Saturday, June 17, 2017

Review for White Hot by (the AMAZING!!!) Ilona Andrews


White Hot Review
For a while now Ilona Andrews has been my go-to, automatic buy, favorite author.

From her Kate Daniels novels, Edge Novels, Inn Keeper Chronicle, and now her Hidden Legacy Novels.

Book one, Burn for Me, was great, fantastic. Her men are still alphas, her heroine is awesome, and the world she created—totally original.
Nevada and Rogan are at it again in White Hot. Nevada’s mad as hell that he just disappeared on her. Rogan is… well, is there a word for sexy and infuriating? Whatever, he’s being Rogan, and this book not only brings in some fairly evil, terrible characters (and a few horrific monsters) but—to my utter enjoyment—builds the story on the fantastic characters Ilona already had. Bug, Augustine, Cornelius, his daughter and his animals, and Nevada’s seriously irritating and loveable family.

And don’t forget that Nevada has a job to do. The head of her family’s private investigation firm.
This book has it all: twists, turns, romance, comedy, the very best violence, and really dirty, rotten villains.

White Hot is a must read. If you haven’t read book one, go and buy it now!
Oh, and get ready for book 3 when it drops in July!

Friday, June 16, 2017

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Thursday, June 15, 2017

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Meet Jackson Burk...

Meet Jackson Burk


From the corner of the restaurant I heard a laugh: male, hoarse, yet with a metallic ring.  Touchable, as if it were caressing your skin.

And familiar…

The sound pulled my spine up straight as if by a steel chord.

Lance’s eyes went wide when he looked at me.  “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t really know.  My mind hadn’t caught up with the rest of my nervous system yet… but my heart had.  It thumped painfully hard in my chest.

Just then a waiter appeared at my side and set a stemmed martini glass beside me.

I gulped looking at the chilled glass and the ring of salt on the rim.

A margarita in a martini glass—my flesh warmed as anger ignited in my chest, making my thudding heart burn.

“Compliments of the gentleman,” the waiter said, pointing to the corner of the dining room with an elegant gesture.

My gaze followed where he pointed and lit on a table of men in expensive suits.  Dead in the center I caught sight of him, and my heart skipped a beat—the traitor…

Jackson Burk.

I turned back around and closed my eyes, feeling myself slipping into an emotional rollercoaster.

Anger spiked with joy, shame mingled with cold fear, and a long lost feeling of love coated in black, sticky hate.

I'd never wanted to see Jackson again…

Yet here he was, just when my career and personal life were on precarious ground, looking…

Well, I’d only stolen a glance before I turned back around and closed my eyes, but he looked…

Like a fucking wet dream?

Thank you, so very helpful.

I gritted my teeth and pushed the shit-storm inside me back to the dark little corner of my mind where I’d long ago banished it.

I would not melt into a puddle of sniffling, tear soaked hurt.

No, this wasn’t college, and I wasn’t the dewy eyed girl I had been.

The memory of his walking out of my dorm room flickered through my mind, and the scorching feelings of hurt, shame, and confusion that moment had caused.

And now, sitting there in that restaurant, I saw for the first time that that moment, that feeling, had been reverberating inside me all along.

I swear that when I opened my eyes again everything was red.

I blinked a few times and it went away.

I stood, grabbing my clutch purse and the martini glass clad margarita, and headed towards Jackson’s table.

Jackson’s eyes were blue-green, like arctic ice, and they bore into me as I walked toward him.  I strutted around the table until I was standing right next to him. He didn’t stand up.  Simply sat there, staring at me with those damned eyes of his, a slight grin on his handsome face.

Dirty blond hair, cut short, the build of a college football star, and the sun kissed skin of a native California boy—he was the very definition of masculine beauty.

I smiled at him and his expression faltered.

Worried about what I’ll do?

I looked down at the martini glass in my hand.

“Liz,” he said, and then he sighed and tilted his head as he looked at me.  “You’re not really going to—”

I threw the drink in his face.

Jackson wiped the margarita from his eyes with one hand, and then looked at me with irritation.

I leaned down and he jerked back an inch or two.  I leaned in further, my smiling face so very close to his, and then ran my index finger down the line of his square jaw.

He watched, his mouth slack, as I put my finger to my lips and gently tasted what I’d taken from his flesh.

