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EXCERPT REVEAL ~ Veil of Vines by Tille Cole
To most people, princes, princesses, counts and dukes are found only in the pages of the most famous of fairytales. Crowns, priceless jewels and gilded thrones belong only in childhood dreams.
But for some, these frivolous fancies are truth.
For some, they are real life.
On Manhattan’s Upper East Side, people have always treated me as someone special. All because of my ancestral name and legacy. All because of a connection I share to our home country’s most important family of all.
I am Caresa Acardi, the Duchessa di Parma. A blue blood of Italy. I was born to marry well. And now the marriage date is set.
I am to marry into House Savona. The family that would have been the royals had Italy not abolished the monarchy in 1946. But to the aristocrats of my home, the abolition means nothing at all.
The Savonas still hold power where it counts most.
In our tight-knit world of money, status and masked balls, they are everything and more.
And I am soon to become one of them.
I am soon to become Prince Zeno Savona’s wife…
… or at least I was, until I met Achille.
And everything changed.
But for some, these frivolous fancies are truth.
For some, they are real life.
On Manhattan’s Upper East Side, people have always treated me as someone special. All because of my ancestral name and legacy. All because of a connection I share to our home country’s most important family of all.
I am Caresa Acardi, the Duchessa di Parma. A blue blood of Italy. I was born to marry well. And now the marriage date is set.
I am to marry into House Savona. The family that would have been the royals had Italy not abolished the monarchy in 1946. But to the aristocrats of my home, the abolition means nothing at all.
The Savonas still hold power where it counts most.
In our tight-knit world of money, status and masked balls, they are everything and more.
And I am soon to become one of them.
I am soon to become Prince Zeno Savona’s wife…
… or at least I was, until I met Achille.
And everything changed.
Caresa
I closed my eyes as the music pounded through my body. The air was sticky from the mass of bodies on the dance floor. My body swayed to the beat, my feet ached from the five-inch Louboutin heels I was wearing, and my skin was flushed from the copious amounts of 1990 Dom Pérignon I had consumed.
“Caresa!” My name split through the harsh sound of drums and synthesized piano notes. I rolled my eyes open and looked across our cornered-off section of the club at my best friend.
Marietta was sitting on an oversized plush couch, waving a new bottle of champagne in my direction. Laughing, I followed my throbbing feet to where she sat and slumped down beside her. In seconds, a champagne flute was in my hand and the bubbly was flowing once more.
Marietta sat forward, swishing her long blond hair over her shoulder. She raised her glass as though she was going to make a toast. But instead, her bottom lip jutted out into a pathetic pout.
I tipped my head to one side, silently asking her what was wrong.
“I was going to make a toast to the Duchessa di Parma, my very best friend,” she shouted over a new but similar-to-the-last song. “To my best friend leaving me here in dull old New York to go marry a real-life godforsaken prince in Italy.” Marietta sighed and her shoulders slumped. “But I don’t want to. Because that would mean this night is almost over, and tomorrow I lose my partner-in-crime.” A sudden sadness bloomed in my chest at her words. Then, when her eyes filled with tears, those words became a punch in the gut.
Placing my glass on the table before us, I moved forward and put my hand on her arm. “Marietta, don’t get upset.”
She put down her own drink and grabbed my hand. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
My stomach rolled. “I know,” I said. Then I didn’t say anything else, but I could see Marietta register my unspoken words. I don’t want to go either.
Keeping my hand in hers, I slumped back against the couch and let my eyes drift over the busy dance floor below. I watched the throng of Upper East Siders losing themselves in the music. A pang of fear swept through me.
This really would be my last night in New York. In the morning, I would fly to Italy, where I would live from that day on.
Marietta shuffled closer to me and cast me a watery smile. “How are you doing?” she asked as she squeezed my hand.
“I’m okay. Just nervous, I guess.”
Marietta nodded her head. “And your papa?”
I sighed. “Ecstatic. Overjoyed that his precious daughter will be marrying the prince he chose for me as a child.” I felt a pang of guilt for speaking about him so negatively. “That was uncalled for,” I said. “You know as well as I do, Baroness von Todesco” —Marietta scowled playfully at my use of her title— “that we don’t really get a choice in whom we marry.” I leaned forward and picked up my champagne. I took a long swig, enjoying the feel of the bubbles traveling down my throat. I handed Marietta her glass and raised mine in the air. “To arranged marriages and duty over love!”
Marietta laughed and clinked her glass with mine. “But seriously,” Marietta said, “are you okay? Truly okay?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that, Etta. Am I okay with the arranged marriage? I suppose so. Am I okay with moving to Italy permanently? Not really. I love Italy—it’s my home, I was born there—but it’s not New York. Everyone I know is here in America.” Marietta’s eyes softened with sympathy. “And am I okay with marrying Zeno Savona? The infamous Playboy Prince of Toscana?” I took a deep breath. “I have no idea. I guess that will become apparent in the next three months.”
