Mermaid Gia Acquaviva’s thrilling adventures continue. She must travel to New York to fight a battle in the public arena with the powerful media moguls, Royce and Bronwyn Langley. Her casino empire is under attack, threatened by her Greek relatives. Meanwhile, Gia is paired up with a rising movie starlette to create the perceptions a tabloid romance tabloids. With tensions rising, will Gia survive after burning every bridge to get what she wants?
Fans of Killing Eve and Big Little Lies will love Mermaid of New York, a sexy psychological thriller with lush fantasy elements. The chic mystery of Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley with a juicy splash of the lavish lifestyle in E. L. James’s 50 Shades series. This is not the Little Mermaid you grew up with. Gia’s out for blood.
Mermaid of New York is the third installment of the Mermaid of Venice series, 6 novels about Gia Acquaviva.
Gia strutted into The Odeon wearing creamy over-the-knee vegan leather boots. Her mini dress was covered with over- sized, opalescent palettes. The white cat-eye liner and teased up hair completed her 1960s-inspired ensemble. She felt sexy, but also terribly overdressed for a first date—even though it was tech- nically a fake date, arranged by her publicist.
The French-by-way-of-Philly diner’s windows overlooked West Broadway. The sidewalk was thick with photographers, influencers, and fans, all eyeing Gia, capturing her every move. Gia’s security team flanked her and then moved out of the way, as she slid into a booth that faced the street.
Rising film star Riley Rose was already there, waiting for Gia.
“Hey,” she whispered in an Australian accent, “I know this is intimidating at first, but I promise we’ll finish dinner quickly and get out of here.” Riley grinned and took a sip from a skinny highball glass.
“Ciao,” Gia said, scooting over to Riley, “what are you drinking?”
“It’s their house cocktail. Tequila. Here, try it.” Riley pushed the drink toward Gia.
Gia wrapped her lips around the paper straw and sucked. “That is delicious.”
“Mmm. So are you.” Riley then burst out into hearty laughter. “I promise I’m not actually that cheesy. I just… wow… you look incredible.”
“I am not allowed to wear my own clothes anymore.”
“Tell me about it,” Riley said, easing into the back of the banquette. Gia drank in the movie star’s androgenous vibe. Riley’s hair was cut short, shaved on the side, and styled into a rockabilly curve that cast a shadow across her angular face. Her amber eyes were smudged with dark liner. She wore a backless button-up, and since the shirt was also sleeveless, it showed off Riley’s arms, which were covered in tattoos.
Gia ordered the same cocktail as Riley and tore off a piece of a baguette.
Riley stared down at Gia’s plate and remarked, “It’s been forever since I’ve witnessed anyone eat bread.”
“This, Riley, is a tragedy. How is one able to live without bread— or pasta?”
Riley shook her head, smiling. “It’s a poor quality of life, I’ll give you that. But the fucking camera is unforgiving.”
Gia frowned and thought, America’s unending obsession with diets is making the world sick.
“Tell me all about you, Gia.” Riley brushed Gia’s hair off her shoulder and whispered to her again, “It’s a good idea if we can get some shots of us really close like this. The press just loves that. Lower your head a bit and smile with your lips closed.”
Gia did as instructed.
“That’s perfect,” Riley crooned, before returning her back to the banquette. “So, damn, you’re a real-life mermaid, huh?”
Riley’s question annoyed Gia very much, and she pulled away. “Woah, woah,” Riley said, hovering her hands above the table.
“We don’t have to go there. Is there something else you want to talk about?”
Gia crossed her arms over her chest.
“Gia,” Riley spoke in hushed tones, “that’s really bad body language. It’s not going to play well on camera. We need to look like we’re connecting. It will be better for both of us, I promise. Please, drop your arms and let me get closer to you again. You can trust me.”
Trust you? Gia scoffed in her mind. She narrowed her eyes at Riley. Only untrustworthy people assured others of their trustworthiness. Gia knew this because she’d deployed that line herself—many, many times before.
JINCEY LUMPKIN is a writer and creative director in Luxury Beauty. She is the author of the Mermaid of Venice fantasy thriller series. Recognized as a thought leader on women and culture, Jincey has written more than 50 columns for the Huffington Post and Playboy. She headlined Sex Week at Harvard and gave an infamous TEDx talk, “Are Robots the Future of Sex?” She has been profiled by Dateline NBC, Vice, and GQ, among others. Out Magazine listed her in its “OUT 100”, naming her as one of the world’s most influential LGBTQ+ people, alongside celebrities like Laverne Cox and Ricky Martin.