I moaned as if tasting something delicious. 

I looked back to him and he was biting his lip.

“I forgot how much I enjoy those.  Thanks for the reminder.”

I turned and started walking toward the front doors.  Lance and Churchill were still standing at our table and I waved goodbye.

I needed out of there.  I needed away from Jackson Burk, as far away from him as possible.

“Liz!”  Jackson called after me, but I was already at the front doors, pushing past the doorman.

Once outside I gulped the city’s air as if I hadn’t breathed in years: desperate, halting breaths.

I glance around.  No cabs in sight.

I needed to get away, so I started to run.

I was in four inch heels, so I wasn’t setting any land speed records.

I heard his steps as he caught up with me, and I felt it when he grabbed hold of my arm.

His hand was on fire.  That heat seeped through my skin and made my blood boil on contact.  I had forgotten how his touch made me feel.  It was some scary chemical reaction… or magic.

No… I won’t do this, not ever again!

I swung around in his grasp and slapped him as hard as I could.

He winced, but didn’t let me go.

I went to hit him again, but he reached up and caught my hand in mid-air.

He was so strong; I had forgotten.

I was trapped in his grasp.

“Let go of me!” My voice dripped venom.

“You need to listen to me.” His eyes bore into me, and my traitorous heart skipped a beat again.

“I’ll scream.”

“And I’ll break something.”  I looked behind Jackson and found Lance standing behind him, his perfect face a blank mask.

Jackson glanced over his shoulder and then back to me.  “This is a private conversation.”

Lance tsked as he sauntered nearer.  “It stopped being private the moment you grabbed hold of her.”

I saw Jackson’s face falter—he was thinking about how it looked, and about how he was holding onto me.

He let me go and took a step back.

“I’m sorry for that, but we need to talk.”

Lance walked up and stood beside Jackson.  “I’m Miss Hamilton’s assistant.” He handed Jackson a business card.  “You can call me tomorrow and we can discuss your manners and any future contact you may be granted.”

I saw the pissed off spark in Jackson’s eyes.  He turned on Lance, his nostrils flaring, and reached out to shove him.

Lance caught his hand and in a heartbeat had Jackson flat on his face on the sidewalk, his muscular arm wrenched painfully behind his back.

I had always thought that Lance was bragging on his résumé when he’d put that he’d won a national championship in Aikido when he was in high school, but seeing him lay a six foot two ex-football jock out in two seconds flat confirmed his credentials.

I gulped and stifled a laugh.

I wasn’t paying Lance nearly enough.

Jackson groaned as Lance manipulated his spine with his knee.

I winced just from how painful it looked.

But… as much as I wanted Jackson Burk in pain, I said, “Lance, I don’t like seeing him in pain like that.  Would you let him up please?”

Lance looked up to me, his perfect mouth pursed in question.  “Are you going soft on me?”

Good question.

“No, I’m still the bitch that hired you, but I don’t want you to end up in jail.”

Lance scoffed.  “There are plenty of surveillance cameras on this street.  They’ll all show he went to touch me first.  I was just defending myself.”

Jackson groaned again as Lance rocked his weight a little more into the hold. I walked around the two until I could look into Jackson’s face.  Even in pain, and pushed half into the pavement, the bastard was gorgeous.

I bent down and said, “I’m sure Lance here can be persuaded to let you loose if you promise not to touch me again.”

Jackson shook his head—quite a feat since his face was smooshed against the pavement.

“I can’t promise that.  I have all kinds of plans for touching you… later on.”

I stood up and frowned.  Even in pain and pressed against the sidewalk, he could still flirt.

That’s how he’d gotten me to go out with him.

Susan had manipulated me into volunteering on a blood mobile drive, handing out orange juice and cookies to the student athletes while they gave blood.

The woman taking Jackson’s blood was missing his vein repeatedly, and though he was a blotchy red, and sweating, and cursing, he asked me out the instant he saw me.

I crumpled that memory up in my head like a piece of paper.

“Well then,” I said, stepping past him.  “Lance can just keep you there until I call him and tell him I’m safely at home.”

I took a few steps and he called, “Wait!  Don’t leave.”

I didn’t look back.  I wanted him to give up and leave—and to leave me alone forever.

“Just go to lunch with me tomorrow.  We’ll meet at Chester’s.”


