Nate had never known true agony. He was lucky. She wanted
to hold it against him, his “everything will turn out all right” point of view,
but she needed a bit of that. She looked up from her hands in her lap and met
his gaze. Yes, a bit of fantasy in her life would do her good.

Smiling, she quipped, “You promised food.”

“Did I? Well, I think Stacy should be out in a minute
with dinner. I usually get a pot pie. Chicken is one of her specialties.”

Marly nodded. Her stomach growled as she adjusted her
bottom in the seat. “I could eat anything at this point.”

“You were rude, Mr. Wayne,” a woman’s voice interrupted
from behind her. “And I just wanted you to know that it reflects badly on you
to be sleeping with a woman like her.”

Marly turned to stare up at the tall blond who had
accosted them in the front hall earlier. It took Marly a minute to absorb what
she’d heard, then her face heated.

She didn’t think. She just stood, fury boiling to the
surface. She took one step in the woman’s direction and would have let out a
nasty response if Nate’s hand on her shoulder hadn’t restrained her. Staring at
him, she opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t looking at her. He angled in
front of her and squeezed her arm reassuringly in one controlled movement, then
advanced on the blond with angry intent.

Nate’s voice rang out powerfully in the dining room’s
sudden silence. “You better get smart. A mouth like that will get you
permanently barred from a career in Hollywood. You’ll certainly never work on a
film with me. And just so you know, I wouldn’t sleep with you to save the great
race. Let’s go, Marly.”

He curved around the woman, making sure no part of him
touched her, and headed out of the dining room with Marly right behind him. At
the double-door hall entrance, a stalwart Stacy sent Nate a questioning look.
He stopped, his nostrils flaring, and bit out his words.

“I believe that woman is having difficulty finding her
way out.”

Stacy nodded. “I’ll make sure she gets there.” She handed
him a key. “I’ll have your dinner brought up.”

Nodding a quick thanks, his expression impenetrable, Nate
turned and pulled Marly up dark-carpeted stairs. They made their way silently
down a wide hall, the maroon-colored wallpaper casting a forbidding slant to
their mutual silence. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. He seemed
angry with her, yet he’d defended her. Maybe he regretted his outburst, but she
didn’t. Now she understood why every sane person wanted to be with or be Nathaniel
Wayne.

They stopped at a door and Nate slipped the key into the
lock, turned it with a click, and pushed, then retreated to let Marly enter
first. She marched into the room, and after he’d followed and turned to address
her, she slammed the door shut and grabbed his sweat coat, her mouth crashing
against his as she pulled him down desperately.

He held back a second before grabbing her ass. Yes. Perfect
hands.

Then his chest, arms, and nether regions pressed against
her, his hard body inching her backward until she was against the wall and he
adjusted his grasp on her buttocks. He held her against his erection.

His tongue caressed the inside of her mouth. She tasted
mint on his breath. Tilting his head, he raised one hand to frame her face, the
callouses on his fingers brushing sensuously on her cheeks. He pulled in her
breath, lapping at her tongue, then slanted away to suckle her lips as his blue
irises bored into her eyes. A question twinkled there and Marly nodded. This
time, yes.

She couldn’t think as she watched him. Her eyes closed in
shuddering bliss as his lips touched her neck and he ran his hands down her
body again to pull her against him. Want was all she could think. She ached
with want.

Then he was pulling away and the contrasting cool to his
warmth returned thoughts to her head. Should they be doing this? She stared at
him as he stepped back, breathing hard.

His hands, shaking, reached out to straighten her rumpled
shirt, then held her face a moment. “I’ve been in enough movies to know that
making love to you right now would ruin any chance I have at persuading you
into a relationship with me.” He took another deep breath as if to steady
himself. “May I draw you a bath?” His question was so innocent, so concerned.
Marly’s heart thumped.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Taking her hand, he
walked her to the bathroom and flicked on the light switch. Lavender. Marly’s
eyes lit in the violet-and–tiled room as the scent of lavender floated
into her nostrils. Bath and hand towels in a matching -and-violet scheme
lay folded on the marble countertop. A ceramic clawfoot bathtub
dominated the room; its classic silver knobs caught Marly’s glance. A pair of
complementing knobs shone from the sink. Stacy must have paid for the best
interior decorator money could buy.

