New Release!

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Shopping for an Heir by Julia Kent ~ #NewRelease * Contemporary #Romance * Comedy *



Shopping for an Heir (Book 10 in the Shopping series)
Author: Julia Kent
Release date: September 20, 2016
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Romance

Description:

Gerald Wright works for billionaires. He never imagined he’d become one.

The former Navy Seal is a chauffeur by day, artist by night, so when hotter-than-ever ex-fiancĂ©e Suzanne Dayton interrupts his nude model sculpting class to serve him with inheritance paperwork from a man he’s never heard of, he assumes it’s a joke.

Turns out the joke’s on him. There’s just one catch. A big one.

And it might be Suzanne — in more ways than he ever dreamed.

Shopping for an Heir is the 10th book in the New York Times bestselling Shopping for a Billionaire series by Julia Kent.



Buy links:

Amazon Canada: http://amzn.to/29IQds1
Amazon Australia: http://amzn.to/29JqH84
Google Play: http://bit.ly/29MNgdk
Goodreads:  http://bit.ly/2atJMcM

Author Bio:

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down

Social Media Links:


Teasers:



#1

“I can do this,” Suzanne Dayton muttered under her breath, standing outside the decrepit arts center, pacing back and forth, trying desperately to find her old military voice. More than ten years out of the Navy after a two-year stint, and that world was like a different lifetime. Three years of law school and seven years as a practicing attorney—now a full partner at one of Boston’s best firms—and here she was, trembling with anxiety at the thought of walking into a nude sculpting class.
The nude part? No problem.
The class part? No problem.
The instructor? Big problem.
And what she needed to deliver to him?
“Oh, God,” she groaned. “How did my life come to this?”

#2

Squaring her shoulders, Suzanne decided to make this easy for him. God only knew why. “My law firm is handling the estate of deceased billionaire Harold Hopewell. You’ve been named in his will.” She tapped the thick envelope in his hand. “These papers explain everything.”
“Explain what?”
“You’re his heir. One of them, at least.”
At that moment, a leaky pipe released a drop that went ker-plunk into a ragged bucket on the floor.
“How can I be an heir to a guy I don’t even know?” His words were about the dead billionaire, but she knew he was just trying to engage her. Make her stay.
She looked around. She had to get out of there. “Read the papers. If you have any questions, my office number is on the letterhead.”

#3

Gerald awoke with a start, gasping into the strange box of reality, the room dark with shadows and filled with the scent of deeply anticipated horror.
“Oh, God,” he grunted, breathing erratic, heart in flames in the center of his chest.
That dream.
That f*cking dream.
He hadn’t had that dream about Suzanne in eight years.


 
Excerpts:

#1

He smelled like home. Like love. Like promise and comfort, like passion and disbelief.
“What’s wrong?” he snapped, his face alternating between joy and anger. “Why are you here?”
Coming to her senses, she extracted the thick envelope from her brief bag, looking him square in the eye. “Legal matter. I’ve been instructed to deliver this to you.” She used remarkable restraint in not peering around Gerald to get more of an eyeful of Declan McCormick’s stately form.
Then again, Gerald was an impenetrable wall of muscle himself, not easily subverted. She’d need taller heels to peer around him. He did not move his palm from her arm, and his touch infused her, a deeply satisfying sense of connection slowly creeping along her skin, her breath quickening, his touch ringing bells inside her that had been dormant for a decade.
“What is it?”
“Read it. You’ll understand.” She turned on her heel and started to leave, shaking inside so hard she might trigger the New Madrid fault.
He glared at her. “What? That’s it? Ten years and that’s it?” He pulled back, breaking contact.
All her anxiety faded, like an antidote injected straight into the heart, his words kicking in, providing such clarity.
“Ten years you chose, Gerald,” she hissed, mouth curling, throat seizing. “You do not get to put this on me.” Grief flared in her, a burst like a fireball, and then it turned to the ash of anger, a light coat settling over every spare surface of her heart.
His eyebrows shot up, eyes gliding away, his nose twitching and mouth tightening as if holding back.
Squaring her shoulders, Suzanne decided to make this easy for him. God only knew why. “My law firm is handling the estate of deceased billionaire Harold Hopewell. You’ve been named in his will.” She tapped the thick envelope in his hand. “These papers explain everything.”
“Explain what?”
“You’re his heir. One of them, at least.”