“In your ‘courting period,’” Marietta said using air quotes, and snorted with laughter. “What a joke. What twenty-three-year-old woman and twenty-six-year-old man need a courting period?”
I laughed at her sassy tone, but then soberly replied, “Ones who don’t know each other at all? Ones who have to see if they can stand each other’s company before sealing their marital fates forever?”
Marietta shuffled closer. “You know as well as I do that you could hate this so-called prince, detest everything he is—and he you—and I’d still be your maid of honor at your wedding on New Year’s Eve.” She sputtered a laugh. “The very fact that the date has been set says it all. This marriage is happening.” Marietta held up her glass, got to her feet and, with arms spread wide, shouted, “Welcome to the life of the European blue bloods of the Upper East Side! Drowning in Prada and Gucci, dripping in diamonds, but having no free will to call our own!”
I laughed, pulling her back down. She broke into hysterics as her ass hit the couch, spilling champagne all over the expensive upholstery. But our laughter waned as the house lights came on one by one. The last of the dance music drifted into silence, and the rich patrons of Manhattan’s most exclusive nightclub began making their way to their limos and town cars. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I had six hours left in the city I loved beyond measure.
I closed my eyes as the music pounded through my body. The air was sticky from the mass of bodies on the dance floor. My body swayed to the beat, my feet ached from the five-inch Louboutin heels I was wearing, and my skin was flushed from the copious amounts of 1990 Dom Pérignon I had consumed.
“Caresa!” My name split through the harsh sound of drums and synthesized piano notes. I rolled my eyes open and looked across our cornered-off section of the club at my best friend.
Marietta was sitting on an oversized plush couch, waving a new bottle of champagne in my direction. Laughing, I followed my throbbing feet to where she sat and slumped down beside her. In seconds, a champagne flute was in my hand and the bubbly was flowing once more.
Marietta sat forward, swishing her long blond hair over her shoulder. She raised her glass as though she was going to make a toast. But instead, her bottom lip jutted out into a pathetic pout.
I tipped my head to one side, silently asking her what was wrong.
“I was going to make a toast to the Duchessa di Parma, my very best friend,” she shouted over a new but similar-to-the-last song. “To my best friend leaving me here in dull old New York to go marry a real-life godforsaken prince in Italy.” Marietta sighed and her shoulders slumped. “But I don’t want to. Because that would mean this night is almost over, and tomorrow I lose my partner-in-crime.” A sudden sadness bloomed in my chest at her words. Then, when her eyes filled with tears, those words became a punch in the gut.
Placing my glass on the table before us, I moved forward and put my hand on her arm. “Marietta, don’t get upset.”
She put down her own drink and grabbed my hand. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
My stomach rolled. “I know,” I said. Then I didn’t say anything else, but I could see Marietta register my unspoken words. I don’t want to go either.
Keeping my hand in hers, I slumped back against the couch and let my eyes drift over the busy dance floor below. I watched the throng of Upper East Siders losing themselves in the music. A pang of fear swept through me.
This really would be my last night in New York. In the morning, I would fly to Italy, where I would live from that day on.
Marietta shuffled closer to me and cast me a watery smile. “How are you doing?” she asked as she squeezed my hand.
“I’m okay. Just nervous, I guess.”
Marietta nodded her head. “And your papa?”
I sighed. “Ecstatic. Overjoyed that his precious daughter will be marrying the prince he chose for me as a child.” I felt a pang of guilt for speaking about him so negatively. “That was uncalled for,” I said. “You know as well as I do, Baroness von Todesco” —Marietta scowled playfully at my use of her title— “that we don’t really get a choice in whom we marry.” I leaned forward and picked up my champagne. I took a long swig, enjoying the feel of the bubbles traveling down my throat. I handed Marietta her glass and raised mine in the air. “To arranged marriages and duty over love!”
Marietta laughed and clinked her glass with mine. “But seriously,” Marietta said, “are you okay? Truly okay?”
I shrugged. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that, Etta. Am I okay with the arranged marriage? I suppose so. Am I okay with moving to Italy permanently? Not really. I love Italy—it’s my home, I was born there—but it’s not New York. Everyone I know is here in America.” Marietta’s eyes softened with sympathy. “And am I okay with marrying Zeno Savona? The infamous Playboy Prince of Toscana?” I took a deep breath. “I have no idea. I guess that will become apparent in the next three months.”
