Misplaced Hands releases TODAY! It’s the final book in the Foreign Affairs series and it might just be the hottest of the bunch!
Lexxie and I have been hosting a red hot dirty excerpts party this month where we shared super spicy snippets from each of our Foreign Affairs books.
And to sweeten the pot, we’ve made a contest of it. Each Wednesday, we’ve featured a different book from the series and asked two questions. TODAY…you can email your 8 answers to firstname.lastname@example.org to be entered to win.
AND…what’s the prize? It’s an Ellora’s Cave box o’ fun! That’s right–there are all kinds of crazy Ellora’s Cave things (track pants, t-shirt, hats, keychain, post-its, deck of cards, etc) as well as two signed print books–one from Lexxie and another from Mari and a $25 gift card to Amazon. You must email the answers by May 5 to be entered to win!
The first three rounds are live, but it’s not too late to join the fun. The game is explained over at our Foreign Affairs site. Pop over for all the details.
Foreign Affairs, Book Four
A “life swap” with her Australian friend finds Harper on Farpoint Creek cattle station, resident teacher for the next two weeks. Having rarely left Chicago, she’s unprepared for so many things Down Under—not the least of which is an instant, and instantly intense, attraction to not one, but twoAussie cowboys. She’d promised herself an adventure, so when the handsome pair come calling, Harper dives in. Literally.
Stockmen Keith and Marc are head-over-heels in lust with the American teacher, though the attraction brings about some surprising revelations. Like how right it feels to share a woman. This woman. No jealousy between the lifelong mates, just a burning need to see to Harper’s pleasure. Together. And they happily do so—until an unsettling event unearths Harper’s own tragic revelation.
Between Harper’s inability to confide in the men, and her stay at Farpoint racing to an end, it seems inevitable the three lovers will be driven apart. Doesn’t it?
Inside Scoop: This story has a very brief, non-descriptive recollection of child abuse. Good thing Harper has two strong stockmen to chase away the bad memories.
Misplaced Hands is available at Ellora’s Cave, Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
The leaner of the two cowboys sauntered over to her. There was no other way to describe the way he walked. Like sinful temptation, mischievous charm and cocky indolence.
Low-slung faded jeans that had no hope of concealing the sizable bulge of his crotch hugged long, muscular legs. An equally faded chambray shirt wrapped a torso so perfectly proportioned—wide shoulders, flat stomach and narrow hips—that for a moment, Harper forgot how to breathe.
Her pulse kicked into overdrive and her mouth went dry. Her pussy, on the other hand, grew damp. Damp and tight.
Now that’s a cowboy.
“Thomo,” Ronnie muttered at her shoulder, turning his back on the approaching sex-god in denim and a hat. “Watch out, he’s the smooth-talker of the two.”
Thomo—surely that had to mean Marc Thompson—stopped but a foot away from her, his sapphire-blue gaze roaming over her from head to toe. He touched the tip of his index finger to the brim of his hat, his lips curling in a smile. “G’day, love. You must be the American.”
Harper oozed poised calm and aloof indifference. Well…tried to. It was goddamn hard when her heart was thumping fast in her throat and her nipples were pinching in her bra. Holy crap, she’d never seen such a sexy example of maleness. Everything about the cowboy radiated testosterone, pleasure and carnal delight. And his accent? Oh God, after listening to Ronnie talk for the last four hours, she’d figured she was over the Australian accent already, but it seemed not.
“Hello,” she croaked back, her mouth dry. Damn, was she flushing? “I am.”
The cowboy’s lips curled a little more, turning the smile into a very seductive grin. “Welcome to Farpoint. I hope Big Mac here has been treating you right so far?”
Harper nodded. It was the only thing she could do. That and stare with helpless lust at the man in the hat before her, reminding herself he was gay. That seemed so unfair. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor, putting a man like this on the planet and then making him off limits for…
The wild mental tantrum faded out of Harper’s mind, her stare falling on the other cowboy she’d noticed earlier as he joined Marc.
She let out a soft gasp.
Christ, he was—
“G’day.” The cowboy stuck out his hand. Blue eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m Keith Munroe, one of the hired hands here at Farpoint. Welcome to Australia, Ms. Shaw.”
If Harper didn’t love her brother so much, she’d curse him black and blue. She’d never been more aware of the fact she’d lived a very sheltered life until now. She wasn’t prepared for exposure to such raw manliness. If Marc Thompson was sinful temptation, mischievous charm and cocky flirtation wrapped in tight denim, Keith Munroe was potent strength, concentrated sexuality and rugged masculinity.
She stared at the cowboy, never more grateful for wearing sunglasses, even ones that cost her damn near a week’s pay.
He was broader in the chest than his companion and wider in the shoulders, but just as exquisite in his physique. His biceps strained against the cotton of his shirtsleeves, highlighting the sculptured form of his strength. The same potent power was barely concealed by tight jeans, the corded muscles of his thighs evident despite the material covering them.
Unable to stop herself, Harper slid her gaze to the cowboy’s groin. And jerked it up to his face again at the sight of a bulge as large as Marc’s, trapped beneath his jeans.
Realizing Keith still stood waiting for her to shake his hand, she snagged it in both of hers, giving it a somewhat frantic shake. “H-hello.” Damn it, her voice was still croaky. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Keith laughed. “Nice to be met.”
Warm heat filled Harper’s cheeks at the greeting. She smiled at him, unable to tear her stare away. A lock of blond hair—tinged with faint copper-red—tumbled over his forehead from beneath his hat, brushing long, thick lashes a shade darker. His face was more tanned than Marc’s, a little more creased, but none the lacking for it, and he had a hawkish nose, adding to the air of absolute control and power the man exuded. A fine strawberry-blond stubble dusted a square jaw and chin, drawing her eye to the open collar of his shirt where a hint of a tattoo peeked out at her.
Men like this didn’t exist in Chicago. At least, if they did, she’d never met them.