger. 

Not like he’d even believe me if I did.

“More like...obligation,” I say after a moment’s thought. 

Liam looks down at the honey-colored liquid in his glass tumbler. There’s a reckless expression in his ice-blue eyes. “Something else we have in common, then.” 

“Lucky us.”

He looks up at me suddenly. His piercing expression makes my heart leap a little in my chest.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Another leap. He can’t possibly mean what I think he means, can he? 

“Where to?” I say, trying with all my might to summon an air of I-don’t-care in my tone. But my voice cracks on the “to,” somehow turning it into two syllables. Damn it, April!

Liam leans forward and speaks into my ear. Invisible whiskers on his jaw scratch softly against my cheek.

“I was thinking somewhere private,” he says.

Woah. Woah! 

My heart isn’t just leaping anymore. It’s doing the freaking cha-cha.

“I...uh...” I stammer, casting wildly about for the right words. “But I don’t even know you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, sidling closer toward me. The smooth fabric of his suit slips against my bare knee, and for a fleeting, wild moment, I wonder if I might actually fall out of my chair. “I’m Liam, and you’re Sophia.”

I gaze up at him, stunned. 

This is what normal people do when they go to bars, isn’t it? They happen to cross paths, share a few laughs over a drink or two, and, at some point, they let their bodies take over and do the rest of the talking. 

As I gaze up at him, admiring the smooth angles of his face and the strong, straight slope of his nose—he’s so good-looking and so perfectly charming that it’s almost unfair—I wonder what it would like to be a normal person, just for a night. What would it feel like to have his body pressed against mine? To live, just for a night, with careless abandon, fueled only by romantic passion?

But there’s a different kind of passion that drives me. And it has nothing to do with romance.

A part of me wants to shout yes—several parts of me, actually—but my head is already shaking. 

“I’m s-sorry,” I find my lips stammering. “I’m just not that kind of girl.”

And then almost as if he was never leaning against me in the first place, he steps lightly away. He’s there and then he’s gone—just like that. 

Suddenly I am shivering in the absence of his body heat. When I look up, I expect him to look annoyed, or even angry—but to my surprise, that’s not what I find at all. 

Instead, an expression of bemusement flits across his handsome face, like he can’t possibly process the fact that he’s just been turned down. 

I cast a quick, nervous glance over my shoulder, still seeing no sign of Barbara or Charles Hawthorne among the crowd. Not that I expected to. 

I’ll have to ask Miranda for advice on what our next move should be. The Hawthornes are probably long gone—just as I should be. I’ve overstayed my welcome here, anyway. I half-expected to get kicked out by now; it’s a miracle that no one from the country club has figured out yet that I don’t belong here.

I fumble for my clutch and stammer out a “Sorry.”

“Too bad,” Liam says, his voice hardening slightly, “though of course that’s your prerogative. But I’ll admit that you intrigue me, Sophia.”

He reaches into his suit and withdraws a business card. He places it onto the bar and slides it over to me. “If you change your mind, give me a call,” he says.

I watch his retreating back as he strolls away. When I turn back to the bar, what I find makes me gasp out loud. A few heads turn my way.

First letting Barbara and Charles Hawthorne evade me—and now this, I silently chastise myself. I’ve been a fool twice today.

I force myself to look down and re-read the name embossed on the card, just to be sure it’s real. 

And, unfortunately for me, it is. 

Printed on the thick card stock, along with a personal phone number, are the words: William Hawthorne.

Hush Hush #2

Fifty Shades of Grey meets Revenge in this tantalizing new series about a young woman who’s willing to do anything in the name of vengeance. 

The teasing tongues of his leather whip. The black lace blindfold. And that mysterious, provocative little wooden table. These all mean just one thing for April. 

The game is on. 

Liam is opening a whole new world of thrills for April. It’s only a matter of time before she’s close enough to seize her revenge. But when she catches a glimpse of the “real” Liam, her resolve falters. Despite his dark past, the more she learns about him, the more he begins to consume her thoughts. 

And when a familiar face unexpectedly comes to town, the whole house of cards threatens to topple over. 

This book is intended for mature audiences.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Blog Tour: Forever in My Heart by Aleya Michella

Author: Aleya Michelle
Series: My Heart, Book #3
Roxy & Kade have finally reunited.

Soul mates destined to be together...

Their magnetism drawing them back into each other's embrace was far too strong.

Their Happily Ever After is written in the stars and their hearts beat as one in unison... All is magical...

So what could happen that could shatter their plans of forever after?

What evil force will be the one to alter the path of happiness & bliss?

And can Kade & Roxy's Love withstand the chaos and turmoil that is heading their way?




Aleya Michelle
Born and raised in Sydney, Australia. 
Happily married and mother of 3 gorgeous and very active boys. A true lover of reading and escaping into a book, I love to write and find solace and escape through my characters and story lines.
So excited to finally publish my debut novel Breaking my Heart in May, Book 2 Healing my Heart was released September 17th.
The third and final book in My Heart Series is Forever in my Heart and is releasing February 20th.

Favorite past times include shopping, reading, going to the beach and seeing friends. 
Music is another great love.

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Monday, February 23, 2015

Cover Reveal: Spark by Erin Noelle








Title: Spark
Author: Erin Noelle

I’m failing.

My younger brother is getting worse, and my job - my duty - is to help him at all costs. We’ve tried everything modern medicine has to offer and nothing works.


Deciding to turn to unconventional treatments, we end up at Fire-on-the-Mountain, a holistic resort deep in the Rockies.