“In your ‘courting period,’” Marietta said using air quotes, and snorted with laughter. “What a joke. What twenty-three-year-old woman and twenty-six-year-old man need a courting period?”
I laughed at her sassy tone, but then soberly replied, “Ones who don’t know each other at all? Ones who have to see if they can stand each other’s company before sealing their marital fates forever?”
Marietta shuffled closer. “You know as well as I do that you could hate this so-called prince, detest everything he is—and he you—and I’d still be your maid of honor at your wedding on New Year’s Eve.” She sputtered a laugh. “The very fact that the date has been set says it all. This marriage is happening.” Marietta held up her glass, got to her feet and, with arms spread wide, shouted, “Welcome to the life of the European blue bloods of the Upper East Side! Drowning in Prada and Gucci, dripping in diamonds, but having no free will to call our own!”
I laughed, pulling her back down. She broke into hysterics as her ass hit the couch, spilling champagne all over the expensive upholstery. But our laughter waned as the house lights came on one by one. The last of the dance music drifted into silence, and the rich patrons of Manhattan’s most exclusive nightclub began making their way to their limos and town cars. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I had six hours left in the city I loved beyond measure.
Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.
Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.
Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.
When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.
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RELEASE DAY BLITZ ~ A Real Man Vol. 2 by Jenika Snow
The second volume in the Real Man series will include Experienced, Roommate, and Arrogant.
It will also included never before published holiday shorts from books 1-6 in the series.
This excerpt is from Arrogant (part of Box Set Volume Two)
I knew this job would be challenging, but I’d had no idea working for this man would have me on the verge of drinking every single night. And it didn’t have anything to do with the fact he was so arrogant.
This had to do with the fact my libido was out of control where Mr. Wright was concerned.
He annoyed me, got under my skin, but the way I caught him watching me, looking at me like I was this sweet little morsel he wanted to get his claws into, had my body feeling like it was on fire.
But then again, he was so hard on me, and right now knowing I’d screwed up the file he’d presented to his team made me feel like shit.
He stood just a few feet from me, staring at my mouth, making me even more aware of his presence. He had me so on edge I felt like flames licked through my veins, and I stood on this ledge, waiting to crash down. I wanted him so badly, but I knew I could never have him.
He was my boss, and I certainly didn’t need an overbearing, career-driven man like him in my personal life, right?
“You can leave now,” he said, and I forced myself to take a step back. Could he tell I wasn’t only nervous but also aroused? I couldn’t help it. Being in his presence had my blood pressure rising to dangerous levels.
And the way he smelled … God, the scent was so masculine and intoxicating.
For a second I stared at him, knowing I needed to get out of there, breathe some fresh air, and get my thoughts in order. But I couldn’t move. Instead I took in the three-piece suit he wore, the dark blue material almost appearing black. His deep blue tie was in perfect place, and the white shirt beneath the vest was stark, crisp.
I’d never seen a man so masculine, the epitome of what I craved and wanted, but with Noah Wright I saw that, felt that, so much. It was like I was going to combust.
“Something else, Harley?” He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes heavy-lidded.
God, the way my name—my first name that was so inappropriate it made me hotter—rolled off his tongue in that sexual timbre made me instantly wet. I prayed the suit jacket I wore covered my shirt and that my nipples were hard. Hell, if it didn’t cover my breasts, I knew he’d see how tight the tips were.
And as if he had read my mind or I’d said the words aloud, he glanced down. The urge to cover my chest, to hide my body’s reaction to his presence, was strong. I didn’t want to, but I found myself doing it on instinct. I grabbed the edge of my jacket, closed it slightly, but all I felt was my breasts pressing together.
I saw the way he swallowed, the way his throat worked, and the way his entire body seemed tense.
God, the sexual chemistry I felt with him was so strong, but for the last two months, I’d kept busy, not about to try and let those emotions and feelings consume me.
I’m doing a shit job.
And I was. God, I was doing a shit job.
“No, Sir,” I finally said, smoothed my sweaty palms down my thighs, turned, and left. I swear I felt his eyes on me, and when I reached his door, grabbed the handle, and was about to open it, I looked over my shoulder. I don’t know why I did, but I caught him checking out my ass. He slowly lifted his gaze to mine, seemingly unashamed or apologetic that he’d just gotten caught.
No, he seemed pleased I’d seen him.
This had to do with the fact my libido was out of control where Mr. Wright was concerned.
He annoyed me, got under my skin, but the way I caught him watching me, looking at me like I was this sweet little morsel he wanted to get his claws into, had my body feeling like it was on fire.
But then again, he was so hard on me, and right now knowing I’d screwed up the file he’d presented to his team made me feel like shit.