I hadn’t thought of that place in years.  The best cheddar cheese fries in the history of the world, and steak hoagies so mouthwatering you never left any on your plate, or took it home.

“Is there one in Chicago?” It had been a small new chain restaurant back when we were in college.  We used to eat there like ravenous wolves, studying and kissing, and…

I was about to say no… but then he’d just keep this up until Lance hurt him, and as much as I wanted him to pay for…

I let my head fall back and sighed, looking up at the sky, not seeing a single star due to all the ambient light covering the sky like smog.

“Fine, if you promise to go away now, I’ll meet you at Chester’s at noon.”

“Okay.” Jackson looked over his shoulder where Lance knelt on top of him. “Will you get off me now?”

Lance smiled and gracefully stood up, letting go of Jackson in one elegant movement.

Jackson groaned again, this time in relief, and rolled gingerly onto his back. 

Lance leaned down and offered him his hand.

After scrutinizing the offered help, Jackson grasped hold of Lance’s hand as he was heaved off the ground.

Lance was far stronger than I’d imagined.

“Radioactive spider bite?” I asked as my assistant circled around behind me.

He snorted.  “I’m just glad he gave up so quick—would’ve hated messing up something so pretty.”

The look Jackson was giving me as he brushed off his suit was like a forest fire burning behind his eyes.

“You may still have to,” I said.

Lance blinked and then rolled his eyes at me.  “Breeders.  I just don’t get you people.”

I turned to walk away, but Jackson moved to follow me.

Lance cleared his throat and wagged a finger at him.  Jackson stopped in his tracks.

He leaned into me and murmured, “Churchill probably has his car ready for us, if you wouldn’t mind bumming a ride from us.”

I looked behind him and saw Churchill looking dapper, waving us over to his…

“Is that a vintage Rolls Royce Phantom?”

I walked as if in a dream toward the car… no, not a car, an automobile of the highest order.  All those curves and metal, all covered by a perfect paintjob at least six layers deep.

“No,” Lance said as we got closer.  “That’s a 1955 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith.”

Jackson was suddenly standing right beside me, staring at the four wheeled wonder before us.

“It’s an Empress Touring Limousine,” he chanted.  “Bruce Wayne’s butler drives him around in one of those.”

I had to smile.  Geek much?

I looked over to Lance and saw my expression mirrored there.

I walked over to where Churchill stood and accepted his hand as I slid into the car.  The Italian leather seats were so soft I wanted to strip out of my dress and roll around on them… but I didn’t, of course.

That would have been tacky, though I’m sure Lance would have recorded it on his iPhone and posted it on half a dozen social media sites before I even got home.

Churchill followed me into the car, and then came Lance.

I heard Jackson call out, “Remember, Tigger… Chester’s at noon.  Don’t be late!”

Lance turned and said, “Tigger?”

I gave him my most deadly of glares.  “Don’t ask.  Now shut the door.”

Lance laughed one perfect Ha, and pulled the door shut.  The Roll-Royce sped off into the night, slipping through traffic like it was made out of smoke and shadows.

As Chicago slid past in our wake, my assistant placed his hand atop mine and squeezed.

“You alright, boss lady?”

No, I wasn’t alright.  I was so confused. I was numb.  My mind was a word jumble from hell: hurt, hate, loved, abandoned…

I suppressed the tears vying to course down my face, and wreck my makeup, and took deep breaths instead.

“Would you gentlemen mind dropping me off somewhere?”

To read more (Hate Him Books 1 & 2 are free, except on Kindle) click here for iBooks. Here for Kindle. Here for Nook. Here for Kobo.  Here for Smashwords.

Meet Liz Hamilton...

Meet Liz Hamilton



I settled in behind the reception desk, sifting through the invitations that had stacked up over the week.  If I actually went to all the parties to which I was invited I would do nothing else.

I usually picked one, maybe two parties to mingle at per weekend.  If I was lucky, I could fit both parties in on one night, preferably Friday night.  That way I’d have Saturday and Sunday all to myself to depressurize.

All to myself…

I felt a shuddering sense of dread—a familiar feeling that had sadly become the norm.

I dreaded weekends. 

No, not the weekends, what they now meant.

For the last three months I’d… well, it was embarrassing as hell to say out loud. 

I hadn’t had sex for three months.

