Release Blitz & Giveaway ~ The Matchmaker's Replacement, A Wingmen Inc. Novel, by Rachel Van Dyken

Wingman rule number two: never reveal how much you want them.

Lex hates Gabi. Gabi hates Lex. But, hey, at least the hate is mutual, right? All Lex has to do is survive the next few weeks training Gabi in all the ways of Wingmen Inc. and then he can be done with her. But now that they have to work together, the sexual tension and fighting is off the charts. He isn’t sure if he wants to strangle her or throw her against the nearest sturdy table and have his way with her.

But Gabi has a secret, something she’s keeping from not just her best friend but her nemesis too. Lines are blurred as Lex becomes less the villain she’s always painted him to be…and starts turning into something more. Gabi has always hated the way she’s been just a little bit attracted to him—no computer-science major should have that nice of a body or look that good in glasses—but “Lex Luthor” is an evil womanizer. He’s dangerous. Gabi should stay far, far away.

Then again, she’s always wanted a little danger.

Amazon US | UK | CA | AU

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Excerpt

“So,” a familiar voice said above the music. “New job?”

Damn it! “I didn’t even say your name three times!” I whined, turning around to face Lex. He was wearing a tight vintage black T-shirt with low-slung jeans on his hips and the ever-present sex-oozing smile.

“Three times?” He smiled wider. “You said my name three times out loud? Is it your new curse word? You know, like ‘Oh, Lex! Good Lex! Mighty Lex . . .’” His eyebrows drew together. “Somehow all of those sound like very familiar noises women make in my presence.”

“Die, Lex,” I said in an annoyed tone. “How about that one?”

“That’s new.” He snapped his fingers. “But it’s growing on me. Maybe it’s the way you say it, like you want me to die in your arms all Romeo and Juliet style . . .”

“Wow, ten at night and you’re already wasted.” I slapped him on the shoulder. “Take a cab.” I tried to move past him, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, pressing us together. Whether it was on purpose or not I wasn’t sure, but he was warm.

And he felt . . . safe, familiar. My body was playing tricks on me; it was because I was vulnerable.

Like that night when . . .

I locked down my memories, especially that one, and threw away the key. “Lex, what do you want?”

“You,” he said in a serious tone. “Now get up on stage and take off your clothes. I paid for a show.”

I rolled my eyes. “Waitress, Lex. You’ll have to call one of the many numbers on your phone to get a free lap dance.”

“What if I pay?” His breath tickled my ear as my eyes burned with unshed tears. Normally, I wouldn’t let what he did affect me. Normally, I brushed him off, but my armor had already been stripped. Call it exhaustion or maybe just the last remnants of pride I had toppling to the floor.

But I couldn’t hold them in any longer.

One tear fell.

Then another.

I tried to wipe them, tried to jerk free from Lex’s strong arms, but he turned me so abruptly that all I managed to do was soak the front of his shirt with my tears and smear it with mascara.

“Gabs?” His voice rasped as he hugged me tighter. “Come on, we’re going.”

“No.” Panic surged through me as I tried to pull away. “You don’t understand!” I’d given the last of my paychecks to my mom so she could pay the bills at the house, leaving me completely broke for this week’s rent check. I was hoping to make enough money in tips for the rent.

Lex’s eyes crinkled at the sides as he took one look at me and the rest of the seedy bar. I knew what he saw: girls dancing on poles, guys getting drunk and shouting at the girls while they threw dollar bills onto the stage, and a scared, stupid girl clinging to him like her lifeline.

Finally, he released me. “Gabs, I’m sorry, I was joking. We always—” He licked his lips and glanced down at the filthy floor, cursing. “Where’s the money going?”

“Money?”

“New girl!” Dean, my boss, never called me by name, the idiot. “You working or flirting? If he wants time with you, he’s gotta pay.”

“Still a waitress?” Lex’s eyebrows shot up.