Nate left her to bend by the tub and turn on the water.
After a minute of fiddling, he seemed to have the temperature where he wanted
it. Marly was drawn to the water’s relaxing tinkle. Fatigue pushed forth again,
as her tense muscles unwound from her earlier confrontation with Nate’s
less-than-adoring public and, well, her life. She had to fight to keep her
eyelids open as the steam from the tub wrapped itself around her.

Nate appeared before her and lowered her slicker off her
shoulders. Then he pulled her shirt gently up and off her body and reached
around to unhook her bra. No flicker of desire lit his gaze. Only concern. Her
shirt and coat flung across the crook of his elbow, he smiled and rubbed her
arms then bent to help her pull off her jeans.

Marly blinked to combat her fatigue. With her clothes in
hand, he walked to the door and looked back. She could barely discern his
words.

“I’ll be right outside, okay?”

Nodding, she let her gaze slide to the hot bath before
her. The door clicked shut. Pulling off her bra and underwear, Marly climbed
into the warm water and sank until she was covered up to her neck. The lapping
of the water at her chin drew her lids lower until she couldn’t resist sleep
anymore. Nathaniel Wayne, desire and concern in his eyes, was the last image in
her head. Her last thought: she was falling in love with him.

Venus Campbell is the Principal of
the Book of Venus publishing and the Winner of the Kroger Award for Excellence
in Creative Writing.  She has finaled in
various writing contests such as the Central Ohio Ignite the Flame and the New
England Chapter- RWA First Kiss. 
Campbell is a member of the Romance Writers of America (RWA) and the
Authors Guild.  Campbell has written
professionally since 2006 and has completed five single title manuscripts.  To Desire the Stars is her second
publication. Campbell focuses on interweaving paranormal elements into romance
stories, creating unique worlds which challenge people’s perceptions of self
and preconceived notions of human love and relationships. 

 

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S. J. Barratt is a self-published, professionally edited
children’s author whose eco-themed stories celebrate the connection between
people and the natural world. Rooted in an English countryside upbringing and
shaped by a career in agriculture, she blends a gardener’s curiosity with a
storyteller’s warmth to her writing. Now based in Lyon, France, Suzanne creates
tales that inspire middle-grade readers to swap screen time for green time—and
rediscover the wonders waiting just outside their door.

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A former BBC broadcaster and journalist, Gill Mills brings
over 20 years of experience in entertainment to her narration. Known for her
warm, resonant voice, she began her voice career while DJing on BBC Radio 1 and
has since voiced numerous TV and audio productions. She now runs a content
company specialising in podcast and film production from her studio in East
London.

 

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Chapter 1

I was sitting under a beach canopy in the spectator
section of the California Central Coast Surf Trials, watching the first heat of
the semifinals, when I heard the sonic crack of a large firearm. Something
long-range like the scoped high-precision rifle my business partner, Bri, uses
to qualify at the Five Cities Shoot’n Center.

“What was that?” my son’s surf coach asked. Gev Burian
was sitting on my left. “Sounded like it came from behind us.”

Bri de la Guerra, on my right, stood to check things
out. “Cityside, yeah. I’m thinking .30 cal. Maybe three-oh-eight.”

I swiveled to scan the low-rise buildings of downtown
Pismo—the seafood cafes, souvenir shops, and beach rentals. Clumps of tourists
meandering down narrow Pomeroy Avenue stopped. Some gazed skyward, herd-like,
examining the highest roofline—the old Hotel Pier Vista. Others rushed indoors.

When a second blast didn’t happen soon after, I saw
pedestrians raise their palms in the classic “what’s up” shrug before
continuing their weekend saunter. Some, trailing well-groomed dogs on leashes,
took refuge in their smartphones.

I turned to face the Pacific as Bri sat in her folding
chair. Coach Gev got out his binocs and we rejoined the hundreds of other
parents, friends, and supporters along the beach to watch the tournament.

Three junior surfers, ages eleven to twelve—”grommets”
in surf jargon—were perched on their boards 100 yards offshore in the chilly
morning waters north of Pismo Pier. The contestants wore different colored
jerseys over their wetsuits. Red jersey had priority takeoff; the next wave was
his. As the kids waited for the sets to roll in, they bobbed in the mushy surf
like sitting ducks.