#2

A flash of movement under a streetlight in the distance, at the nearest light, caught Gerald’s eye.
Suzanne.
Sprinting, he left Declan befuddled, calling out his name, until the light changed and he watched as Suzanne marched forward with that confident walk of hers, shoulders squared as if she were still in morning formation and wore a uniform, wiping her mouth with a tissue and muttering to herself. He knew how the curve of her spine felt under his palms when she stood like that, the supple feel of the paradox between soft skin and hard bone a delightful feast for his fingers.
“Wait!” he called out, unsure and unbidden, moving on pure instinct. He needed to touch her. Would die without making that single, simple connection. Not just in an intimate sense. The need was more than that.
Suzanne got to the curb and stopped. She did not turn around, her body poised, waiting.
Panting with the burst of exertion, his brain firing on all cylinders, he caught up to her and slowed down at the last steps, moving to her, pulled by a force that drew him in. His front settled against her back, his tight cotton t-shirt brushing against the thin linen jacket she wore, the friction erotic and full, sensual.
As his palms touched her elbows, her arms at her side, he inhaled with precision, measuring her.
She did not move.
“Suzanne,” he murmured, chin close to a stray hair that curled out from her updo, resting against the fine, creamy line of her neck. With longer hair, the sharp, jutting bones of her jaw stood out, giving her the look of a Viking princess. In heels, she was exactly his height, setting him off-kilter. He wasn’t a short man. In fatigues she was always four to five inches shorter. In service dress, her shoes gave her a two-inch lift.
He liked being equal. Liked it a lot.
“Please,” she whispered, the word spiraling off into the dark night, as if the street lights beyond them were pulling her voice to them.
Taking her reaction as something other than rejection, he left his hands where they were, closing the inch gap between them. She was cool and regal, his hot, thick chest pressing into her back.
“Please what?” he asked, knowing this could go either way, but not caring, because right now—as each second ticked by—he had more internal calm than he’d had in ten years.
Even as desire burned bright inside him.
“Please don’t.”
He froze.
“Don’t what?” Tempted to step back, he held strong. Her please carried a weight to it, a meaning he needed to discern before acting. All impulse and no analysis would end this in a flash. Time was his friend. Patience.
Hesitation.
He had to go against instinct.
“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.”

#3

Gerald awoke with a start, gasping into the strange box of reality, the room dark with shadows and filled with the scent of deeply anticipated horror.
“Oh, God,” he grunted, breathing erratic, heart in flames in the center of his chest.
That dream.
That f*king dream.
He hadn’t had that dream about Suzanne in eight years.
Drawing on every tool in his psychological coping toolbox, Gerald started with deep breaths. Inhale for eight, exhale for four. Something like that. His hands fisted the sheets, which were damp in sections. Sweating profusely, Gerald stood, throwing the sheet off him, stomping through his bedroom naked, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Instead, he found himself five minutes later, standing in front of the open freezer door.
Just...standing there.
A glance at the stovetop clock told him it was 4:56 a.m. Sunrise soon. The day would begin.
Hell, the day had clearly begun already. No way was he going back to bed.
His nose was cold. His back was covered with sweat. One drop trickled down his spine and into his ass crack. And yet, still he stood there, stupidly staring at a half-empty freezer.
Enlightenment would not come from a frozen pad Thai dinner.
Today was his day off. He had a wide-open schedule. Nothing planned.
Which made today dangerous.
Think, man. Think, he urged himself, recalling what his psychologist at the Veterans Affairs center had told him, all those years ago. Use the tools. Don’t define yourself by the intrusive thoughts.
He froze.
And realized that the dream had been different this time.
Blinking, he felt his corneas stick against the backs of his eyelids, the rapid eye movement necessary to return his body to the well-oiled machine it needed to be.
The dream was different. 



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