Brenda Jackson - Spaniard's Seduction / Cole's Red-Hot Pursuit - Spaniard's Seduction

Spaniard’s Seductionby Tessa Radley

Lying in bed, staring into the darkness, Caitlyn remembered the single kiss she had shared with Rafaelo.

She moved restlessly, the cotton sheets cool and smooth against her hot, aching skin. The response the Spanish nobleman had aroused in her was intense, physical, consuming. If only he wouldn’t be leaving once he got what he’d come for.

What he’d come for…

His share of Saxon’s Folly.

Suddenly she felt chilled, and the darkness seemed to turn hostile. Rafaelo would never be able to reconcile with the Saxons. There was too much bad blood between them. And she was trapped in the middle—between the family she adored, and the man she was coming to love…

Cole’s Red-Hot Pursuitby Brenda Jackson

“I need company.”

Patrina studied Cole’s expression, searching his eyes for some clue to his meaning. “Company?”

“Yes, company. I don’t like eating alone,” Cole said.

Patrina had a sinking feeling. He didn’t know her and there was a lot she didn’t know about him. But one thing was certain—the sizzling, sexual chemistry flowing between them. And yet, the last thing on her agenda was getting involved in an affair destined to go nowhere. Besides, Cole Westmoreland was a lawman.

She glanced at Cole and saw a sexy smile curve his lips and a twinkle spark in his dark-brown eyes. The man was messing with her rational mind, and making it difficult for her to breathe.

“It looks like we’re stuck here together,” he said, glancing out the window. At that moment, Patrina realised that whether she liked it or not, she was temporarily stranded with Cole Westmoreland.

High-Society Secret Pregnancy by Maureen Child & Front Page Engagement by Laura Wright

Spaniard’s Seduction by Tessa Radley & Cole’s Red-Hot Pursuit by Brenda Jackson

Claiming His Runaway Bride by Yvonne Lindsay & High-Stakes Passion by Juliet Burns

BY

BY

MILLS & BOON ®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Tessa Radleyloves travelling, reading and watching the world around her. As a teenager, Tessa wanted to be an intrepid foreign correspondent. But after completing a Bachelor of Arts and marrying her sweetheart, she became fascinated by law and ended up studying further and practising as a lawyer in a city practice.

A six-month break travelling through Australia with her family reawoke the yen to write. And life as a writer suits her perfectly: travelling and reading count as research, and as for analysing the world…well, she can think “what if” all day long. When she’s not reading, travelling or thinking about writing, she’s spending time with her husband, her two sons, or her zany and wonderful friends. You can contact Tessa through her website, www.tessaradley.com.

Dear Reader,

Caitlyn Ross is a gutsy character who tugged at my heartstrings from the first moment I met her in Mistaken Mistress, the opening book in the THE SAXON BRIDES trilogy. Caitlyn yearns for love. And when Rafaelo sprang to life, I knew I had found the man for her.

Passionate. Sensual. Mediterranean. Rafaelo is a special kind of hero—he’s a Spaniard. But to Caitlyn, there is the danger that he can destroy the family she loves so dearly.

Yet despite the many things that divide Rafaelo and Caitlyn—opposing loyalties, past traumas and vastly differing upbringings—both of them overwhelmingly love the rich traditions of making wine. To each of them, terroir, a French word describing a very special piece of dirt that is the birthplace of great wines, is almost as important as family.

Please share Rafaelo and Caitlyn in discovering the joy—and confusion—of love. And please visit www. tessaradley.com to find out more about upcoming SAXON BRIDES books.

Take care,

Tessa

It’s people who make places great to work in. To the team at Jay Inc…thanks for the wonderful years!

Rafaelo, Marques de Las Carreras, was seething with hot Spanish rage. And when Rafaelo seethed, wise people gave him a wide berth until he cooled down to his normal impeccable courtesy.

Rafaelo told himself he had reason to be furious. He’d flown from Spain via London to Los Angeles and on to his final destination of Auckland, New Zealand. A security furore in Heathrow had caused a six-hour delay, resulting in a missed transatlantic connection to the United States.

There had been no first-class seats available on the flight he’d finally caught and the carrier had been packed as full as a tin of sardinas. He’d been wedged between a sweating overweight car dealership owner and a fraught-looking woman with a screaming baby. It had not improved his mood.

By the time Rafaelo landed in Auckland eighteen hours later than scheduled, it was to discover that his monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage had vanished, and to top it all, the Porsche reserved for him had been hired out when he’d failed to turn up earlier.

Not even flashing traveller’s checks, his platinum bank card or large-denomination American dollars could commandeer him a vehicle. Sorry, no cars available. There was an international sporting event on in the area, explained one car-hire company after another.

The Marques de Las Carreras wasn’t accustomed to apologies, certainly not from an indifferent middle-aged woman filing her nails—who didn’t respond to either his most charming smile or, when that failed to get results, to his dangerously lowered tone.

It was unheard of for him to be treated like a peon —usually his name was enough to secure him the best. The best seats at the bullfight, the best table in the restaurant, the best-looking woman in the room. And to come back to his present situation, the best car for hire.

He blinked, told himself this couldn’t be happening. Finally he managed to rent a vehicle—if the battered and dented yellow-and-black apparition plastered with neon-coloured Make Waves and Shoot the Tube stickers could be called that—from an operator most appropriately named Wreck Rentals. It had cost him plenty.

Not only had he been royally ripped off, but he also hadn’t slept in two days and a night. Nor had he showered. His clothes were creased. He was driving an abomination.

Twenty minutes later, teeth gritting as the thing—he couldn’t truthfully label it a vehicle—shuddered, Rafaelo slowed at a large hand-carved sign welcoming visitors to Saxon’s Folly Winery, home of the Saxon family.

The lane into which he turned was lined with established trees. Farther along the lane, a modern winery complex appeared. Through the trees Rafaelo glimpsed a large stately residence.

The car rolled to a stop.

He stopped breathing. The house was exactly as his mother had described it. Tall. White. Lacy wrought iron trimmed the balconies. The elegant triple-storey Victorian homestead was drenched in history.

Cold purpose settled in the pit of his stomach.

Letting out the breath he’d been holding, he edged forward and parked the abomination in the shade of a giant oak. It was then that he discovered that the hand brake didn’t hold. To Rafaelo’s immense displeasure, he had to climb through a triple-strand wire fence to find a suitably large rock to place under the back tire, and by this stage his hands were dusty and his immaculate suit had a smudge of mud down the front.