Is There Such A Thing As A Beta/Alpha Hero? Or Is That An Alpha/Beta Hero?
Enjoy her post and then she's graciously offering winner's choice of either an e-book or signed print copy of her first book, Triple Threat.
Regina the floor is all yours-
- ISBN-13: 9780373798544
- Publisher: Harlequin
- Publication date: 5/19/2015
- Series: Harlequin Blaze Series, #850
- Format: Mass Market Paperback
- Pages: 224
Overview
How to unravel your straightlaced lover…
Gabe Nelson would be a great district attorney, but his public image is too boring to get voters' attention. Tattoo artist Devin Padilla can help him show off his fun, sexy side, but she needs something in return—his legal expertise to track down her missing brother. She's not Gabe's type, but they can't keep their hands off each other, whether it's good for his image or not.
GIVEAWAY IS WINNER'S CHOICE
US ONLY
E-BOOK OR SIGNED PRINTED COPY OF
TRIPLE THREAT
PLEASE USE RAFFLECOPTER FORM BELOW TO ENTER
THANKS REGINA
GOOD LUCK!
Read an Excerpt:
"Will you marry me?"
Gabe held his breath as he got down on one knee and snapped open the robin's-egg-blue box. Inside a flawless two-carat, emerald-cut diamond sparkled, catching the light from the crystal chandeliers dotting New York City's famous Rainbow Room restaurant.
"I…I don't know what to say." Kara Humphries, Gabe's girlfriend for the past six months, stared at the ring as if it were a two-headed hydra instead of a precious gem.
Not exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for.
He swallowed. Hard. His mind whirred through plans B, C and D. She hadn't exactly said no. There had to be some way to persuade her to accept his proposal.
"Say yes." Gabe took one of her perfectly manicured hands and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm for extra effect. Hell, he hadn't served four years in the Navy JAG corps, then clawed his way to the top spot in the Manhattan DA's Special Victims Bureau by giving up without a fight.
She pulled her hand away and tucked it under the napkin in her lap. "I'm sorry, Gabe. You're a great guy. Really. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But…"
Ouch. Direct hit. He stood and slunk back into his seat. With sweaty hands, he palmed the ring box, snapped it shut and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He could feel his heart pounding under the cool cotton of his dress shirt. "Just not this woman, right? It's not me, it's you. Isn't that how the saying goes?"
"Actually…" She looked down, her hands fiddling with her napkin. After a moment that seemed as long as the wait for his results on the bar exam, her gaze rose to meet his. "It is you. And me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He tried not to sound hurt, but it wasn't easy. He wasn't used to setting his mind on something and not seeing it through. As far he was concerned, this engagement wasn't any different from negotiating a plea bargain. He and Kara belonged together.
He just had to seal the deal.
She lifted a hand to brush an imaginary lock of her always impeccable ash-blond hair from her cheek, then let it flutter back to her lap. "We both like jazz. The symphony. Sailing. Fine wine."
"Exactly." He raised his glass of 1998 Veuve Clicquot—the two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne he'd specially chosen to toast their engagement—and took a sip, eyeing her over the rim with a half smile. A kernel of hope settled in his chest and he sat a little straighter. She was making his point for him. "It's called compatibility. I fail to see the problem."
"That is the problem." Her voice broke and she took a deep breath. "There's no spark between us. I adore you, Gabe, and I hope we stay friends. But I planned to tell you tonight that I think we should stop seeing each other. We're too much alike. I need someone who'll challenge me, broaden my horizons, introduce me to new things."
He leaned in and studied her intently, his initial shock slowly receding. A mix of determination and curiosity took its place.
"I can introduce you to new things." Why not? She wanted adventure, he'd give her adventure. He could be as fun and spontaneous as the next guy. If he had enough time to prepare.
"Oh, Gabe. You're sweet. But your idea of a new thing is having red wine with fish instead of white. I'm talking about really living life. Taking chances. Not the same old boring stuff we always do."
His jaw tightened and he locked his fingers together. "So I'm boring?"