“Yellow’s down!” Coach Gev shouted. He handed me his
binoculars. “The kid’s slumped sideways off his board.”

“Cramp, maybe?” I pressed the field glasses to the
bridge of my nose, fiddling with the adjustments. “January water temps are
cold, fifty-three, fifty-four degrees. These temps? He should have worn a 5/4/3
mm instead. Maybe even a—”

There was a second sonic crack. I watched Yellow’s board
splinter into pieces. Chunks of the foam core ringed the downed contestant as
he struggled to keep his head above water.

Red jersey, closest to Yellow, dropped prone and paddled
with fury toward him. Just as he was about to grab Yellow’s arm, I heard shot
three. There was a splash near the tail of Red’s board.

Red turned turtle, flipping his tri-fin surfboard over
so the bottom faced the sky. Only his hands, gripping the sides of the
shortboard, were exposed.

Shot four took out Red’s middle fin. Shots five and six
took out the two outer fins. Red let go of his board and sank out of view.

That left the eleven-year-old in the light blue jersey
as the only contender sitting on the water. My son, Zael, was in full
competition mode, hyper-focused on The One Thing—a wave with his name on it. A
wave built by the sea gods just for him, for his performance, his tricks, the
ones he’d stick. The 10-rating he’d be awarded by all three judges. That
perfect ten.

Zael was in the zone, tunnel vision his ally. Chaos
bending to will. He had no clue what had happened to Red and Yellow.

I popped out of my beach chair, sprinted from our shade
canopy to the shoreline, and screamed as I waded in. “Duck and cover, Zael! Get
down! Now!” I waved my arms, zigzagging through the shallows.

My son wasn’t hearing me, wasn’t seeing me, wasn’t even
attuned to my panic despite his gift for sensing things unspoken. Zael paddled
hard for takeoff, slid into the three-foot wave breaking off the pier, and
dropped into the curl. He drove down the line, pumping his board to build
speed, then bottom turned, and angled toward the lip to launch into his
signature 360-degree air rotation and—

Blam.

Shot seven.

Zael’s right leg buckled. He lost balance and angled
into a dive as far away from his board as his leash would let him. When he didn’t
come up for air…

What Critics
Are Saying

“A crunchy detective novel set in the world of California surfers.
Jones delivers a proper beach read, both in form and content.”

-Kirkus Reviews

“Honestly, I had a blast with this one. Oceano Beach
Bedlam is a smart and entertaining read. If you like your mysteries with
surfboards, sass, and just enough heart to keep you caring, this one’s for you.
It’s a great pick for fans of offbeat detectives, fast dialogue, and
sun-drenched noir with a brain and a soul. I’d recommend it to readers who
enjoy Janet Evanovich, Robert Crais, or the beachier edges of Elmore Leonard.”

— Literary Titan  

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All That Glisters

A Thad Hanlon/ Bri de la Guerra Mystery Book 1

When the facts don’t add up in his surf buddy’s bizarre
death, forensic consultant (and daddy-to-be) Thaddeus Hanlon investigates,
volunteering to go undercover to pick up where best friend Rafi Silva left off
in a secret probe of the U.S. gold stockpile—every last bullion bar.

Rafi’s spunky fiancée, Bri de la Guerra, has suspicions of her own and soon
joins Thad on the hunt for answers. Together, the two amateur sleuths delve
deep, stumbling onto a financial a-stock-alypse in the making, triggering a
brutal manhunt along the Eastern seaboard meant to silence anyone looking to
set the ledger straight.

 

What Critics
Are Saying

“Jones’ action-packed murder mystery…is
tension-fueled with plenty of twists and two appealing sleuths. In this
detective series opener, Thad Hanlon, a 27-year-old forensic accountant,
becomes the target of a murderous cadre when he accepts a new assignment that
takes him from Los Angeles to the East Coast center of power. Woven into the
gripping plot are sensual, detailed descriptions of Thad’s adventures riding
the waves, which should please the surfer crowd and afford others a visceral
sense of the experience.”

—Kirkus Reviews

 

“All That Glisters by Topper Jones is well-written with not a
single dull moment. I liked the way the author included elements of action,
mystery, and even some cyber investigating. Overall, I found this book to be an
amazing read.”