Okay, I said it…

Sort of.

Some might think three months was just a little dry spell, but not for me.  It was the equivalent of a hundred and fifty years in my years, and a decade accrued at the end of every night I spent by myself in my lonely little California king—

Watching the Cartoon Network.

I blame my best friend, Susan Jacobs—formerly Susan Rhodes—sexy, though love-life-deprived, architect extraordinaire.

She finally opened her eyes and saw her hot, though ultimately boring, male best friend for what he really was: husband material.

I don’t recommend it personally, but wedded bliss totally suited Susan… so much so that she and the hubby decided to procreate. 

So Sara Marie Jacobs was born.  

What does all that have to do with my sexual drought? 

Well, I'm her best friend in the world—and since baby Sara decided to come into the world a full two weeks early, when Kevin was out of town on business, I was pulled into the whole birthing drama.  I’m talking about driving Susan to the hospital, threatening the geeky ER clerk with rather imaginative bodily harm if he didn’t get her in to see a doctor immediately, fending off calls from Susan and Kevin’s parents, and then holding Susan’s hand while she went through the screaming, crying, sweating, nausea, grunting, and creative cursing.

I didn’t mind when I lost feeling in the hand she was gripping.  What are friends for?  I didn’t mind running out of the room and grabbing her socks for her—she was sweating like a whore in a church, but her feet were cold!

What I did find disturbing was when I re-entered Susan’s hospital room.

“She’s coming!” Susan cried out in the throes of the mother of all contractions, her hand outstretched for me to take.  I started toward her and slipped on the tiled floor.  It was a quick trip, I landed on my ass, clipping my shoulder on the floor but thankfully missing my head. 

It was the scramble to my feet that set the sexual purgatory I’m currently in into motion.

The doctor and nurses were busy, so no one noticed my slip slide to the floor.  I grabbed hold of the end of the bed to pull myself up from the floor, right beside the OBGYN stationed between my friend’s legs, and I got an eye full of what the good doctor was looking at.

Christ on a fucking crutch!  

These kinds of sights are best left NEVER seen.

Baby Sara’s head was just crowning.

It was right out of that movie Aliens.

Susan screamed at me again and I tore my gaze from the gynecological front line and staggered to her side again, welcoming the pain her desperate, bone crushing grip caused when she took my hand again.

But that image was burned onto my mind like a cattle brand.

Since that day I have not felt even the least bit turned on.

No matter how many precautions I take—condoms, spermicidal lubes, vaginal foam, the pill—I just can’t stop thinking about the sight of my best friend’s girly parts bloodied and distended in excruciating pain.

Like the blaze of a strobe light flashing over and over and over again in my head.

No matter how hot the guy is, no matter how much I want to—and good god, how I want to—as soon as the kissing and the groping starts, I just go cold.  My body switches off and my mind starts running a horrifying baby-birthing loop.

I looked up when the discreet chime of the front door tolled.

I blinked.

This was not Franco.

No… it was so not Franco.

This man had the Roma’s delivery heated bag, and a Roma’s t-shirt stretched across his broad, well-formed chest.

I smiled to myself as he came closer.  Dark, penetrating eyes, long, lovely boy lashes, a pouty, kissable mouth, and the longish, lustrous hair that made a woman want to run her hands through it—

Or have it run over her breasts and down her body as he kissed his way down to her pussy…

Oh yeah, this man was just what the doctor ordered.

He strode over to me and winked.  “Hey there… I’m Franco.”

I laughed.  “No, you’re not.”

He blinked, confusion lighting in his eyes.  Then he smiled, a wickedly sexy smile, showing off a killer set of pearly whites and sexy dimples.

“I’m Franco junior,” he explained.  “I’m filling in for my dad for the week.”

“Are you?”  I was already planning to have Roma’s delivered for the rest of the week.

“Yeah, he took my mom on a second honeymoon to Florida.”  He blushed as he talked. 

Okay, enough talk.

“So, Franco.  You look… hot.”  I left the word and the innuendo floating in the air.

He licked his full lips and leaned against the counter, showing off biceps and forearms that obviously took hours of pumping iron in a gym somewhere.  “It is pretty damn hot out there.  They say it’s ninety in the shade.”

I leaned forward, smooshing my boobs together to show them off to my prospective dry spell ender.