"Not exactly. Just predictable." She stood, placed her napkin on her plate and smoothed down her skirt. "I'm sorry, Gabe. I wanted it to work. Really, I did. But I can't pretend anymore, trying to make myself feel something that's not there. Someday you'll meet the right woman. I'm just not her."
She made her way through the restaurant, a chorus of whispers in her wake. An occupational hazard of being the daughter of a senator and one of New York's most prominent—and wealthy—philanthropists.
He sat alone and uncomfortable, staring into his plate of shrimp scampi. What the hell had just happened? He had planned everything so perfectly. Perfect place. Perfect time. Perfect woman.
Or so he'd thought.
He was thirty years old, for Christ's sake. He wanted a wife. Kids before he was too old to enjoy them. Of all the women he'd dated—and he was no John Mayer, but he'd gone out with his fair share—Kara was the only one he could see in his life for the long haul. A real partner in every way, beside him at rallies and fundraisers. Entertaining guests, or relaxing together at the end of a long, stressful day, reading or listening to John Coltrane on his state-of-the-art sound system. Okay, so they weren't burning up the sheets just yet. That would come in time. Right?
But she'd said no. Said he was too predictable. Which, in his book, meant boring, no matter how she tried to sugarcoat it.
"Your check, sir."
Gabe looked up at the waiter's sheepish expression. He'd clearly witnessed the whole unfortunate scene.
"Here." Gabe took the leather holder in the waiter's outstretched hand, stuck his credit card inside without even looking at the bill and handed it back to him.
The waiter left, leaving Gabe alone. Again. He shifted in his seat and glanced around the dining room, catching the sympathetic looks of several patrons who quickly averted their eyes, like the waiter, obviously privy to his humiliation.
His very public humiliation.
Not soon enough, the waiter came back with Gabe's credit card. With a gruff "Thanks," Gabe scrawled his signature, downed the rest of his champagne and strode through the restaurant, slipping out into the New York night.
His apartment was only a few blocks south, but he headed in the other direction, toward Central Park. Not the best place to be at night, especially a night like this one. Ripe. Sweltering. Sure to lure out every crazy without air-conditioning. But he wasn't ready to go home yet. He needed to breathe, to think, and nothing cleared his head like a run in the park. Tonight his suit meant he'd have to settle for a brisk walk, even if it meant he'd be covered in sweat by the time he got to his apartment downtown.
He circled the sailboat pond, trying to figure out why he felt more numb than crushed by Kara's refusal, when a high-pitched voice from behind the boathouse froze him in his Ferragamo shoes.
"Get your fucking hands off me, or I'll knee your balls right through the roof of your goddamned mouth."
Gabe did a one-eighty and sprinted toward the sound.
A woman stood with her back to him, fists clenched. Her attacker lay curled at her feet, wheezing for air.
"No means no, asshole."
The guy let out a muffled moan and she bent over him, making her short skirt ride even higher up her toned thighs. Her fishnet stockings covered her long legs, disappearing midcalf into a pair of hot-pink Doc Martens.
"Okay, okay. You made your point. You didn't have to kick me so hard. Frigid bitch."
Gabe stepped out of the shadow of the boathouse. "Watch your mouth. And don't move a damn muscle. I'm calling the police." He pulled out his cell phone and started to dial.
"No cops. Please." The woman held out an arm as if to stop him, and Gabe caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her shoulder. A distinctive, familiar tattoo of some sort of forest fairy. "Freddie just got a little overeager. But I set him straight." She prodded him with one boot, eliciting another moan. "Didn't I, Freddie?"
Gabe's stomach clenched. "Devin?"
She pivoted slowly, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open in recognition.
"Shit."
Of all the white knights in New York City, why did Gabe Nelson have to be the one to ride to her rescue?
Devin Padilla stared at her best friend's brother and swore again.
"It's nice to see you, too."
She crossed her arms. "What are you doing here?"
"Heading home. Same as you should be." Disapproval dripped from his voice as he eyeballed her, frowning no doubt at her outfit of choice. Sure, the lacy camisole clung a little too tightly to her 36Ds and her short skirt showed off her J. Lo booty. But she was a bartender, for Christ's sake, not an astrophysicist. How was she supposed to earn enough tips to support herself and set something aside for Victor if—no, when—she found him, if she didn't give her customers something to look at on top of her witty repartee.
