Authors: Deborah Bladon
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A Two Part Novel Series Featuring Nicholas Wolf
"Do you like it? Some people have said it's too long. It's actually quite thick when you're holding it in your hands, isn't it?" The tone is low and throaty, emanating somewhere from my right.
Such is the conversation on subway trains in New York City. You'd think I'd be oblivious to it all by now. Most of those who have lived here for decades have an innate ability to silence the staccato sounds of voices, traffic, and the underlying hum that is constantly hanging in the air in Manhattan.
For those of us who are considered fresh transplants, the timbres of the city are still part of its irrefutable charm. I never thought I'd get accustomed to the constant buzz of the traffic when I closed my eyes to sleep each night but now it's the lull that helps me drift off. I've only been here two years but I know that I'd long for the frenzied energy of this place if I ever decided to move back home to Florida.
"I'd like your honest opinion." I feel the slight pressure of a strong shoulder rub against mine. "Chapter seven is my personal favorite. Have you gotten that far yet?"
I glance down at the thick book resting on my lap. I know, without a doubt now, that he's talking to me. I've already had two, one-sided, conversations today about the book. One was with a woman waiting in line at the dry cleaners. The other was just fifteen minutes ago with the man who runs the bodega by my office. In both cases, I just smiled, nodded and listened to them rattle on about the awe inspiring detective novel I'm lugging around Manhattan with me.
"I haven't," I say quietly without looking at him.
No eye contact will make it easier for me to ignore him if he persists. I'm not a rude person but I do know how to protect myself with a perimeter of ignorance. Men give up easily if you pretend they don't exist. Most men do, that is. This one doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.
"Have far are you?" A large hand brushes against my skirt. "You at least got past the first chapter, right?"
Physical touching is a no-no. I scoot more to my left, trying to gain even a few more inches in distance from him. This train is bursting at capacity with commuters. Part of that is the time of day and the other is the route.
It's early evening and I'm headed for Times Square, one of the few places in the city I'd be happy never seeing again. It's too much for me. There are too many people, too much noise, the smells overwhelming and the energy frenetic.
"I'm not trying to accost you." He laughs. It's a sexy growl and a few women actually turn to see the source. Judging by the way they linger when they look at him, he's not hard on the eyes.
"I'm just trying to get to a book signing," I confess, hoping he'll leave me alone if I tell him, politely, that I'm not looking to hook up. "I need to get this signed for my boss. It's a gift from his wife."
"You're hoping to meet the author? Nicholas Wolf? I heard the line for the signing was around the block already. People have been waiting all afternoon to meet him."
"Shit." I finally turn to look at his face. "You're not serious, are you?"
He's as good looking as I imagined him to be based on his voice. Seriously hot. Like seriously, I will give this man my number if he asks me for it, hot.
Black hair, blue eyes, and just the right amount of stubble on his face are the appetizer. His perfect teeth, rugged jaw and his lips, oh those lips, are the main course. He's wearing a wool coat and jeans so who knows what dessert is, but it would be delicious. I know it would be so delicious.
"I'm serious," he says. "If you get in line now, the store is going to close before you'll get that book signed for your boss."
I roll my eyes. "I don't get the appeal. I have no idea why Gabriel likes it so much. He told me to read it so I read the first chapter and…" I point my thumb towards the floor.
"Thumbs down?" He cocks a dark winged brow. "You didn't like it?"
"It's too wordy. I was too bored to finish it."
He stares at the book before he speaks again. "I take it Gabriel is your boss? You're getting it signed for him?"
I nod sharply.
"Give it to me. I'd like to show you something."
It's not my book and since we're moving at breakneck speed inside a subway car, it's not as though he can grab it and run. I slide it from my lap to his.
"What's your name?" he asks as his hand dives into a leather bag sitting on the floor at his feet.
I watch his every movement. "Sophia. My name is Sophia. What's your name?"
He pulls a silver pen from out of the bag and before I can protest, he opens the cover of the book and starts writing.
Well, shit. I bet it's his number. I'm not going to stop him. I'll just buy another book for Mr. Foster and keep this one for me.
He closes the cover of the book, slides the pen back into his bag and turns to look at me.
"My name is Nicholas. Nicholas Wolf."
