I do have some exciting news I’m not quite ready to reveal, but first, the sad bit. Samhain Publishing is closing. Crissy Brashear has assured us we will get our rights back on the company closure, and she is continuing to do her best to generate sales and interest in the books. Samhain should be open for another year or so, but they aren’t taking any more submissions. That means, that unless another publisher shows an interest, “Her Quicksilver Lover,” due to come out in May, will be the last Even Gods Fall In Love book. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing this series, and getting an idea of how gods would survive in the eighteenth century. Very well, as it turns out! I have started on another story, of Hades and Persephone, but it’s unlikely to reach the marketplace, at least in its present form.
When and if I get the rights back to my Samhain published books, I’ll try to turn them around as fast as I can, so they’ll still be available.
On the other hand, I’m really proud of the finale to the series. It’s Amidei’s book, the man who has featured in every episode, and finally he gets a book of his own.
So here, without further ado, are the details and an extract:
Love knows no bounds, and keeps no secrets.
Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6
Joanna Spencer is doing more than just serving tea at the Pantheon Club. She’s secretly collecting society gossip and evidence of foreign spy activity for her father’s journal articles.
Instead, she finds the club’s walls shield Roman gods in human form. One of which she must keep at arm’s length at all costs—the club’s alluring, enigmatic owner, Amidei, Comte d’Argento. Otherwise known as Mercury.
Joanna catches Amidei’s attention long before she drops and shatters an expensive tea caddy. He knows she’s spying, but he never suspected she’d be his nemesis in human form—or that she would stir his strongest protective instincts.
Those instincts will be tested to the limit when an enemy strikes from an unexpected corner, threatening their lives. And Amidei will have to face every last one of his fears to protect the woman he has come to love.
Contains a woman who’s too honest to be a good spy, and a mind-reading god sent reeling down the fast track to passion the moment he touches her thoughts. Excessive heat could cause readers to reach for a fan, but remember—fanning the flames only makes them burn hotter.
“Yes. I thought…” She didn’t know what to think. His proximity confused her, sent her mind into a spin, spiralling down her body to the juncture of her thighs, where she heated and dampened.
He smiled and stroked her cheek again. It was all she could do not to press into his touch, to beg silently for more. His heat seeped through her, warming any residual chill, but the nervousness remained. She could not move.
“Your skin is so soft,” he said. “It begs me to touch it. It has from the beginning. Like the ripest, plumpest peach.”
She should not allow him to do this, or say such things, but the lonely core deep inside her body opened and blossomed at those words. Men passed her by. It went without saying that she had no dowry, nothing to offer a man in marriage, so she had closed the door on such thoughts, except for dreams she could not control. She made a last effort. “You should not do this, sir.”
“I know. I do not make a habit of it. But you—you intrigue me, Joanna Spencer. I want to know more about you. Like why you did not tell me, or anyone else in this house, that your father owns the Argus.”
A sharp gasp escaped her and she spun away, intent on reaching the door. She would leave and never come back, and pray that he didn’t follow her.
He lashed his arm around her waist and turned her back to him.
They were pressed chest to chest, the fabric of her coarse gown meeting his smooth, fine silk waistcoat. Her mind racing, she said nothing, but met his gaze boldly. “Everyone has to earn a living,” she said when she had finally worked out what to say.
He watched her, waiting for something, she did not know what. His cheekbones were tinged with colour, his eyes back to their light silver, disconcerting and beautiful. They were both breathing deeply, as if they’d run up St. James’ Street and back.
“Would you rather I earned it another way?” Without allowing him to speak, she went on, anger sparkling through her. “Oh yes, I see you would.”
Something in his eyes flared, and then she could see no more as he closed them and dragged her closer, bringing his head down.
Then he kissed her.
His scent was of lemons, a tinge of the sea, and pure, wild, masculinity. It wreathed around her, its intensity overwhelming her efforts to remember who she was, who he was, and pull away. His lips pressed against hers, firm and full, pressing so she had to tilt her head back.
Flattening her hands on his chest, the metallic threads of the embroidery rasping against her palm, she shoved. He did not move, didn’t even seem to register her protest. He continued to kiss her, but kept his hands around her waist, holding her close, but not roaming. His fingertips dug into the fabric of her jacket, the pressure insistent, into the flesh beneath, burning as if they were naked and he was claiming her.
One kiss, what harm would that do? She couldn’t pretend she did not want it, had not lain awake in her narrow bed dreaming of this, but he should not, she was a respectable woman…the protests became mere echoes in her mind.
He touched her lips with his tongue, and as if he’d commanded it, she let him in.