I’m the heir to a secret family fortune, facing down brothers I hate, and trying to get back the one that got away….
Callum
Eight years ago, she broke me.
Her secrets drove a wedge between me and my brother that can never be fixed.
Now, with my life in shambles, I’m forced by the ludicrous demands of my dead father to face the one woman I ever loved, and the brother I can not stand.
I need the money. But a year is a long sentence to serve in a house with people I hate, and in a town that hates me.
A year is a long time to dodge Harlow Jackson and the eyes and smile that made me fall harder than I’ve ever fallen before.
But it only takes days to show me that what happened eight years ago was a mistake. Now I need every last second of the year ahead to convince her to take a second chance on us. This is the first book of the Winter Harbor series which features a quirky small town, secrets galore, and three estranged brothers who find the key to healing comes from the women who steal their hearts
He smirked. “So it is a weekly thing. Great. I’ll let my brothers know so we can be sure to tidy up and put our Sunday’s best on, so we can convince you that we’re a happy little family out here.”
“Sunday’s best wouldn’t fool me on that one, sorry. Remember—I do know you.”
“So, is this weekly charade also a requirement of the will? I don’t remember reading about this in the paperwork. Unless you just wanted some excuse to see me?”
I tried not to let my strickenness migrate to my face. I’d been here less than ten minutes, and he’d already called me out. Wonderful.
“You are impossible,” was all I could muster, however weak it sounded.
“At least I’m not transparent,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Do you want to see the upstairs?” The question felt like an olive branch. But one lined with thorns, if I knew Callum.
I hesitated, looking back at the front door. “You have a bunch of orphaned duck eggs under an incubator lamp you want to show me?”
That earned me a devilishly handsome grin over his shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Dammit. I had a hard, if not impossible, time denying this man, particularly when he wore what could be considered lingerie for me. I took a deep breath. “Sure. I can’t stay long, though.”
His footsteps clomped up the stairs. “Why? Got a hot date?”
“Yes, actually,” I lied.
“Well, you better tell him you keep fucking up and making out with the Winters boy,” he intoned. Electricity snapped between us. Of course, he’d gone there. Of course. The man probably believed it was illegal to go a day without reminding me of this sexual connection.
“It was once,” I corrected. “I made out with the Winters boy once, and I think my hot date will be fine,” I said, my heart racing. “I’d never fuck the Winters boy, which is the most important detail.”
Callum appeared unfazed, but of course, all I could see were his broad shoulders straining at the black fabric of his t-shirt. Every inch of my body begged to see the reaction on his face, to see the desire shining through his eyes.
“But oh, you used to fuck him,” he said, his voice grittier. “And you loved it, too. Particularly liked sitting on his face, if I recall.”
My neck went hot at his words. It had been stupid to come here, knowing this would be the outcome. But God, it felt so right, too. This was the forbidden fruit I was dying to taste.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.” I cleared my throat. “Nor do I understand why you continue to dredge up ancient history every time we see each other.”
He reached the landing, hands stuffed in his pockets as he turned toward me. His face had hardened into a mask of indifference, at odds with the heat and grit in his voice. I could only imagine it was because he was fighting this losing battle alongside me. And we were both willing victims.
“What else is there to talk about besides ancient history?” The smirk that emerged on his lips was both sexy and infuriating.
“Clearly nothing else, since you can’t move on.”
“But have you moved on?” he asked.
The question rooted me to my spot. I had tried like hell to move on. But every second spent around him reminded me that I hadn’t. Not in the ways that counted.
“I offered to talk about it with you, but you didn’t want to,” I spat. “Does this mean you want to have the conversation now?”
Callum strode down the wide hallway. He jerked his chin toward a smaller door tucked into the wall. “Let me show you something.”
I deflated slightly. Now he was deflecting. “What?”
“The perfect place to air our grievances.” Well, that was slightly more promising, at least. “What is it? A padded room and a couple of baseball bats?”
A Canadian West Coast baby born and raised, Whitley is married to her high school sweetheart, and together they have two beautiful daughters and a fluffy dog. She spends her days making food that gets thrown on the floor, vacuuming Cheerios out from under the couch and making sure that the dog food doesn’t end up in the air conditioner. But when nap time comes, and it’s not quite wine o’clock, Whitley sits down, avoids the pile of laundry on the couch, and writes.