In our search for medical marijuana, I find beautiful, free-spirited Hudson Shavell - a girl who may not only hold the key to heal my brother, but to fix me as well. Even though I can’t afford distractions right now, she’s all I can think about. All that I want.

It’s funny how everything can change with one little SPARK.

Cover Design: Hang Le

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~Erin Noelle~

Erin Noelle is a Texas native, where she lives with her husband and two young daughters. While earning her degree in History at the University of Houston, she rediscovered her love for reading that was first instilled by her grandmother when she was a young child. A lover of happily-ever-afters, both historical and current, Erin is an avid reader of all romance novels. In 2013, she published the Book Boyfriend Series, which included books Metamorphosis, Ambrosia, Euphoria, and Timeless, and recently published When the Sun Goes Down, a contemporary romance novel. Her books have been a part of the USA Today Bestselling list and the Amazon and Barnes & Noble overall Top 100.

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Sneak Peek + GIVEAWAY: Very Twisted Things by Ilsa Madden-Mills: Prologue + Ch. 1

Author: New York Times best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills
Standalone Briarcrest Academy Novel #3
Release Date: March 1, 2015
A sassy violinist who lives next door. An obsessed rock star who watches her through binoculars. And one night when she bares it all. Life will never be the same in Tinseltown.

Vital Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his YouTube music video would go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did. After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a matter of time before his stars aligned.

But life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.

After being cheated on, his only rule to falling in love is simple: Keep Calm and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new neighbor with binoculars seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an erotic game between two very unlikely people.

Twenty-year-old Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist who's lost her mojo on stage. She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to find her way through her twisted past in order to make her future.

He’s the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his autograph. She’s the introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who he is.

When they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off. Yet, giving his heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who craves attention isn’t Violet’s.

Welcome to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes the best things in life are VERY TWISTED THINGS.

***This is a standalone New Adult novel with graphic sex and language. Introductory price of $2.99 on release day for 24 hours only!

~ Prologue ~

“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons

I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the New York Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone off.
Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace. Fear and then horror flickered across his face as he saw Mother, but there was no time to comfort him.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left. Would the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.

~ Chapter 1 ~
Two years later

“She was music with skin.” —Sebastian Tate

I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved around her patio. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was she doing?
Could she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.
Her body arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million pieces before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself just as an appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.
The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.
Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
And then …
Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.
And didn’t that thought surprise me.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one. Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was giving in, but not without a fight.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did something completely crazy.
The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.

© Ilsa Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things


Very Bad Things
Briarcrest Academy #1
Born into a life of privilege and secrets, Nora Blakely has everything any nineteen-year-old girl could desire.  She’s an accomplished pianist, a Texas beauty queen, and on her way to Princeton after high school.  She’s perfect…

Leaving behind her million dollar mansion and Jimmy Choos, she becomes a girl hell-bent on pushing the limits with alcohol, drugs, and meaningless sex. 

Then she meets her soulmate.  But he doesn’t want her.
When it comes to girls, twenty-five-year old Leo Tate has one rule:  never fall in love.  His gym and his brother are all he cares about…until he meets Nora.  He resists the pull of their attraction, hung up on their six year age difference.
As they struggle to stay away from each other, secrets will be revealed, tempers will flare, and hearts will be broken.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy…where sometimes, the best things in life are Very Bad Things. 

Read my 5-star review  here

Very Wicked Beginnings
Briarcrest Academy #1.5
Prequel novella to Very Wicked Things
Girls say I’m a walking, talking sex god. Guys call me Hollywood because my life is golden. 

It’s not.

But, ESPN did rank me as a four star recruit, calling me one of the best defensive players since Briarcrest Academy opened its esteemed doors. So yeah, with football and a stellar GPA, my future seemed good.

Then Dovey Beckham shows up in her short skirts and ballet shoes. Driving me insane. Making me want to beg for her attention. 

But that wouldn’t happen, because Cuba Hudson didn’t beg for anything.

She walked around BA like she owned the place, and most days she looked right through me…the one girl I couldn’t have.

So, of course, I made it my mission to claim her, to put her notch on my bedpost.

Because no girl can resist the Heartbreaker of BA.

But I never planned on destroying her. 

I never planned on wrecking the one thing that could save me.

Welcome to Briarcrest Academy, where wicked love begins…and ends.

Read my 5-star review ➜ here

Very Wicked Things 
Briarcrest Academy #2
Ballerina Dovey Beckham is a scholarship student at Briarcrest Academy, determined to prove she’s more than just a girl with the wrong pedigree. She does whatever it takes to succeed in her endgame, even if it means surrendering her body but never her heart. 

Until the day she meets him, and he rips apart all her well-laid plans. Suddenly, the girl everyone thought unbreakable might just shatter.

Cuba “Hollywood” Hudson is rich, spoiled, and a star football player. With his fast cars and superficial girlfriends, he lives the high-life, hiding his secrets from the world.

Until the day he meets her, and she offers him something he’s never tasted…love.

But once in a lifetime kind of love doesn’t come easy…especially when dirty money, past sins, and old flames threaten the very fabric of their lives.

Welcome to Briarcrest Academy, where sometimes, only the wicked survive.

Amazon US | B&N | iTunes

Read my 5-star review ➜ here


New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. 

She spends her days with two small kids, one neurotic cat, and one husband. She collects magnets and rarely cooks except to bake her own pretzels. 

When she's not crafting a story, you can find her drinking too much Diet Coke, jamming out to Pink, or checking on her carefully maintained chocolate stash. 

She loves to hear from readers and fellow authors.

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