“I have a bucket of ice in the back.”

His eyes dropped to take in the sight of my décolletage—he sighed.

I stood and started walking back to my office.

The gallery was quiet, the delivery men gone, finished bringing in the horrific poultry paintings, and the offending artist and his boyfriend off to “see the city.”

I headed into my office and heard a gasp from behind me. 

I turned and found Franco Jr. staring at the zombie turkeys tearing apart the man with the cornucopia.  The look on his face was disgust and revulsion. 

Not the mood I was looking for.

I clapped my hands together. 


Franco blinked and shook his head, his eyes slowly returning to me.

“Just keep your pretty eyes right here.”  I made a show of patting my nicely curvaceous ass.

Franco’s eyes darkened as he honed his gaze in on my perky bottom.

That’s better.

I led my Italian stallion back into my office, and watched him sagely close and lock the door behind him.  I took off my jacket, leaving on only my camisole, and then leaned back against my desk and felt my flesh start to warm as he walked closer to me.

He dumped the heated bag on a chair and prowled toward me.  With a practiced move, he reached over his head and tugged his red Roma t-shirt off over his head, exposing one hell of a good body: rippling, bulging pecs; tight, six-pack abs; and chiseled, rock hard shoulders.

His skin was naturally tanned and there was a light dusting of black hair between his pecs, and a happy trail leading down into his tight black jeans.


He pushed his long, black, achingly touchable hair back from his forehead with one hand, causing all the muscles in his torso to dance.

If I wasn’t mistaken, I thought my sex drive was making a comeback.  My neglected vajayjay pulsed and I could feel all the heat that was coursing through me start to build down below.

Good… very good…  

I reached out and touched his chest.  His flesh was warm and soft, and as if by chemical reaction my body flared to life.  I wanted him inside me, and now.

I pulled him to me, our lips crashing into each other, my chest pushed hard against his.

And oh boy… was Franco hard.  I could feel the curve of his thick erection against my inner thigh.

Something flickered in the back of my mind, just a twinkle… but it made my fevered skin cool about ten degrees.

Don’t you dare! I screamed at the stupid bitch in my head.  I NEED THIS!

I reached down and grabbed a handful of his young, perfectly hard ass and squeezed.  Franco groaned into my mouth as his hips shot up against my still throbbing oonie.

His hips undulated as he pulled my hips tight against him.

I ran my free hand though his hair.

He reached down between us and started undoing his belt buckle.

Where are my condoms?

That thought flashed to all those hours I had spent clicking and googling contraception methods.

And that made the image of Susan’s wretched vagina light up like a sign in Times-fucking-Square.

And just like that, I was cold as an ice cube, all the need and heat and frenzy evaporating in less than ten seconds.

A tiny, sullen voice cried, They are in the top desk drawer! 

She wept, sobbing and calling out plaintively.    

We were sooooo close!

I pushed my hand against Franco’s chest.  “This isn’t going to happen.”

He licked my collarbone and went head first into my cleavage.

I clamped my hand across his forehead and pulled his head up out of my boobies until his eyes defogged and he met my gaze.

I said, this isn’t going to happen.  I need you to leave now.”

He groaned.  “Are you kidding?”

I wished.  “I just remembered I have to be downtown in twenty minutes.”  That was at least a thirty-five minute cab ride this time of day. 

I could see Franco doing the math in his head.  Being a deliveryman made you an expert on transportation time.

I saw the moment resignation made his expression drop, so I threw him a bone… so to speak.

I reached over and pulled my purse to me, deftly finding my emergency stash of cash and handing him two fifty dollar bills.

“To make up for your lost time,” I said and tucked the bills into the waistband of his jeans.

Franco reluctantly pulled himself off me and started putting his t-shirt back on, shaking his head the whole time.

“Sorry about this.”  I was more than sorry.  This hot stud should have blown right through my little problem.

Hell, he should have been banging me up against the wall by now!

Franco pulled my order from the heated bag and gave me another long look.  I pretended to brush the nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt.

“This is the first time a woman has paid me not to have sex with her.”


I grabbed my suit jacket and started pulling it on as he unlocked my office door and swung it open.


To read more (Hate Him Books 1 & 2 are free, except on Kindle) click here for iBooks. Here for Kindle. Here for Nook. Here for Kobo.  Here for Smashwords.