I held up my fingers to indicate I needed a few more seconds, but Dean was apparently in a mood and stomped over to us.

“Problem?” he asked, crossing his arms over his skinny chest. The guy was small; Lex could probably break his face blindfolded.

“Yeah,” Lex said, surprising me. “Your waitress just refused to dance with me because you guys are out of private rooms . . . so.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You her boyfriend?”

“Do I look like a man who wants to commit to crazy?” Lex fired back. “But I do have this . . .” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out what looked like at least six hundred dollars in cash. “How long will that get me with your waitress?”

Dean’s eyebrows kissed his hairline as he sputtered out, “At least three hours.”

“I’ll add in another six hundred if I can have table service and a private room, no interruptions.”

“Done.” Dean snapped his fingers above his head as one of his security guards came barreling over. “Please take them to the Diamond Room, no interruptions. Stand outside the door. One waitress goes in and out to provide drinks.”

The security guard nodded.

And five minutes later I was stuck in a personal nightmare. A bottle of champagne rested on ice; two glasses were left on the table. Music pumped through the speaker system. A small stage was set up in the middle of the room, with two poles and some sort of swing that dropped down from the ceiling. I seriously didn’t even want to know what it was for.

“That will be all,” Lex said in a gruff tone. The waitress—I think her name was Holly—bobbed her head, then looked at me out of the corners of her eyes as if scared to leave me alone with the giant.

“It’s fine.” I waved her off and forced a smile.

The door closed.

“Stop pacing.” Lex grabbed a bottle of champagne. “And that ass better give you part of that money . . .”

“Huh?” I turned. Lex had his feet up on the table and was texting. TEXTING!

He glanced up. “What? Something wrong?”

“Uh . . .” I lifted my arms into the air. “You sick bastard, you just paid for private dancing! From me!”

“No I didn’t,” he said calmly. “Nobody knows what goes on in here. Take a nap for all I care, drink some champagne—or you can shock the hell out of me and cry again, but fair warning, I only had one hug in me tonight and you stole it, so . . . I’ll be reverting to the back pat.”

“Who are you?”

“Lex Luthor, philanthropist by day and rescuer of hot waitresses by night.” He smirked and held up the bottle. “Champagne?”

“Unbelievable.” I choked out a laugh. “You just paid over one grand to sit in a crappy club and drink champagne with someone you hate.”

“It’s my good deed for the decade. Just don’t tell Ian. He’ll think I’m sick or something, and the last thing I need is Mother Hen helicoptering around my inner sanctum. He’ll get pissed all over again if he finds out that I’m hacking.”

My skin felt sticky and sweaty, and my feet ached. With slow movements, I made my way over to the couch and sat, not even wanting to know how many germs were on the leather.

“So,” Lex said above the music. “Champagne? Or want me to order you something else?”

“Champagne’s good.” I swallowed and looked down at my hands. “I’m sorry I cried.”

“As you should be. Big girls don’t cry . . . they kick ass. Don’t freak me out like that again, it’s not good for my heart.”

“Finally admitting you have one?”

Lex spread his arms wide. “Clearly, otherwise you’d still be waiting tables.”

“Or dancing,” I muttered.

“Hah.” Lex laughed, actually laughed as if it was funny. “No offense, Gabs, but you’re not like those girls on stage. You can’t . . . you just can’t.”

“I can’t?” Why the hell was I getting offended? “What do you mean I can’t?”

Lex laughed harder. “Gabs, look, there’s nothing wrong with being innocent. Lots of guys dig a girl who has fields that have never been touched, watered, planted, plowed—”

I held up my hand. “I get it.”

“But those types of girls, the good girls, the ones who’ve never been . . .” He smirked. “Conquered? They don’t typically know how to use their bodies in a way that mimics sex on stage. Get it?”

“No.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t get it! Dancing is dancing! A two-year-old can do it!”

