Sometimes life just gets in the way of work, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have two elderly parents who don’t drive. One of them went to the ER last week, and is still in the hospital. Happily, he’ll be fine, but in the meantime, I’ve been doing a lot more driving than I’d anticipated. Thus, the release of Running Wild is a week to two weeks behind.
For anyone interested, however, here’s a blurb for the book, which is a sequel to both The Wild Half, and The Wild One. I expect to have the book out mid-july if not earlier:
Desperate to atone for her guilt over her best friend’s death, Boston aristocrat Star Montgomery has pledged her life to women’s rights, resolutely rejecting the institution of marriage. One cannot, after all, fight male supremacy when one is legally bound to obey one of them. And yet, with the hot Montgomery blood flowing through her veins, she’s determined to experience the sensual aspects of marriage. Six uncooperative fiancés—and one creepy secret admirer later—she and her family journey to Colorado, where she meets handsome, rugged rancher Nick McGraw, the perfect man for the job.
Nick, though, refuses to be Star’s latest plaything. An honorable man does not ruin his friend’s daughter or sister, no matter how seductive she is; a respectable woman’s answer to sexual desire is marriage. Not that a Boston blue-blood would ever marry a crude, unsophisticated Colorado rancher. Still he can’t resist Montgomerys invitation to spend the summer with them posh Newport RI, where he finds himself falling in love with Star’s wild spirit–and tortured by desire. To keep his honor, he can’t stay. But he can’t leave, either, because Star’s secret admirer is no longer just writing creepy letters pleading with her to leave the women’s rights movement. He’s acting–stealthily, menacingingly and possibly murderously. . .
And an excerpt. Star and Nick are still in Colorado, on a ride through the Rocky Mountains. This is the end of the first kiss, which Star initiated.
A hot flush warmed Star’s skin, spreading down to her fingers and toes, then upward again, a marvelous tingling that washed all thought from her brain. His tongue swept through her mouth, touching, tasting, then inviting her inside. Desire flowed through her body, pooling in those soft areas down below. Closing her eyes, she sank into sensation as his left hand skated over the curve of her waist, then higher–
Nicholas stiffened suddenly. His mouth slid to her neck. “Hold still,” he rasped in her ear.
Hold still? What? Hold what still?
His breath was a whisper against her cheek. “Don’t move, not a muscle.”
His hand was moving down her side again, then slid over hers—his heat penetrated her gloves and she shivered, closing her eyes in an attempt to recapture that joyful thoughtlessness—
He tugged at something in her hand. The rifle.
“Hold on tight, I have to cock it,” he whispered. “Good, now release the rifle. I’m going to count to three. When I reach three, you hit the ground. Go to your right.”
Hit the ground? But why—
She didn’t have to hit the ground. He shoved her aside and she fell, barely reacting fast enough to save herself from a severe bruising.
The rifle exploded above her, and she bit back a gasp of shock as the sound echoed through the valley. Slowly, she rolled over to regard Nicholas. In a confused haze, her mind registered a click followed by another explosion. The acrid smell of gun smoke floated in the air mixing with the fragrance of pine.
“Got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly. He looked down and flashed a smile as he offered her a hand. “You O.K.? Hope I didn’t push too hard.”
“I’m not certain,” she said, taking his hand and rising. “How hard is too hard?”
“That’s the spirit,” he said with a grin. Dropping her hand, he took several long strides to the edge of the pond where a very large yellow cat lay. Good gracious, it was a mountain lion! A very dead mountain lion, too, for blood seeped from its head and chest, turning the snow pink, then red.
Nick squatted down next to it, his back to her, his pants pulled tight against his rear end, his coat molding his broad back: muscular shoulders attached to equally muscular arms which had been wrapped around her seconds before he’d shot his rifle and killed something that no doubt wished to kill them. Quite suddenly she couldn’t breathe. . . .
Foolish, she thought sucking in air. Of course she could breathe. She was Star Montgomery. Virginia Star Montgomery, daughter of Boston Brahmin Ward Montgomery, descendant of a long line of very well-breathing Montgomery’s. Situations—men—did not affect her this way.
But no one had ever before saved her life.
Surely, though, Nicholas had done no such thing, for what had the cat against them that it would want to kill them? At any rate, it was too far away to pounce, she admonished her stupid, tight lungs. No doubt it had merely been walking through the clearing, minding its own business and Nicholas had shot the poor creature to prove his masculinity.
“Just like I thought,” he said smugly. “It was mad. See the foam around its mouth.” He turned to her as he motioned to its mouth, hanging open. “Rabies, and in the late stages too. Not in its right mind, or it’d never have come near us, ‘specially during the day.”
Rabid. Her heart skipped a beat. He had saved her life.
Deep, primal excitement burst through her then rushed downward reigniting the embers of desire in her belly. It felt good, and so her mind repeated the phrase: He saved me. More sparkling pleasure in the soft areas between her thighs.
He lifted his head. His gaze caught hers and his eyebrows gathered together in a confused frown. “It’s dead. There’s no cause for fear,” he soothed.
Yes there was, and oh how that fear added to desire, like kerosene on a fire.