Kiera’s capacity to face death stems from training, begun when old enough to wield a knife. Befriended by wolves and raised by a group of psychic men sworn to protect humanity, she now faces mercenaries intent on reshaping the world using equal talents.
Prodigious keyboard skills and innate curiosity has led Wyatt McGlauklin to invent the unimaginable. He’s long since claimed status as the top computer science geek. Little do people know, there’s much more to Wyatt.
When a blonde spitfire steps out of nowhere to prevent his assassination, his life’s direction takes an extraordinary turn where his analytical mind can’t validate paranormal phenomena.
Fate decrees Kiera find her life partner, but she learns you don’t always get to choose whom you love. Wyatt’s arrival challenges destiny as they combine forces to preserve the world as they know it.
Wyatt stiffened when something furry dropped onto his right shoulder. Warm and agile, the monkey wrapped its tail around his neck to secure its place with an arm around his head, latching on to his left ear.
“You have a monkey?” He thought keeping wolves was strange.
“He’s a Capuchin monkey. Name’s Simon.”
Wyatt held very still, not wanting to startle the critter that had jumped down from one of the ceiling fan’s paddles. “That explains the thickness of the paddles and size of the motor. Does he like to ride?” An image of the fan on low with Simon hanging by his fully haired prehensile tail and a primal scream filling the air came to mind.
“Yeah, but he gets so excited and makes so much noise, we don’t let him do it often.”
Wyatt held his hands out, an offering for the monkey to vacate his new perch, then slowly moved to pluck the primate from his shoulder. Round-headed with a white face, an eerie intelligence shone from deep within its gaze. “Capuchins are supposed to be one of the most intelligent of the New World monkeys.”
“He won’t let you forget it.”
“Um, Kiera. Simon is actually a Simone.”
In response, the monkey slapped Wyatt on the cheek and shrieked its rage.
“Ow. What was that for?”
“He doesn’t like to be referred to as a girl. And before you ask, he likes to perch high to have a visual advantage. It gives him a bird’s eye view. Of note, if he doesn’t like you, he’ll toss things at you while you sleep. He has a penchant for stealing and hording Dacien’s jelly beans.”
“Sounds like he makes good use of opposable thumbs.”
As if understanding the complexities of English, Simon patted Wyatt on the head before tweaking his nose.
“See? He likes you.”
Wyatt wondered what devilment the monkey stirred up and if he led or followed in Kiera’s steps. “Where’d you find him?”
Reily Garrett is a writer, mother, and companion to three long coat German shepherds. When not working with her dogs, she’s sitting at her desk with her fur kids by her side.
Author of chilling suspense and snarky romance, her stories span the distance of romantic thrillers, paranormal romance, and erotic romance. Regardless of genre, each book delves into a dark and twisted imagination yet is tempered with romance and a touch of humor.
Reviews by Kirkus Reviews, San Francisco Bay Review, and BestThrillers.com best describe her work:
“This could be James Patterson, Lee Child, and Tess Gerritsen rolled into one, but the dark, twisted methods used by the serial killer could surprise even those readers…” – San Francisco Bay Review
Rose Hawthorne is a celebrity author in her early seventies, who dislikes the spotlight but has a penchant for Hermes scarfs, round violet sunglasses, and old colonial hotels.
One day, she receives a strange letter asking her to visit Newgrange, Ireland and look for something that has been hidden there for a thousand years.
She asks her granddaughter to accompany her, but she hadn’t expected Samantha to continually be posting photos of their progress on her Instagram account. An encounter with an old love and an unexpected discovery leads Rose further and further into the past, and she finds must make a hard decision about her future.
Don’t miss this second book in the Rose Hawthorne series!
She linked her arm around his as they walked, a natural move. She was allowed to do it. It felt right. Rose was drawn towards Bill. He was like a giant magnet pulling her and she couldn’t help but move closer to him.
They walked together, drunk and happy. She didn’t engage him in conversation. She knew the flow was right. He talked and she listened.
When they got to the next pub, he bought her another pint, and they sat down to listen to a lone fiddler. She sipped the Guinness. It was dark and warm, different from any other beer.
He’d leaned over her, and then—the kiss. The kiss came as a surprise to her. His soft lips were on hers. She could smell the beer on his breath.
After the kiss, he put his forehead against hers. They sat together, joined like that for a long time, letting the music wash over them, throbbing in time with their heartbeats.
At first, the music the fiddler played was lively, his fingers deftly danced across the strings, and a few couples got up to spin around the floor. Towards the end of his set, he played exquisite notes that washed over the pub, making the dust dance, and it rose in the air like magic. The cheering and conversation quieted down for his last song. It was a slow piece that most of them recognised. The fiddler hit the final note with such poignancy that it echoed throughout the pub. When the music stopped, the whole pub went quiet.They cleared their throats and blinked back tears, and then took a few last swallows from their pints.
“Nothing like a bit of Irish music to bring out the tears,” Bill admitted wiping an eye.