“Bad example, bad mental picture all around, Gabs, again solidifying my point. Good girls don’t dance, not like that.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Embrace your goodness, don’t get pissed. It’s a compliment.”

“The hell it is!”

“Damn, I love it when you swear,” Lex murmured, taking a long draw of champagne. “See, at least you do that right.”

“I can’t last in here for three hours,” I muttered, jumping to my feet and starting my pacing all over again.

“Want to play games on my cell phone?”

“Like a child!” I blurted. “That’s it! You’re treating me like I’m . . . a toddler! Like I should be thankful you just saved me from hell. Be honest: if you had a sticker and a sucker, would you give them to me if I shut my mouth the entire time?”

Lex gave me a guilty look.

“I’m a woman!”

“Well, if you were a dude, we’d be having a different conversation and you probably would have punched the guys grabbing your ass earlier . . .”

Without thinking, I grabbed my glass of champagne, chugged it, poured another, chugged that one, then with shaky hands grabbed the little remote, turned up the music, and jumped on stage.

I expected Lex to say something inappropriate or at least roll his eyes. Instead, he looked . . . panicked.

“Gabs!” he yelled above the music. “Look, I’m sorry! Just get down!!”

“Oh, I’ll get down!” I grabbed the pole with one hand and leaned back. “Just wait.”

Available Now

The Matchmaker's Playbook

Wingman rule number one: don’t fall for a client.

After a career-ending accident, former NFL recruit Ian Hunter is back on campus—and he’s ready to get his new game on. As one of the masterminds behind Wingmen, Inc., a successful and secretive word-of-mouth dating service, he’s putting his extensive skills with women to work for the lovelorn. But when Blake Olson requests the services of Wingmen, Inc., Ian may have landed his most hopeless client yet.

From her frumpy athletic gear to her unfortunate choice of footwear, Blake is going to need a miracle if she wants to land her crush. At least with a professional matchmaker by her side she has a fighting chance. Ian knows that his advice and a makeover can turn Blake into another successful match. But as Blake begins the transformation from hot mess to smokin’ hot, Ian realizes he’s in danger of breaking his cardinal rule…

Amazon US | UK | CA | AU

Giveaway

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About The Author

Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.

She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!

Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook or join her fan group Rachel's New Rockin Readers. Her website is www.rachelvandykenauthor.com.

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Release Blitz & Giveaway ~ The Matchmaker's Playbook, Wingmen Inc #1, by Rachel Van Dyken

The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc. 1)

Release Day: April 5^th, 2016

Publisher: Skyscape (April 5, 2016)

Publication Date: April 5, 2016

Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.

Language: English

Wingman rule number one: don’t fall for a client.

After a career-ending accident, former NFL recruit Ian Hunter is back on campus—and he’s ready to get his new game on. As one of the masterminds behind Wingmen, Inc., a successful and secretive word-of-mouth dating service, he’s putting his extensive skills with women to work for the lovelorn. But when Blake Olson requests the services of Wingmen, Inc., Ian may have landed his most hopeless client yet.

From her frumpy athletic gear to her unfortunate choice of footwear, Blake is going to need a miracle if she wants to land her crush. At least with a professional matchmaker by her side she has a fighting chance. Ian knows that his advice and a makeover can turn Blake into another successful match. But as Blake begins the transformation from hot mess to smokin’ hot, Ian realizes he’s in danger of breaking his cardinal rule…

Amazon US | UK | CA | AU

The Matchmaker's Playbook by Rachel Van Dyken from Becca the Bibliophile on Vimeo

Excerpt

Blake let out another pitiful groan. “I don’t think it fits.”

“They measured you. It fits. Just, tell me if it looks okay so we can go.” I checked my watch. “Gabi said dinner was at six, and it’s already a quarter till.”

“This is too much pressure.” Her voice was frantic. “I can’t do this. I mean, how do I know if it looks good? They’re boobs.”

I groaned. “Boobs always look good. Believe me.”

