Thirty-seven minutes after midnight.
Like clockwork, an exquisite stranger sashays into his bar, orders up a shot of Jack Daniel’s, and stirs up his curiosity— not to mention his libido. Awaiting the arrival of this mysterious woman, night after night, has Ethan Bearbower growling in frustration.
Or maybe it’s her hasty retreat after slamming the whiskey that’s driving him crazy. Lord knows her choice of attire isn’t improving his condition in the least—one night she’s dressed like a shy, sweet nymph and the next, a seductive dominatrix.
No wonder he’s going out of his mind.
But once Ethan uncovers her true identity, his inquisitiveness morphs into a protective streak he can’t seem to control. Consumed by this unusual fascination for a woman he’s just met and his need to keep her safe, Ethan struggles to reconcile his long-held beliefs with his mounting emotions.
Danielle is searching for the truth, and she’s not going home until she’s satisfied. But before she can unearth the answers to her biggest questions, she discovers a sexy man who just might derail her quest.
With explosive chemistry and tenderly whispered words of love, their relationship seems destined to last forever…until Danielle’s unrelenting search brings danger to her doorstep.
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CLICK TO EXPAND EXCERPT FROM “CONSUMED”
Danielle sagged against the door, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She listened, but the whoosh of blood racing through her ears and the frantic hammering of her heart overpowered any other noise. Forcing herself to calm down, she lifted her head from the door and peeked out the security peephole.
The glow of the front porch light illuminated a large man, standing in indecision at the bottom of the steps. Dark hair fell in waves over his forehead and a black T-shirt stretched taut across his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. She’d recognize the man anywhere. Ethan Bearbower, aka Taz Bear. The man who’d caught her attention four nights ago at the bar. The single reason she’d ventured out to the same place, night after night.
While her mind questioned the man’s poorly timed arrival at her doorstep, a warm tingle of desire spread through her body. Her eager, unapologetic reaction to the man had remained the same each night; however, the undeniable fact that he followed her into the secluded woods should be enough to send her libido into the deep freeze.
But no. All her girl parts screamed for attention, and the disconcerting notion of stripping off her clothes and inviting him in appealed on the darkest level.
Author: Kate Carley
If you ask my husband, he’d tell you that, as a rule, I tend not to follow his suggestions. Call it independence. Call it stubbornness. Either description fits my personality. For longer than I can remember, he’d suggested that I take a stab at putting my creative ramblings down on paper. But something about committing all those stories swirling around in my head to paper seemed like a massive undertaking. One I wasn’t sure I could tackle.
So for five long years, I politely ignored my darling husband every time he bothered to mention my future and writing in the same breath. I smiled and made excuses. Oh, yes, I could think of a thousand reasons not to try: I was too busy, I had kids to haul, an unending mountain of laundry to do, and dinner to cook. I argued that I was too logical-minded to drift along in my own fictional world, plotting the rise and fall of my characters. For goodness sake, I majored in math, not English. How would I ever figure out if my modifiers were dangling, or how to properly use a comma?
But over time, his idea germinated. Slowly, it took root in my heart, forcing out all the excuses and worries. I began researching and outlining, because my analytical mind needed someplace to start, and a blank page on my computer screen was just too daunting.
After more than a dozen years of home schooling the four kids—another one of my husband’s grand ideas—I finally opened up the front door and pointed the youngest in the direction of the local high school. I might have given her a little shove, I can’t remember. But I distinctly recall flipping the dead-bolt lock and getting down to the business of writing my novels.
When I’m not pounding away on my laptop, you might find me taking a walk or talking to my fluffy white dog, a schnauzer-poodle mix that’s smaller than my long-haired tabby. I still whip up marvelous creations for dinner, but I do my best to ignore the laundry and the rest of the never-ending housework. Like so many authors, my love for the written word started with a passion for reading, so my house is cluttered with books of all kinds.
I’ll admit that most days my world is powered by black coffee, dark chocolate, and a glass of red wine. On occasion I throw in a piece of fruit for good measure. .