Fire
Me Up
The Deacons of Bourbon Street # 2
The Deacons of Bourbon Street # 2
By: Rachael Johns
Releasing September 1, 2015
Loveswept
Can a scorching affair with a
bohemian beauty tame a motorcycle man with a dark side? Rachael Johns takes the
wheel in the sexy series co-written with Megan Crane, Jackie Ashenden, and
Maisey Yates.
Travis “Cash” Sinclair values only two things from his days with the Deacons of Bourbon Street: his prized Harley Davidson and the man who gave it to him. But now Priest Lombard is gone, and Cash has inherited the Deacons’ clubhouse—not to mentions its unexpected tenant. She’s exactly the type of woman he tries to avoid: all incense and art, with a sharp tongue that promises trouble. So why does Cash want to push aside those flowing skirts and lose himself between her legs?
Billie Taylor fled a bad marriage to start a new life among the grit and glamour of the French Quarter. She refuses to let another man distract her from her dreams, especially an outlaw biker with nothing to offer except hot sex and an eviction notice. Cash is dangerous, with an untamed streak he tries desperately to conceal. He drives Billie wild, sending her too close to the edge for her own good. And she won’t fall under his spell—or into his bed—without a fight.
Travis “Cash” Sinclair values only two things from his days with the Deacons of Bourbon Street: his prized Harley Davidson and the man who gave it to him. But now Priest Lombard is gone, and Cash has inherited the Deacons’ clubhouse—not to mentions its unexpected tenant. She’s exactly the type of woman he tries to avoid: all incense and art, with a sharp tongue that promises trouble. So why does Cash want to push aside those flowing skirts and lose himself between her legs?
Billie Taylor fled a bad marriage to start a new life among the grit and glamour of the French Quarter. She refuses to let another man distract her from her dreams, especially an outlaw biker with nothing to offer except hot sex and an eviction notice. Cash is dangerous, with an untamed streak he tries desperately to conceal. He drives Billie wild, sending her too close to the edge for her own good. And she won’t fall under his spell—or into his bed—without a fight.
Roommates? Billie gulped, watching as one of the
hottest men she’d ever laid eyes on swaggered past her and headed through the
alley of paintings into the courtyard, and then opened the door that led inside
to her house as if he owned the place. And dammit, apparently he did. That
thought made her feel sick to her stomach, just as the way he looked heated
other parts of her body.
Sophie, the previous landlord’s
daughter, had told Billie when her father died last month that she had nothing
to worry about, that it wouldn’t affect her or her gallery at all. But today’s
unwelcome visitor told her otherwise. Having Mr. Arrogant Sinclair getting
under her skin 24/7 was very, very worrying indeed. And that was even before
she considered what would happen to her and the gallery she’d worked so hard to
set up if he decided to increase her rent or, worse, sell the building from
under her feet. Just when she’d finally started to get her life on track
something like this happened. Something like Travis bloody Sinclair.
And she’d been naïve enough to think
she’d broken free from controlling men.
Trying to ignore her racing heart,
Billie looked down at Baxter, who was looking up at her as if to ask What
the hell happened? She bent to ruffle his fur, thankful that he’d at least
tried to protect her from this arrogant jerk. Then she glanced around the
gallery and gave thanks there were no potential customers lingering, before
marching over to the steel entrance gates to close and lock them.
No matter that his dark gaze made her
heart pound; the last thing she wanted was Travis getting the better of her.
She hated that he was the reason for shutting up shop in the middle of the
afternoon, but she wasn’t going to leave that wanker in her house alone just
yet. She’d noticed the way he’d looked her over as if she were a piece of meat,
and she didn’t trust him not to look through her underwear drawer. She didn’t
trust him, period.
Whistling to Baxter to follow, she
retraced Travis’s steps through the courtyard and into the building. Her dog
might be small, but he had a lot of bite, and she felt more confident with him
at her side. If Travis tried anything, she had no doubt that Baxter would sink
his teeth into the guy’s leg, and the idea of him squealing in pain gave her a
tiny bit of joy in what was turning out to be a very crappy day. Although more
than likely he’d just kick Baxter in the teeth.
She stepped inside—he hadn’t bothered
to shut the door—and although there was no immediate sign of him besides his
backpack on the kitchen floor, her home already felt different. It felt . . .
compromised.
The rooms at the back of the gallery
were far too many for just Billie. In theory there was plenty of room for a
housemate, but that wasn’t the point. She hadn’t advertised for one, and if she
had, a guy like Travis would be the last person she’d get. She got the feeling
that even if they were sharing one of the mammoth French Quarter mansions, she
still wouldn’t be able to relax with him around. He’d stalked inside like a
tiger, and the sensations he sparked inside her were not at all unpleasant,
despite her head telling her to be on guard.
The sound of doors opening and
closing had her heading down the corridor in search of him. She found him, much
to her annoyance, in her bedroom, staring into her wardrobe. And although she
should have told him to get the hell out, she took her sweet time in announcing
herself, choosing instead to take a moment just to look. Her earlier assessment
of “hot” didn’t really do him justice. He had dark hair—not short, but by no
means long, either—and dark stubble to match. Never before had she found a
beard attractive, but his wasn’t long and bushy, and on him, it worked. So much
so she had to swallow to stop from drooling. The dark leather jacket only
enhanced his appeal, perhaps because it was so far from anything her ex-husband
would ever have worn.
Pity he was such an ass. Not in the
same way as her ex perhaps, but an ass just the same.
Rachael Johns is an English teacher
by trade, a mum 24/7, a supermarket owner, a chronic arachnophobic, and a
writer the rest of the time. She rarely sleeps and never irons. She writes
contemporary romance for HQN and Carina Press and lives in rural Western
Australia with her hyperactive husband and three mostly-gorgeous
heroes-in-training. Rachael loves to hear from readers and can be contacted
through her website at www.rachaeljohns.com
Thank you for hosting FIRE ME UP!
ReplyDelete