“Boobs are gross!”

Said no man ever. Even the gay ones.

One of the salesladies eyed me up and down. “Are you two okay?”

“Great,” I chirped. “Just having a very heated discussion about the beauty of breasts.” I dipped my chin to Blake’s chest. “What are you? A double D?”

Scowling, she marched off.

Thank God.

“Blake,” I hissed.

No answer.

I’d never had such a difficult client. If anything, they jumped when I told them to, asked how high, and then kept jumping until I was satisfied. Blake fought me at every turn.

“Open the door before I crawl underneath it. I’ll pick the bras, you can close your eyes if you want so you don’t have to watch me look at you, alright? My stomach literally just ate my liver. I need protein. Open. The. Door.”

The door slowly creaked open. Taking advantage of the small crack of air, I pushed it farther, then clicked it shut behind me and turned around.

Blake was facing me, hands on hips, face beet-red, body . . . freaking perfect. My tongue almost lolled out, like a dog.

Most girls starve themselves to have abs like that, which was disgusting. But her abs? They had muscle, actual muscle, but still appeared feminine.

She also had a nice tan, just enough to show that she spent time outside or maybe just had naturally darker skin.

My throat went completely dry as I continued to stare.

“Well?” Her voice was weak. “How awful do I look? On a scale of one to ten?”

I’d convinced her to buy some new workout clothes to replace her old ones. I knew I’d never get her to actually completely change her style. She liked workout clothes? Fine, at least buy the kind that fit and actually point to the correct gender. I tried to steer her away from the boyfriend sweats and sweatshirts, but she eventually wore me down, so I told her if she bought at least five new Pink outfits that had spandex in them, I’d let her get one pair of ugly slouchy sweats. You’d think I’d just given her a million dollars, from her reaction.

Currently, she was sporting a short pair of bright-blue yoga shorts.

And a black push-up sports bra that did wonders for her boobs.

And the world just in general.

Holy shit.

I gulped as I became more and more irritated with the fact that my body was reacting as if it had never seen a girl without her shirt on before. “Blake, it’s great.”

“You sound bored!”

I had to, damn it! What did she want me to do? Sound interested? Turned-on? Intrigued? Curious? I was all those things. I just tried to ignorethe insanity bouncing around in my head and blurted, “Your boobs look really good. Perky, happy, just . . . awesome.”

Did I just call her boobs “happy”?

“You think?” She stared down at her breasts, then grabbed them.

Holy shit, was she seriously feeling herself up? I braced my hand against the door and sucked in a breath.

“They still feel comfortable,” she said.

“Do they?” I managed to choke out while she continued bouncing them a bit in her hands. Dear Lord, did she know what she was doing? Waving a flag in front of a bull. My jeans suddenly tight in all the wrong areas, I tried to envision Lex naked, anything to get my dick to clue in to the word “client,” meaning I was in a no-play zone.

Another first.

It was because I was hungry.

And Marissa? Melissa? Hadn’t satisfied me. I’d gotten off, and made sure she did too, but the entire experience left me feeling empty, bored, and—if I was being completely honest? A bit depressed. Besides, her tits paled in comparison. I had to wonder what the hell I’d been doing all my life if this was the first time I was having such a strong reaction to boobs.

Something about Blake had me wondering if I’d been satisfied at all up until this point. And I had no idea what the hell was so confusing about her, and about the situation. I was unable to put my finger on it, and the more I thought about it the more my head hurt.

Hunger does weird things to guys.

“Yeah.” More bouncing, then turning and staring in the mirror. I wasn’t sure what was worse. Her staring at her own boobs or touching them. “I’m just no good at this stuff. I didn’t grow up with a mom, and I hit puberty really early. The girls made fun of me, and the boys pointed.” Her shoulders slumped inward again.

Could we please go back to the bouncing? I was a fan of that Blake. The one that rolled up like an awkward armadillo? Not so much.