—Sefina Hawke, Readers’ Favorite Reviews

 

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Writing
as Topper Jones, award-winning author Christopher G. Jones, Ph.D., delivers
detective fiction with a dash of romance, plenty of action, and memorable
characters. His Thad Hanlon & Bri de la Guerra Mystery Series has earned
Readers’ Favorite Five Stars and the Literary Titan Gold Book Awards.

 Before
writing full-time, Jones taught financial reporting and business systems
development at the university level and worked in public accounting and
consulting. He is a member of The Private Eye Writers of America and
International Thriller Writers, and an affiliate of Mystery Writers of America.

 To
stay close to family, Jones now lives in the southwestern desert rather than
his native California. But when the surf’s up, he’ll make the 450-mile trek to
the coast for a little “water therapy.”

 

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“You okay?” Bethany’s hand went to Lucy’s forearm.
“I don’t think you’ve spoken or taken a breath in the past six minutes. I’m
beginning to get concerned that the lack of oxygen has cut off the supply to
your brain.”

Her best friend was hilarious.

“I just remembered that I forgot to leave food out
for Daisy-Mae. I need to go.”

Yes, she was being dramatic, and no, her cat did
not need to be fed, but she didn’t care. She lived a relatively drama-free
life, so she was allowing herself one tiny little freak-out.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Bethany narrowed those big
green eyes at Lucy. “I’m not letting you run just ’cause the mysterious Jack
has arrived.”

Jack Jones, the hottest man Lucy had ever seen in
real life, had indeed just entered the room. With floppy dark hair, piercing
blue-green eyes, and a ridiculously symmetrical face, he was darn right
dangerous. Throw in height, muscles, and a designer suit, and he was
practically a health hazard.

The sight of him alone was clearly enough to break
her. But the sight of him currently being introduced to his three-month-old
nephew? She wasn’t sure she’d ever recover.

Annnnnd … my ovaries just exploded.

Cool, cool.

Who was she kidding? There was nothing remotely
cool about her. Which was exactly why she needed to get out of there. Before
she melted into a puddle, in her friend’s living room, on her pretty abstract
rug.

That wouldn’t be a good look.

It wouldn’t be. Yet, she wouldn’t put it past her
traitorous body. Apparently, it had control issues around this man. Which was
stupid, because she’d only met him once for Pete’s sake. Three years ago. When
he’d shamelessly flirted with her at the diner where she worked.

Oh no. He’s coming over.

Abort! Abort! Get out of there now!

Only she couldn’t. Her so-called friend had
noticed Jack’s slow-motion swagger toward her, and amid Lucy’s internal panic,
Bethany had sneakily grabbed hold of Lucy’s arm and was keeping it hostage.

“I hate you,” she whispered to Bethany, her voice
full of the venom her friend deserved.

“You love me.” Bethany had the audacity to laugh.

As soon as their gazes locked, she felt it. That
same feeling she felt all those years ago, one she had started to believe she’d
imagined. Until now. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. Her body
flushed. And her stomach swooped. Deep down, a part of her accepted that this
was just her body enthusiastically reacting to an attractive man. But still,
the knowledge that she’d gone thirty years without ever feeling this
instantaneous chemistry before made it feel significant. 

The closer he got, the hotter Lucy felt. It may be
January, and Woodvalley Pines may be under a blanket of ice outside, but under
her off-the-shoulder cream sweater, there were some questionable things
happening. She may even be forced to throw out her bra.

I love my bra.

Wow. That was a sucky thought. Great. Now she was
angry, flustered, and sad. Just in time for Jack to enter her space.
Close enough for her to see the fierce intensity in his eyes, giving her the
overwhelming urge to find the nearest blanket and crawl under it.

“It’s Lucy, isn’t it?” His voice was deep and
smoother than silk. Did she mention he had a British accent, too? Because … of
course he did. “We met a few years ago … at the diner.”

Don’t miss the rest
of the Love Burns series!

Find them on Amazon

Isobel was born and raised in London. While she’s a city
girl at heart, she loves daydreaming about running away to a charming small
town—though she’s not entirely sure her husband and son would share her
enthusiasm for the move. When she’s not writing small-town romantic comedies or
growing unhealthily attached to the characters in her books, you can find her
reading, chasing after her very active toddler, or attempting to channel her
inner domestic goddess in the kitchen (with varying degrees of success).

 

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