"Isn't that dive you work at downtown?"
"It's not a dive. And yes, it is. Sometimes I pull extra shifts for a friend at The Mark." She never said no to extra cash, and she always raked it in at the Upper East Side hotel bar.
"Hello?" a voice interrupted from the pavement. "Injured man down here."
"Get up, Freddie. You're not hurt. I barely touched you."
"You know this guy?" Gabe asked.
"He's one of my regulars. Said he'd take me to the subway." She glared down at him, hands on her hips. Just another one in a long line of losers that had hit on her in the past six months. It was like she was wearing a sign that said Attention all guys. Are you mentally stable? Gainfully employed? Reasonably attractive? Then keep away. "The subway, Freddie. Not to heaven against a slimy park viaduct."
Freddie struggled to his knees. "It's not my fault. You've been giving me mixed signals for months."
"Mixed signals?" She raised one Doc Marten and aimed it at him, making him flinch before she broke off and scuffed the ground in front of him. He scuttled back like a frightened crab and she couldn't help but scoff. "How's that for a mixed signal, dirtbag?"
Gabe put a hand on her shoulder. "You're relieved from duty, Freddie. I'll see the lady home."
"Like hell you will." Devin shook off his hand. No way she was spending one minute more than necessary with Dudley Do-Right. No matter how dead sexy he was. "The subway's two blocks from here. I can make it just fine on my own."
"I'm sure you can. But a gentleman always makes sure his date arrives home safely." Gabe tugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Devin's shoulders, shielding them—and the breasts barely concealed by her skimpy top—from Freddie's prying eyes. "Isn't that right, Freddie?"
"I'm not your date." Devin's gaze ping-ponged from one man to the other. "Either of you."
"Humor me." Gabe's hand held steady against the small of her back. The shivers she hadn't noticed subsided, tempting her to succumb to the warm, reassuring feeling of a good man's touch.
His touch.
"Have it your way." Freddie stood and backed away slowly. "But I'm telling you, man, the chick is trouble."
Devin started for him but Gabe held her back, and damn if his touch didn't make her quiver all over again. What was it about Holly's stuffed-shirt brother that got her engine revving faster than a dirt bike at the X Games?
It couldn't be the banging body she was pretty sure he hid under all those designer suits—broad shoulders that led to an equally broad chest, narrow waist, lean hips and long, strong legs. Or his stormy, gray eyes, intense and mysterious, never revealing what was going on behind them. And it sure as hell wasn't his lips, full, firm and just right for hours of sensuous kissing.
"That's a chance I'll have to take." Gabe slid his hand to her elbow, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
"It's your funeral," Freddie tossed over his shoulder as he fled into the darkness.
"Asshole." Devin watched him disappear then turned to Gabe. "I appreciate your help."
"But you're fine. Yeah. Got it."
She shook off his jacket, thrust it at him and headed for the subway. She hadn't gone three steps when he caught up with her. "Nice try, but you're not getting rid of me that easily. I meant what I said. I'm taking you home."
His eyes sparked with something. Anger? Frustration? Devin's insides tingled in response. Maybe letting him take her home wasn't such a bad idea. Then he could take her against the living room wall. And on the kitchen counter. And in the.
"Besides, my sister would kill me if she found out I left you alone in Central Park in the middle of the night."
Right. His sister. Duty, not fantasy. Thanks for the verbal equivalent of a cold shower.
"Fine," she huffed. "But we're taking a cab. Your treat."
"My pleasure."
He took her arm, propelling her toward Fifth Avenue, where he hailed a cab. Hustling her inside, he gave the cabby her address, one he knew well since, until recently, his sister had lived in the apartment directly below Devin's.
"How is Holly?" she asked to break the awkward silence that descended once the cab pulled into traffic. "I haven't talked to her in almost a month. Since she and Nick left for Istanbul."
"She loves it there." Gabe loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on his impeccably pressed white cotton dress shirt, revealing a triangle of fine dark chest hair. "But my parents are worried sick about her. I can't believe her doctor let her travel in her condition."