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About The Author

Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor. She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers! Want to be kept up to date on new releases? Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook, join her fan group Rachel's New Rockin Readers, or at her website.

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Release Blitz & Giveaway ~ The Consequence of Seduction by Rachel Van Dyken

From New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken.

Reid Emory has never had reason to question his luck with the ladies. As the owner of a lethal set of aqua-blue eyes and a devastating grin, this Hollywood heartthrob always brings his A game…but lately his luck seems to have run out. The actor is in need of some help, and there’s only one person he can trust to take his love life—and his career—to an explosive new level.

Jordan Litwright’s newest client is trying her patience. As a publicist, she’s more than content to stay in the background and let others shine. But when a publicity stunt backfires, she suddenly finds herself thrust into the spotlight—as Reid’s new love interest. And while other men usually overlook her, Reid is focusing in with laserlike intensity. There’s no denying they have serious chemistry.

But once Reid breaks into the big time, can they turn their made-for-the-media romance into a forever love?

Amazon US | UK | CA | AU

 

Excerpt

Max jumped onto the couch and held up his hands. “Before you do this, remember, our mother has a Jesus sticker on her car. What would she say?”

“Must you bring her into everything?” Reid roared, stopping in front of the couch, chest heaving.

Max shrugged. “It’s not my fault I’m her favorite son.”

“Says who?”

“Mom. This morning.” 

“Was this before or after you added vodka to her coffee and slipped her a pill?”

Max gasped.

Becca made her way around the brothers and motioned for me to walk with her toward the kitchen. No words were spoken. She simply popped the cork from the wine bottle and poured what looked like three servings into a glass and slid it toward me. “Believe me, it helps.”

I took the glass and sipped while she drank straight from the bottle. “Does he ever . . . stop being . . . Max?” I asked. “Curious minds want to know.”

Max jumped off the couch, and naturally he made his own swish sound effect before landing on his feet, thrusting his hands into the air, and turning toward Reid. “I’ve been her favorite ever since I won at gymnastics.”

“You don’t win at gymnastics,” Reid said through clenched teeth. “You get scored.”

“Perfect ten.” Max winked back at us, then covered his mouth and said, “Zero,” while pointing to Reid.

“We were six!” Reid argued.

“Dude!” Max held up his hands. “I’m just saying, it’s not your fault you’re not the favorite. Let it go, man, just like Rose let go of Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?” I whispered.

Becca choked on her wine. “Oh, well, uh, last year Reid had a momentary breakdown because of Max peer pressuring me to shoot Reid in the ass with a tranq gun . . . he spent an hour singing ‘My Heart Will Go On.’” I winced. “Off-key.”

“Damn you!” Reid turned on his heel and thrust his finger in our direction. “What did I ever do to you!” I think he was talking to Becca. “I hit on you once, one time—”

“—thrice.” Max coughed.

“And the only reason was so that I could get back at this one.” He jerked his hand back to Max, nearly hitting him in the face. “Because he told Grandma the lock on my door was broken. I was taken advantage of!”

“Well, it was!” Max rolled his eyes.

“Because you took a sledgehammer to it, you bastard!”

Max grinned. “Guilty.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what they were talking about. So I did what any sane girl would do. I drank.

And when my glass was nearly empty, Becca very kindly refilled it while Reid and Max continued pacing around the living room.

“You think if we chant fight, they’ll take their shirts off?” Becca asked.

I eyed Reid’s near perfect physique. “One can only hope.”

“Dirty girls,” Max shouted. “Both of you! Jezebel! I won’t have you poisoning her mind!”

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “And stop calling me a whore!”

“Term of endearment when Max says it.” Becca patted my hand. “Next time just say thank you. It’s easier that way.”

I glanced back at the guys just in time to see Reid launch himself at Max, hands wrapped tightly around his neck, holding him against the couch while Max screamed. “Help, help!”