“It’s something so special,” Rose agreed with a small sniff.
And all around the pub, they raised their glasses to the fiddler and his music.
As people began to leave the pub, Rose realized that it was getting late and neither of them had eaten yet.
“Shall we eat something? Maybe grab some fish and chips?” Bill said, reading her mind.
“Perfect,” she replied in a low, quiet voice.
They bought some greasy fish and chips at a nearby takeaway. It was wrapped in brown paper and covered with the Dublin news.
Then, they walked the streets until they found a bench under the stars away from the shouts, laughter and the lights. Beside the river, they were alone. They unwrapped the greasy paper and ate the cod hungrily, stuffing the vinegar smeared fries quickly into their mouths.
“Do you want the last chip?” Bill had said softly, holding it up in his greasy fingers.
Rose raised her eyebrows and smiled. “I certainly do.”
Bill placed it gently in her mouth, looking deeply into her eyes. She kissed his fingers slowly.
Then he kissed her again. She’d clung to him and let him kiss her.
They were both tired. Bill took her hand and led her up a narrow laneway not far away.
Shannon is originally from Winnipeg, Canada but has had the great fortune to have traveled and lived in several countries. After graduating with a degree in English literature she focused on travelling for a few years and eventually found herself teaching English in Japan. After more than a decade in Japan, she returned to teach ESL in Canada and convinced her husband and daughter to join her. These days she lives in San Jose, California, and enjoys coaxing her dog to train for a Camino.
The Brooklyn warehouse is filled with graffiti and pigeon poo. It’s practically begging to be converted into luxury loft apartments.
And yet, will my mother sell it to me, her only son, the investment wunderkind?
“Darling, buildings have souls,” she says, between sips of green juice.
“Show me that you’re on the path to spiritual wellness, and I’ll give it to you.”
Enter Sydney Taylor, my best friend’s little sister, spiritually well enough for even my mother’s past selves to approve of, and my least favorite person on earth…in this life or any of the others I’ve supposedly lived. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on earth. I’ve repeatedly fantasized about shipping her to Mars.
Instead, I marry her.
I know, I know, my crew has quite the history with phony relationships, but this one’s different.
No matter what my mother sees in our auras.
Or how much I want to hate-boink her maddeningly sweet little…
Yep, once my mother signs over that building, I’m definitely going to walk away from this hot-fakery totally unscathed.
And if you buy that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.
Love just means you haven’t scored yet. Keep playing. Keep hitting that ball until you make a winner out of yourself. In tennis, a winner can’t have love.
And I’m a winner. I’m the one who wins, and wins, and then sleeps with the prom queen. Normal people wish they could walk in my shoes for a few hours, then they feel jealous when they meet me.
I’m a stone-cold winner. Twenty-eight, TriBeCa penthouse, over a billion in the bank, a dick that could choke a giraffe. Women love me, then hate me later on. That’s fine, as long as they love me first. I’ve won every single game I’ve ever played. Well… except this one.
“That’s the match!” my mother says, beaming at me from across the court.
Fuck, I let that last volley of hers sail right past my head. I glare at the stupid yellow ball as it bounces off the court.
Yep. That’s the set. Four games to two. At least I didn’t get love though. That’d make me a real fucking loser.
“Good job, Maryann,” I mutter. Mom doesn’t mind that I call her by her first name. She didn’t think it was weird even when I started doing it at six.
“Chin up, sweetheart.” My mother walks off the court at my side, beaming as she slides her sunglasses on top of her ageless blond head.
“You know, you only lost because you never commit to your backhand.”
“I lost,” I say, “because Sydney Taylor kept distracting me.”
Honestly, the Kensington Tennis Club is the exact last place I ever thought Sydney fucking Taylor would show her face. It’s the summer meet-and-greet locale for all of New York’s high society. While Sydney got a membership to that club by being born into one of the richest families on the planet, she’s never wanted to hang around with any of us “trust-fund assholes.” Her term, not mine. Like I said, WASP-y tennis club isn’t her idea of a good time. I’d have expected her to be building outhouses down in Guatemala or getting into a fist fight with Richard Spencer.
Not that I’d blame her.
But here she is, seated at a table on the patio, shooting me one smug grimace after another. When she catches me staring, she cheerfully flips me off. Then, in case anyone becomes shocked by her unladylike display, she uses her middle finger to scratch her forehead.
Classy save, Syd. I fucking hate her, and the feeling’s mutual.
Piper Marlowe is an absolute legend, if you know where to look. And trust us, you don’t.
For national security reasons, her identity is a secret. As a matter of fact, there’s a good chance that at this very moment, she’s undercover, speaking with a bad Lithuanian accent to a bunch of shady characters. She can neither confirm nor deny that she’s writing ultra-fun, uber-witty, hot-darn-sexy romance to distract from the stress of her current clandestine operation.
Or maybe romance writing is the cover for a cover?
She could tell you, but then she’d have to . . . you know. That.