Coming Soon
A Two-Part Novel Duet Featuring Julian Bishop
I notice him immediately. It's impossible not to. Julian Bishop is the man of the hour, after all. This celebration, complete with expensive champagne and stiff-backed wait staff, has drawn the crème de la crème of Manhattan's social elite. It's the place to be tonight, and with a lot of crafty manipulation and a fair bit of luck, I'm standing in the midst of it, wearing a killer little black dress and diamond earrings I borrowed from a broker who has sold more than her fair share of apartments with Park Avenue addresses.
"I got you another glass of champagne, Maya."
I turn toward my date for the evening, taking the tall crystal flute from his hand. I enjoy a small sip while I look at his hands. They're adequate, not too large, and not too small. Those hands, along with the brief kiss he gave me when he picked me up tonight promise a night of passion that would be forgettable at best. He's nothing to write home about or to write about at all, for that matter.
"Thanks, Charlie," I purr. "Where's your drink?"
He nudges the sexy-as-all-hell, black-rimmed glasses up his nose with his index finger. He has a nerd with a side of male model look. That's what made me stop at his desk two weeks ago to ask if I could borrow his stapler.
I don't staple. If I did, I'm sure I'd find one in my desk, hidden underneath the three dresses and two pairs of shoes I have tucked in the drawer. I never know when a change of wardrobe is called for. A girl has to be ready for anything when she's trying to claw her way up the hierarchy of the Manhattan real estate market.
"I had one. That's my limit." He squints as he looks at the bar. "Is she here yet? I heard someone say she's going to make an entrance."
I heard someone say she's a dirty, dirty slut.
That someone was me. I said it to myself. She's far from dirty or slutty. She's a lawyer, Harvard educated, with looks to rival her brains. Jealousy is a filthy accessory and I don't wear it well at all.
"I don't think she's arrived." I turn back to where Julian's standing. He looks identical to the way he did when I first laid eyes on him. That was a year ago. I was helping a friend and he was offering her a job. Our paths crossed, the energy flowed and then he left. I never saw the man again.
I would have settled for one tumble in the sheets of his bed. A brief encounter would have satisfied my craving but it wasn't meant to be. He continued on his happily-ever-path and I swam the dating waters of Manhattan occasionally snagging a Charlie in my net.
"I'm going to mingle," I say it like I mean it. "I'll meet you back here in thirty."
Charlie looks down at his watch. It's not impressive. That's not Charlie's style.
"Thirty minutes, Maya." He touches the lenses of his glasses with two of his fingers before he points them right at me. "I'm going to have my eye on you."
Good for you, Cowboy.
I take my champagne, my spirit of adventure and my too tight black heels and I walk across the room. I took my time getting dressed tonight just for that one split second that we all live for. It's that moment when the man you imagine running naked through a field of daisies with or fucking in a back alley, turns and looks at you.
I've been planning this for two months.
Plotting every word I'll say when his eyes meet mine. I'm counting on him remembering me because I've been told I'm not easy to forget.
"Maya Baker." The voice behind me is unmistakably his. Warm with a hint of control, deep with a promise of pleasure.
I start to pivot at the sound of it. It's a beacon, a pull that is too strong to resist.
"Don't turn around." A hand, steady and determined, rests on my hip. The fingertips assert enough pressure to control my movement. "I don't recall seeing your name on the guest list."
Something's caught Julian's cock's attention. I can feel it pressing against me in the middle of this crowded room while we wait for his business partner, rumored lover and person I'd most like to lock in a closet for eternity to arrive. "I was a last minute addition."
"A welcome addition," he adds. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
I feel the undercurrent of desire. It was there last year when we met. It's stronger now.
"I am now." I push my fingers into his on my hip.
His chest lifts and falls. "I'm needed on the stage. You won't run away before we have a chance to talk, will you?"
I turn my head to look up at him. Black hair, ocean blue eyes and a face that would make any woman lock her office door to imagine a moment alone with him.
I've done it. Many women in Manhattan have.
"You're as handsome as ever, Julian."
He rounds me, his hand still holding mine. "You're more enchanting than the day we met, Maya. I've followed your career. I have a position I think you'd be interested in."
Coming Soon
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Deborah Bladon has never read a romance hero she didn't like. Her love for romance novels began when she was old enough to board the bus, library card in hand to check out the newest Harlequin paperbacks. She's a Canadian by heart, and by passport, but you can often spot her in New York City sipping a latte and looking for inspiration for her next story. Manhattan is definitely her second home.
She cherishes her family and believes that each day is a gift for writing, for reading, and for loving.