“We should probably intervene.” Becca took a long sip of wine and set her glass down on the table, then yawned.

“Yeah.” Max started turning purple. “We probably should. What do you normally do? Take off your top? Blow a whistle? Call the cops?”

“Cops refuse to come when Emorys call—believe me, it’s like the whole McDonald’s thing. Public service refuses to help them now.”

“Makes sense.”

Max made a choking noise while he tried to kick Reid in the shin.

“Oh, well.” Becca walked slowly toward the guys. I followed. I expected her to gently ask them to stop fighting and separate them.

Instead, she punched Reid in the face and then separated them.

He stumbled back.

I caught him and fell backward against the other couch while he rubbed his face and whispered, “My hero.”

“My lungs broke your fall,” I wheezed.

Max gasped for air. “You know my biggest fear is not breathing!”

“Not breathing?” I had to ask, I just had to.

Reid chuckled. “For six years Max was convinced every food was going to cause him to go into anaphylactic shock because Oprah did a segment where some chick nearly died after eating a kiwi!”

“A kiwi!” Max repeated hoarsely. “Who dies from kiwi? That chick.” He shook his head vigorously. “I refuse to go down eating.”

Reid moved off me and sat back on the couch. “He took Benadryl every time he ate fruit.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Make fun now, but we both know that watermelon gave me hives! My throat closed, you bastard!”

“Maybe if you took smaller bites . . .” Reid said helpfully.

Max lunged again.

Becca grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him back onto his own couch. “No more fighting, we have engagement pictures tomorrow.”

  

Giveaway

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About The Author

Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.

She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!

Want to be kept up to date on new releases?

Text MAFIA to 66866!

You can connect with her on Facebook or join her fan group Rachel's New Rockin Readers. Check out her website.

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New Release ~ Rip by Rachel Van Dyken

Rachel Van Dyken brings you Rip a complete stand alone novel that fans of the Eagle Elite series will devour! With twists and turns you won't see coming, this dark romantic suspense will keep you on your toes and leave you screaming for more.

Pretty things aren't meant to be broken.

But I broke her, and now we both have to pay the price.

I'm her nightmare.

I'm her savior.

And now that I have her signature on an ironclad contract, I own her body and soul.

She doesn't remember me.

She will.

It's inevitable.

Because as much as I know I need to stay away, for fear of unlocking the memories I helped her father bury--I can't.

She was the apple in the Garden, dangled in front of me, her core so tempting and sweet. A voice whispered. Just. One. Bite.

I bit.

I tasted.

I fell.

Welcome to the world of the Russian mafia, where death, is your only future.

Amazon | iBooks  | B&N | Smashwords

Excerpt

“So.” She plopped into the seat next to me and crossed her long legs. I fought hard to pull my eyes away. “Catch me up, what exactly are we doing in Chicago.”

I opened a folder and slid it across the table. “We are doing nothing. I, however, am making a speech at…a church.”

I didn’t miss her snort, or the way she tried to hide her amusement.

“Something funny?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “In church.”

“Where did this attitude come from?”

“You kissed me.” Her eyes narrowed as she leaned back into her seat, not missing a beat as she let her gaze wander across my body like a caress. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good, to be desired, wanted, and it was a welcome distraction from the pit in my stomach. I really, really didn’t want to go to Chicago.

“You kissed me back,” I retorted.

“Doesn’t matter, you still kissed me. The line between beast and his little toy has been crossed, therefore I kind of own you like you own me, just in a more...irritating way. I have your balls in a vise.”

“Let’s leave my balls out of the speech if you don’t mind,” I said ignoring her little ploy to get under my skin again.

“Hey.” Her grin spread smugly across her pretty face. “It may just inspire the crap out of them, you never know.”

This was a conversation that Andi would have loved, in fact, the more Maya talked the more I saw Andi in her, which just made it that much worse. Here Maya thought I was going to Chicago to slap hands with rich doctors and make speeches, when really, I was going because I made a promise, to a dying girl.