A lover of all things decadent; wine, cheese, chocolate and spicy erotic romance, Whitley brings the humorous side of sex, the ridiculous side of relationships and the suspense of everyday life into her stories. With single dads, firefighters, Navy SEALs, mommy wars, body issues, threesomes, bondage and role-playing, Whitley’s books have all the funny and fabulously filthy words you could hope for.
You know what’s great about applying for an art history PhD program at one of the world’s most prestigious universities? I get to study what I love and land my dream job at the end of it. You know what’s not so great? Being told I’ll only get accepted to the program if I gain access to my aloof, uppity, super grumpy boss’s private art collection.
As it turns out, said boss—a one Lord Hayden Stuart—needs to get married to inherit his late father’s estate and earldom. And if there’s one thing Hayden Stuart is never going to want for real—it’s a wife.
So, we strike up a deal: I marry him and go live at his castle, where I’ll have unlimited access to his collection, he gets his earldom, and when the estate is settled, we part ways forever.
Win-win, right?
Wrong.
I may have fooled myself into believing I wasn’t risking my heart, but there’s one huge problem: I’m definitely falling for him. He’s not just another man. He’s THE man—an irresistibly good-looking, in-control, expensive-suit-wearing man who makes all the other men look like little boys. And the more time I spend with him pretending to be his wife, the more desperate I become to believe the lie.
But he’s never going to fall for some lowly PhD student. So what if at the wedding he looked at me as if I’m the only woman in the world, and kissed me like he’s shipping off to war in the morning? It doesn’t mean anything.
Or does it?
Because the more we’re together, the more I realize that, even though we’re from totally different worlds, we have a lot more in common than I ever could have imagined.
Now all I have to do is convince him he really does want a wife…
Finally, Hayden opens his mouth. “I’m not sad he’s dead, you know.”
“I know,” I tell him, squeezing his hand.
“I hated him. He was a complete bastard.”
“I know.”
He looks down at me with tears in his eyes. “Then can you please tell me why the hell I’m so sad right now?”
A lump forms in my throat. “I think you’re grieving the father you should have had.”
Nodding, he sniffs, clears his throat, and says, “How stupid is that? I’m a grown man, for God’s sake.”
“But you used to be a little kid and he needed a dad.”
His shoulders crumple and he lets out a couple of sobs. Letting go of his hand, I wrap my arm around him and pull him close, resting his head on my shoulder and dropping a kiss on his head. I have no idea how long we stay like this, but by the time he’s done, my shoulder aches from the weight of him, and I’m absolutely terrified that I’ve fallen completely in love with him.
Melanie Summers also writes steamy romance as MJ Summers.
Melanie made a name for herself with her debut novel, Break in Two, a contemporary romance that cracked the Top 10 Paid on Amazon in both the UK and Canada, and the top 50 Paid in the USA. Her highly acclaimed Full Hearts Series was picked up by both Piatkus Entice (a division of Hachette UK) and HarperCollins Canada. Her first three books have been translated into Czech and Slovak by EuroMedia. Since 2013, she has written and published three novellas, and eight novels (of which seven have been published). She has sold over a quarter of a million books around the globe.
In her previous life (i.e. before having children), Melanie got her Bachelor of Science from the University of Alberta, then went on to work in the soul-sucking customer service industry for a large cellular network provider that shall remain nameless (unless you write her personally – then she’ll dish). On her days off, she took courses and studied to become a Chartered Mediator. That designation landed her a job at the R.C.M.P. as the Alternative Dispute Resolution Coordinator for ‘K’ Division. Having had enough of mediating arguments between gun-toting police officers, she decided it was much safer to have children so she could continue her study of conflict in a weapon-free environment (and one which doesn’t require makeup and/or nylons).
Melanie resides in Edmonton with her husband, three young children, and their adorable but neurotic one-eyed dog. When she’s not writing novels, Melanie loves reading (obviously), snuggling up on the couch with her family for movie night (which would not be complete without lots of popcorn and milkshakes), and long walks in the woods near her house. She also spends a lot more time thinking about doing yoga than actually doing yoga, which is why most of her photos are taken ‘from above’. She also loves shutting down restaurants with her girlfriends. Well, not literally shutting them down, like calling the health inspector or something–more like just staying until they turn the lights off.
She is represented by Suzanne Brandreth of The Cooke Agency International.