Devin swallowed hard and turned to stare out the window. She'd tattooed her share of gorgeous, muscle-bound men and hadn't so much as blinked. But one glimpse of Mr. GQ's freaking chest hair and she was practically hyperventilating.
Pathetic.
"News flash," Devin said when she could finally breathe again. "Holly's not due for like five months. Women in her condition travel all the time. And Nick added an ob-gyn and a nurse to their entourage."
With his money, he could have a fully staffed maternity ward on set if he wanted to. And she had no doubt he would if shooting on his latest Trent Savage pic went longer than expected. She'd never seen a couple as devoted to each other as Nick and Holly. It was almost enough to make her forget what a fucking farce love could be.
Almost.
They lapsed back into silence. Devin focused on the blurred buildings speeding by outside the grimy window. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ignore Gabe, sitting only inches away. His thigh brushing hers when he shifted. The scent of his cologne—citrusy, with a hint of cedar—teasing her senses.
Majorly pathetic.
"Can I ask you something?" His words tumbled out, like he was afraid if he didn't say them at light speed, they wouldn't come out at all.
"Uh, sure." She turned to him with a shrug. "I guess so."
"Would you say I'm…" He raked a hand through his close-cropped, chestnut hair. "Do you think I'm, well, boring?"
Devin almost choked. Boring? Seriously? Of all the words in the English language, boring was just about the last one she'd choose to describe Gabe Nelson. A little strait-laced, maybe. Serious. Panty-meltingly hot. But boring?
Hell, no.
"Will you marry me?"
Gabe held his breath as he got down on one knee and snapped open the robin's-egg-blue box. Inside a flawless two-carat, emerald-cut diamond sparkled, catching the light from the crystal chandeliers dotting New York City's famous Rainbow Room restaurant.
"I…I don't know what to say." Kara Humphries, Gabe's girlfriend for the past six months, stared at the ring as if it were a two-headed hydra instead of a precious gem.
Not exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for.
He swallowed. Hard. His mind whirred through plans B, C and D. She hadn't exactly said no. There had to be some way to persuade her to accept his proposal.
"Say yes." Gabe took one of her perfectly manicured hands and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm for extra effect. Hell, he hadn't served four years in the Navy JAG corps, then clawed his way to the top spot in the Manhattan DA's Special Victims Bureau by giving up without a fight.
She pulled her hand away and tucked it under the napkin in her lap. "I'm sorry, Gabe. You're a great guy. Really. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But…"
Ouch. Direct hit. He stood and slunk back into his seat. With sweaty hands, he palmed the ring box, snapped it shut and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He could feel his heart pounding under the cool cotton of his dress shirt. "Just not this woman, right? It's not me, it's you. Isn't that how the saying goes?"
"Actually…" She looked down, her hands fiddling with her napkin. After a moment that seemed as long as the wait for his results on the bar exam, her gaze rose to meet his. "It is you. And me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He tried not to sound hurt, but it wasn't easy. He wasn't used to setting his mind on something and not seeing it through. As far he was concerned, this engagement wasn't any different from negotiating a plea bargain. He and Kara belonged together.
He just had to seal the deal.
She lifted a hand to brush an imaginary lock of her always impeccable ash-blond hair from her cheek, then let it flutter back to her lap. "We both like jazz. The symphony. Sailing. Fine wine."
"Exactly." He raised his glass of 1998 Veuve Clicquot—the two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne he'd specially chosen to toast their engagement—and took a sip, eyeing her over the rim with a half smile. A kernel of hope settled in his chest and he sat a little straighter. She was making his point for him. "It's called compatibility. I fail to see the problem."
"That is the problem." Her voice broke and she took a deep breath. "There's no spark between us. I adore you, Gabe, and I hope we stay friends. But I planned to tell you tonight that I think we should stop seeing each other. We're too much alike. I need someone who'll challenge me, broaden my horizons, introduce me to new things."
He leaned in and studied her intently, his initial shock slowly receding. A mix of determination and curiosity took its place.
"I can introduce you to new things." Why not? She wanted adventure, he'd give her adventure. He could be as fun and spontaneous as the next guy. If he had enough time to prepare.