Just one more girl, I’d failed to save.

“Let’s leave all references to body parts out of my speech, hmm?”

“I’ll try.”

“I am the boss.”

“So you are.”

“I’ve created a monster. Had I known feeding you would gain this response I would have tied you up in the basement with a protein bar and some Gatorade.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s Netflix. Orange is the New Black combined with the nightmares…” She yawned and it was then that I noticed how tired she looked.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat wanting to press things further, what kind of nightmares had she been having?

“I haven’t been sleeping much. Then again I blame you for keeping me from technology for so long.”

“Which brings us back full circle. I should have never given you such privileges.” My voice came out in a bark.

“It’s a right, not a privilege,” she snapped.

“So this…” What the hell was it? A eulogy? Not really, that was Sergio, but he’d asked me to say a few words. Shit. I struggled with how to ask, I didn’t know the first thing about being at a funeral, I put people in the casket, I didn’t visit them after they took their last breath. My eyes stung with exhaustion. “I need you to help me write it.”

“Wait...” She visibly paled. “What did you say?”

“Write.” I nodded encouragingly, my anger surging, breaking through all of my carefully constructed walls. Anger had no place in my business, in my life, and anger toward her, did nothing but put her in danger. “You know, words on a paper, you put them down, I say them.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Maya…” I tsked. “I am what I am.”

“Put that in your speech.”

“Maya.” I grit my teeth together to keep myself from snapping at her. “I need a speech, something…encouraging, inspirational, happy.”

Maya pulled out her laptop and opened it up. “Inspirational…I can do inspirational. When was the last time I was inspired…?” Her cheeks bloomed red.

“What was that?” I breathed, my eyes lowering to the expanse of cleavage, it was a welcome distraction from my morose and jumbled thoughts. “Didn’t catch what you just said.”

“I, uh, didn’t say anything.” She nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pinkening even further.

“Your mouth didn’t…your face did.”

“Let’s not talk about my mouth…”

“Why?” I leaned in. “Does it inspire you too much?”

“Ass!” she hissed.

“I think you’re on to something…” I chuckled, bracing my hands on the armrests. Six inches, and our mouths would touch. I wasn’t just toying with breaking the contract, I was ripping it up, burning it. Just as our mouths were about to touch, I paused, lingering where our breaths mingled, hers warm on my lips, mine ragged and needy. I was right about one thing; she would be a welcome distraction, one that wouldn’t allow me to feel sad, or bothered by the fact that I was flying to a friend’s funeral.

And that history, if I wasn’t careful could repeat itself.

She moved, dislodging her water bottle. It landed with a soft thump on the floor.

I reared back and stared at it.

What the hell was I doing?

And as luck would have it, the water droplets had cascaded against my left hand, my tattoo—the mark of the sickle, the mark that would tell anyone who knew anything about the darker side of life.

What I did.

Who I worked for.

What I was capable of.

What I would do—to protect not just my own identity but those closest to me.

My phone rang.

I reached down to silence it—ready to silence it, when I noted the number. Cringing, I answered it with a smooth hello.

“You know I have eyes everywhere.”

“Good afternoon to you, too.”

Maya pretended not to eavesdrop.

The last thing she needed to know was that I was talking to her father—correction, receiving another threat.

This one not so baseless as the rest.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, waiting for his response.

“She’s been touched.”

I rolled my eyes. “You sure about that?”

The line crackled.

“She flushes when you’re near.”

“Most women do.”

“Cocky son of a bitch.” He chuckled. “Remember the terms of our agreement, Nikolai, I scratch your back, you scratch mine. She means nothing to me. You are the one who has everything to lose. You’ve developed a god complex, but I know all your secrets. It would take nothing for me to destroy you. You signed in blood. And it will be your blood that is spilled if you go back on your promise.”

