Celebrating a brand-new cover for THE PHOENIX SYDNROME – A Rock Star Second Chance Romance!
Turning forty, for Lannie Marvin, is rough. Her cheating husband announces he’s leaving her, and at the lab where she works, a crazed mouse brutally bites her. Lannie snaps. She kidnaps her sister-in-law and heads off to chase her newest crush–the drummer of a heavy metal band.
Drummer Tristan Allard holds this benefit concert every year in memory of his late wife. It’s been five years and he’s getting pretty damned lonely. So when the sexually charged Lannie literally plows into him at the backstage reception, Tristan is more than ready to learn more about her–and her long-buried love of musical composition.
They head off for a wild weekend until reality catches them. Tristan is scheduled to return to the UK to audition his latest album. And Lannie learns an elevated libido isn’t the only side effect of the drug the mice were being treated with…
Here’s a sneak peek from the opening chapters of THE PHOENIX SYNDROME:
That’s when I raised my head and got a look at him for the first time. He was tall—really tall, because I’m five-ten and I was eye-level with his pecs. Above a pair of baggy plaid sleep pants he wore a faded U2 tee shirt. All I could think was, Yeah, U2. Jon Schmidt did one of their songs, braiding it in with a Pachelbal. Slowly, my gaze traveled up to his shoulders, then along his square jawline, where dark tendrils of hair clung to the stubble.
That’s when my babble button kicked on again. “Nice shirt. I mean, U2. Good band. Excuse me, please.” I stepped to one side before realizing one step wouldn’t get me around him. His upper body was twice as broad as mine.
Now he was pissing me off. “Um, can I get by please?” I lifted my gaze to his face then. Deep, dark eyes with black lashes so long they looked fake.
But he wasn’t looking at my eyes. The perv was staring at my nipples, which were straining embarrassingly against the flimsy front of my sleep shirt.
“I like your shirt too, ma’am.” He read the words scrolled among scattered notes and treble clefs on my shirt, aloud. “Take Note. Make Music, Not War.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I think we might be kindred spirits.”
There was something about his rich, deep voice that made my insides shiver, though I couldn’t really tell if it was annoyance, fear, or . . . something else. Something much, much more pleasant.
But ma’am? Really?
And this was ridiculous. I was half asleep, half-naked, and had to get out of there fast. So I tipped my chin up and waited until he finally, finally tore his eyes from my tits and met my gaze. “Maybe so, but if you don’t want to be wearing this coffee all over your U2, you’d better get the hell out of my way.”
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