"Oh, Gabe. You're sweet. But your idea of a new thing is having red wine with fish instead of white. I'm talking about really living life. Taking chances. Not the same old boring stuff we always do."
His jaw tightened and he locked his fingers together. "So I'm boring?"
"Not exactly. Just predictable." She stood, placed her napkin on her plate and smoothed down her skirt. "I'm sorry, Gabe. I wanted it to work. Really, I did. But I can't pretend anymore, trying to make myself feel something that's not there. Someday you'll meet the right woman. I'm just not her."
She made her way through the restaurant, a chorus of whispers in her wake. An occupational hazard of being the daughter of a senator and one of New York's most prominent—and wealthy—philanthropists.
He sat alone and uncomfortable, staring into his plate of shrimp scampi. What the hell had just happened? He had planned everything so perfectly. Perfect place. Perfect time. Perfect woman.
Or so he'd thought.
He was thirty years old, for Christ's sake. He wanted a wife. Kids before he was too old to enjoy them. Of all the women he'd dated—and he was no John Mayer, but he'd gone out with his fair share—Kara was the only one he could see in his life for the long haul. A real partner in every way, beside him at rallies and fundraisers. Entertaining guests, or relaxing together at the end of a long, stressful day, reading or listening to John Coltrane on his state-of-the-art sound system. Okay, so they weren't burning up the sheets just yet. That would come in time. Right?
But she'd said no. Said he was too predictable. Which, in his book, meant boring, no matter how she tried to sugarcoat it.
"Your check, sir."
Gabe looked up at the waiter's sheepish expression. He'd clearly witnessed the whole unfortunate scene.
"Here." Gabe took the leather holder in the waiter's outstretched hand, stuck his credit card inside without even looking at the bill and handed it back to him.
The waiter left, leaving Gabe alone. Again. He shifted in his seat and glanced around the dining room, catching the sympathetic looks of several patrons who quickly averted their eyes, like the waiter, obviously privy to his humiliation.
His very public humiliation.
Not soon enough, the waiter came back with Gabe's credit card. With a gruff "Thanks," Gabe scrawled his signature, downed the rest of his champagne and strode through the restaurant, slipping out into the New York night.
His apartment was only a few blocks south, but he headed in the other direction, toward Central Park. Not the best place to be at night, especially a night like this one. Ripe. Sweltering. Sure to lure out every crazy without air-conditioning. But he wasn't ready to go home yet. He needed to breathe, to think, and nothing cleared his head like a run in the park. Tonight his suit meant he'd have to settle for a brisk walk, even if it meant he'd be covered in sweat by the time he got to his apartment downtown.
He circled the sailboat pond, trying to figure out why he felt more numb than crushed by Kara's refusal, when a high-pitched voice from behind the boathouse froze him in his Ferragamo shoes.
"Get your fucking hands off me, or I'll knee your balls right through the roof of your goddamned mouth."
Gabe did a one-eighty and sprinted toward the sound.
A woman stood with her back to him, fists clenched. Her attacker lay curled at her feet, wheezing for air.
"No means no, asshole."
The guy let out a muffled moan and she bent over him, making her short skirt ride even higher up her toned thighs. Her fishnet stockings covered her long legs, disappearing midcalf into a pair of hot-pink Doc Martens.
"Okay, okay. You made your point. You didn't have to kick me so hard. Frigid bitch."
Gabe stepped out of the shadow of the boathouse. "Watch your mouth. And don't move a damn muscle. I'm calling the police." He pulled out his cell phone and started to dial.
"No cops. Please." The woman held out an arm as if to stop him, and Gabe caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her shoulder. A distinctive, familiar tattoo of some sort of forest fairy. "Freddie just got a little overeager. But I set him straight." She prodded him with one boot, eliciting another moan. "Didn't I, Freddie?"
Gabe's stomach clenched. "Devin?"
She pivoted slowly, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open in recognition.
"Shit."
Of all the white knights in New York City, why did Gabe Nelson have to be the one to ride to her rescue?
Devin Padilla stared at her best friend's brother and swore again.
"It's nice to see you, too."
She crossed her arms. "What are you doing here?"