My nostrils flared, heat surged through my body as I watched Maya happily pull out a magazine and cross her legs. Damn it, he was right. What the hell was I doing?

My lack of self control would end up getting her killed.

I knew that just as much as he did.

I was stuck.

And he knew it. Part of me wondered if he was aware that I’d developed a conscience—then again, I’d stopped working directly with him long ago, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t still owned.

“We’ll be in touch.” The phone went dead.

Damn Russian mafia.

And damn me for being one of the best. I didn’t get the nickname The Doctor because I had a good bedside manner.

And I wondered, as I tried not to stare too hard at Maya while she read through her magazine, would she still be alive if I hadn’t have taken the job that changed everything?

Had I damn her, then?

Had I truly saved her?

I let out a low growl of frustration; clenching my phone in my hand, ready to break it in half. I wanted so desperately to protect her from Andi’s fate, but would it be better that she died?

My body tensed.

Would I be extending her mercy, by snuffing out her life?

Maya frowned down at the magazine, her eyebrows furrowed as the plane rose to altitude.

I didn’t shake, didn’t so much as tremble. I was a doctor, after all, and whenever I made a decision of life and death, I was calm. Humanity didn’t slip through. I didn’t have a come –to-Jesus moment, where I wondered if what I was doing would sentence me to the darkest depths of hell.

It was…clarity.

The only way I could explain it.

“Something else to drink?” I asked Maya while she popped her knuckles again. Shit, twice in a few minutes? Was there something about the plane? Or my conversation?

“Wine.” She said quickly. “If you have it.”

I nodded, already walking to the bar. I glanced to my left to make sure she wasn’t watching me, then reached into the cupboard and pulled out a syringe of sodium pentothal. It wouldn’t harm her. If anything, it would relax her more, make it so that I would be able to hold a conversation with her…without her remembering a damn thing, though the dosage needed to be precise. The last thing I needed was for her to end up unconscious.

“What time is it?” I asked while I poured the wine, keeping the small syringe in my right hand.

“Oh.” Maya yawned then glanced at her watch. “It’s nearing four in the afternoon, why?”

“Just thinking about our dinner plans,” I lied. Two and a half hours since she’d last eaten. I mentally went over her stats, weight one-forty, height five seven. She’d need a half dose at the most.

Clearing my throat, I turned, sliding the syringe into the top of my sleeve and bringing over the two glasses of wine; hers was more full.

“Wow, generous in all areas aren’t you, Nikolai?” Maya eyed the wine glass and took a long sip.

“Drink it all,” I instructed with a half smile. “Doctor’s orders.”

“All of it?” She laughed lifting the glass into the air. “This is at least two glasses.”

“At least half,” I said in a more gentle tone. “You seem stressed, and I know…I’m not the easiest to travel with.”

Maya blinked then took another sip of wine. “No, you think?”

“It’s a…” I coughed into my hand letting the syringe slip out to the tips of my fingers. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, setting her wine down on the arm rest.

“Nope.” I offered a encouraging smile. “A few more sips, trust me, you’ll feel so much better.”

Maya rolled her eyes but drank deeply.

The alcohol would work beautifully with the sodium pentothal. Truth serums, didn’t necessarily work by themselves, they were used in conjunction with other tools and drugs, allowing the human mind to be open to suggestion.

But no human mind or body was the same, meaning, the outcome was always different.

If Maya had any sort of…secret she was keeping close, something she wanted to tell me, but couldn’t or refused to, it would most likely come out at some point in the next half hour.

If she were harboring memories, dark ones, ones that scared her, and I offered her a caring ear, she’d jump at it.

And I’d know.

If she was getting triggered and how.

It sounded sick.

But it was of the utmost importance that she be kept in the dark, especially since her father clearly was still keeping eyes on her.

I told myself that as she drank more wine.

Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.

She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband, adorable son, and two snoring boxers! She loves to hear from readers!

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