He stood just a few feet from me, staring at my mouth, making me even more aware of his presence. He had me so on edge I felt like flames licked through my veins, and I stood on this ledge, waiting to crash down. I wanted him so badly, but I knew I could never have him.
He was my boss, and I certainly didn’t need an overbearing, career-driven man like him in my personal life, right?
“You can leave now,” he said, and I forced myself to take a step back. Could he tell I wasn’t only nervous but also aroused? I couldn’t help it. Being in his presence had my blood pressure rising to dangerous levels.
And the way he smelled … God, the scent was so masculine and intoxicating.
For a second I stared at him, knowing I needed to get out of there, breathe some fresh air, and get my thoughts in order. But I couldn’t move. Instead I took in the three-piece suit he wore, the dark blue material almost appearing black. His deep blue tie was in perfect place, and the white shirt beneath the vest was stark, crisp.
I’d never seen a man so masculine, the epitome of what I craved and wanted, but with Noah Wright I saw that, felt that, so much. It was like I was going to combust.
“Something else, Harley?” He lifted an eyebrow, his eyes heavy-lidded.
God, the way my name—my first name that was so inappropriate it made me hotter—rolled off his tongue in that sexual timbre made me instantly wet. I prayed the suit jacket I wore covered my shirt and that my nipples were hard. Hell, if it didn’t cover my breasts, I knew he’d see how tight the tips were.
And as if he had read my mind or I’d said the words aloud, he glanced down. The urge to cover my chest, to hide my body’s reaction to his presence, was strong. I didn’t want to, but I found myself doing it on instinct. I grabbed the edge of my jacket, closed it slightly, but all I felt was my breasts pressing together.
I saw the way he swallowed, the way his throat worked, and the way his entire body seemed tense.
God, the sexual chemistry I felt with him was so strong, but for the last two months, I’d kept busy, not about to try and let those emotions and feelings consume me.
I’m doing a shit job.
And I was. God, I was doing a shit job.
“No, Sir,” I finally said, smoothed my sweaty palms down my thighs, turned, and left. I swear I felt his eyes on me, and when I reached his door, grabbed the handle, and was about to open it, I looked over my shoulder. I don’t know why I did, but I caught him checking out my ass. He slowly lifted his gaze to mine, seemingly unashamed or apologetic that he’d just gotten caught.
No, he seemed pleased I’d seen him.
Jenika Snow is a USA Today Bestselling Author that lives in the northwest with her husband and their two daughters. Before she started writing full-time she worked as a nurse.
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SALES BLITZ ~ Wrapped in Lace by Prescott Lane
Wrapped in Lace by Prescott Lane is available for this week for only 99c
Do not miss this beautifully written story while it’s priced so ridiculously low.
When I was a little boy, the best thing about the holiday season was unwrapping presents on Christmas morning — tearing off the paper and tossing it on the floor. Now that I’m a man, I like to unwrap slowly, deliberately, taking my time to savor what lies before me. I still like to throw the wrapping on the floor, but now I know the best gifts come wrapped in lace.
And unlike when I was a kid, I won’t get sick of this present by New Year’s. I’ll definitely be playing with this girl day after day after day.
After six years avoiding my hometown, the last thing I expected when I returned was a wannabe bad girl to unwrap my heart and rip open my soul. But that’s exactly what happened. Now if I can just get the hell out of my own way, maybe I’ll finally get the best gift of all — her!
Come get unwrapped by Drew this holiday.
I sat back and studied the canvas. I’d finally gotten it right — the way his lips turn up in that smile that makes both my heart and panties melt. It had taken me over a dozen tries to get it just perfect, but I finally had. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel any better. I thought if I could capture Drew’s smile on my canvas, my pain would somehow lessen. Because I’d always have his image, that his leaving me wouldn’t hurt so bad. It hadn’t worked. The pain in my heart was just as sharp, just as overwhelming as it was yesterday and the day before. I knew I’d never get over him. I knew it like I knew the deep blue color of his eyes, the rough spots on his hands. I knew it like I knew the way his lips tasted, the feel of his thick brown hair.
Prescott Lane is the Amazon bestselling author of Stripped Raw. She’s got five other books under her belt including: First Position, Perfectly Broken, Quiet Angel, Wrapped in Lace and her new release, Layers of Her. She is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and graduated from Centenary College with a degree in sociology. She went on to receive her MSW from Tulane University, after which she worked with developmentally delayed and disabled children. She married her college sweetheart, and they currently live in New Orleans with their two children and two crazy dogs. Prescott started writing at the age of five, and sold her first story about a talking turtle to her father for a quarter. She later turned to writing romance novels because there aren’t enough happily ever afters in real life. Connect with Prescott Lane on
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