Eva Charles is the best-selling author of sexy romantic suspense, and contemporary romance. She spent a career working as a social worker and an attorney, specializing in domestic violence, child abuse and neglect, and civil rights. Aspects of this work often sneak their way into her books.
When she’s not writing steamy stories, trying to squeeze information out of her tight-lipped sons, or playing with the two naughtiest dogs you’ve ever met, Eva’s creating chapters in her own love story.
Title: Love’s Last Kiss Author: Sharon Wray Genre: Romantic Suspense
Is love worth risking everything for?
Rose Guthrie, a reluctant erotic dancer, hasn’t trusted anyone since her parents’ death. Yet, to make money for her brother’s heart transplant, she agrees to deliver a sealed box to a mysterious buyer. Until the box—and the seller—disappear. Not surprised by the betrayal, her situation becomes more dangerous when she learns that a brutal arms dealer, known as the Prince, also wants the box and will kill everyone she loves for it. With one clue left, she breaks into Doom—Savannah’s violent, illegal fight club. Unfortunately, Doom’s referee—the sexy, ex-Army Ranger, Kade Dolan—stands in her way. Although she harbors a secret attraction to Kade, she can’t let him stop her. If she doesn’t deliver the box on time, she’ll lose everything. Including her own life.
Rose doesn’t trust disgraced Army Ranger, ex-con Kade Dolan, but that’s okay—he doesn’t trust himself either. Why? Because he lies to everyone about everything, including his time in Leavenworth and his job as an illegal fight club referee. Then there are his two side gigs. The first as an informant for the Prince, the leader of a secret, two-thousand-year-old private army. The second, loving from afar the beautiful, secretive Rose Guthrie. After the Prince discovers Rose is the courier of a lost 18th century artifact, he orders Kade to help her find the box before their greatest enemy does. If they succeed, Kade must return it to the Prince. If they fail, Kade must kill her.
Betrayal or death. When faced with an impossible choice, Kade can’t lie anymore, at least not when it comes to what he’s about to do the woman he loves. But when Rose uncovers Kade’s lies, they learn a terrible truth—the 18th century box holds a secret far deadlier than they imagined. A secret that could destroy them all.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed, closed her eyes, and clenched her fist until the silver compass watch warmed in her hand.
How could she trust Kade when she hardly knew him?
How could she be falling in love with him when she wasn’t sure she could trust him?
He moved, and she opened her eyes, surprised to see he’d picked up the silver bra. It’d been part of her most popular costume at Rage of Angels.
When its sequins sparkled in the sunlight, he said, “This was the costume you wore the night we met.”
She looked away but couldn’t stop the warm flush that traveled up her neck to her cheeks. She remembered that night. She’d been stripping in a cage that hung from the ceiling and had felt his stare from near the stage, where he’d broken up a fight.
The first time she’d met his blue gaze, something inside her had shifted. He hadn’t looked at her with disdain or disgust or desire. He’d just regarded her as if he understood—she was simply a woman in a cage. A woman in a desperate situation. A woman with no other options.
In that moment, the iron straps around her heart loosened the smallest bit.
“I know the truth, Rose.” He laid the bra across her knees and sat next to her. “That night, I saw it in your eyes. The woman who wore this was a character in a story. A wandering ship in a storm.” He paused when the church’s bells rang eleven a.m. “You pretended to be empty—like a bell tower without a bell. Until we spoke.”
How did he have the words to describe how she’d felt in that cage? Seen as an object, unseen as a woman. A woman with her own desires and fears and dreams. “After my set, I was walking back to the locker room, and you offered me a glass of water.”
His smile brightened his face. “Do you remember what you said to me?”
She shook her head.
“You told me you didn’t date bouncers or bartenders.” He laughed beneath his breath. “Then you walked away.”
“That was rude.” She placed the compass watch on the bed. The stream of sunshine highlighted the etching of an eight-pointed star on the silver cover.
“No.” He took her hands and squeezed. “I recognized it for what it was—self-protection. I understood then, and I understand now. You have no reason to trust me. I’m an ex-con, Army Ranger, Doom referee and fighter, gym employee, and my life is owned by the Fianna.”
“Surely you’ve paid the Fianna back for releasing you from prison.”
“Rose”—He kissed the back of one hand and then the other—“it doesn’t work that way. I belong to them until they decide I don’t.”
She pulled her hands out of his grasp and stood quickly. “What does that mean?”
He stood as well but didn’t approach her. “I can’t tell you.”
Her cheeks burned, and she moved toward the window. Outside, the oak tree separating her from the dead appeared so strong and steady. Especially compared to the fact that her world felt like it was falling off its axis. “You ask me to trust you, yet you admit you’re keeping secrets.”
He came up behind her and touched her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
She turned halfway to see his profile. He didn’t meet her gaze. His sight was fixed on the tree where Magnus had stood.
“Kade,” she asked softly, “are you going to give the Fianna my box?”
“No.” He turned her until they faced each other. His lips lowered until they hovered over hers. “Like I said last night, I’m in love with you.”
“That’s not possible.” She backed away, and he dropped his hands. “We hardly know each other. I’ve caused you nothing but problems. And you’re keeping secrets.”
He moved forward with determination, and she retreated until her back hit the wall. His gaze darkened, making his eyes appear more black than blue. He took her shoulders and drew her against him. “I promise you, Tempest Rose Guthrie, I will return.” His lips met hers in a firestorm of need and want and desire. He held her so close, every inch of her soft body was up against hard muscles. The kiss started out demanding, as if daring her to object. But when she relaxed against him and wrapped her arms around his neck, he deepened the kiss until she melted into his embrace.
Sharon is a librarian who once studied dress design in the couture houses of Paris and now writes of novels of suspense, adventure, and love. A caretaker of Donut the one-eyed rescue dog, she’s addicted to snapping photos and eating Oreos.
She writes the bestselling Deadly Force romantic suspense series where smart, sexy women teach their alpha males that Grace always defeats Reckoning.
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.