"Heading home. Same as you should be." Disapproval dripped from his voice as he eyeballed her, frowning no doubt at her outfit of choice. Sure, the lacy camisole clung a little too tightly to her 36Ds and her short skirt showed off her J. Lo booty. But she was a bartender, for Christ's sake, not an astrophysicist. How was she supposed to earn enough tips to support herself and set something aside for Victor if—no, when—she found him, if she didn't give her customers something to look at on top of her witty repartee.
"Isn't that dive you work at downtown?"
"It's not a dive. And yes, it is. Sometimes I pull extra shifts for a friend at The Mark." She never said no to extra cash, and she always raked it in at the Upper East Side hotel bar.
"Hello?" a voice interrupted from the pavement. "Injured man down here."
"Get up, Freddie. You're not hurt. I barely touched you."
"You know this guy?" Gabe asked.
"He's one of my regulars. Said he'd take me to the subway." She glared down at him, hands on her hips. Just another one in a long line of losers that had hit on her in the past six months. It was like she was wearing a sign that said Attention all guys. Are you mentally stable? Gainfully employed? Reasonably attractive? Then keep away. "The subway, Freddie. Not to heaven against a slimy park viaduct."
Freddie struggled to his knees. "It's not my fault. You've been giving me mixed signals for months."
"Mixed signals?" She raised one Doc Marten and aimed it at him, making him flinch before she broke off and scuffed the ground in front of him. He scuttled back like a frightened crab and she couldn't help but scoff. "How's that for a mixed signal, dirtbag?"
Gabe put a hand on her shoulder. "You're relieved from duty, Freddie. I'll see the lady home."
"Like hell you will." Devin shook off his hand. No way she was spending one minute more than necessary with Dudley Do-Right. No matter how dead sexy he was. "The subway's two blocks from here. I can make it just fine on my own."
"I'm sure you can. But a gentleman always makes sure his date arrives home safely." Gabe tugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Devin's shoulders, shielding them—and the breasts barely concealed by her skimpy top—from Freddie's prying eyes. "Isn't that right, Freddie?"
"I'm not your date." Devin's gaze ping-ponged from one man to the other. "Either of you."
"Humor me." Gabe's hand held steady against the small of her back. The shivers she hadn't noticed subsided, tempting her to succumb to the warm, reassuring feeling of a good man's touch.
His touch.
"Have it your way." Freddie stood and backed away slowly. "But I'm telling you, man, the chick is trouble."
Devin started for him but Gabe held her back, and damn if his touch didn't make her quiver all over again. What was it about Holly's stuffed-shirt brother that got her engine revving faster than a dirt bike at the X Games?
It couldn't be the banging body she was pretty sure he hid under all those designer suits—broad shoulders that led to an equally broad chest, narrow waist, lean hips and long, strong legs. Or his stormy, gray eyes, intense and mysterious, never revealing what was going on behind them. And it sure as hell wasn't his lips, full, firm and just right for hours of sensuous kissing.
"That's a chance I'll have to take." Gabe slid his hand to her elbow, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
"It's your funeral," Freddie tossed over his shoulder as he fled into the darkness.
"Asshole." Devin watched him disappear then turned to Gabe. "I appreciate your help."
"But you're fine. Yeah. Got it."
She shook off his jacket, thrust it at him and headed for the subway. She hadn't gone three steps when he caught up with her. "Nice try, but you're not getting rid of me that easily. I meant what I said. I'm taking you home."
His eyes sparked with something. Anger? Frustration? Devin's insides tingled in response. Maybe letting him take her home wasn't such a bad idea. Then he could take her against the living room wall. And on the kitchen counter. And in the.
"Besides, my sister would kill me if she found out I left you alone in Central Park in the middle of the night."
Right. His sister. Duty, not fantasy. Thanks for the verbal equivalent of a cold shower.
"Fine," she huffed. "But we're taking a cab. Your treat."
"My pleasure."
He took her arm, propelling her toward Fifth Avenue, where he hailed a cab. Hustling her inside, he gave the cabby her address, one he knew well since, until recently, his sister had lived in the apartment directly below Devin's.
"How is Holly?" she asked to break the awkward silence that descended once the cab pulled into traffic. "I haven't talked to her in almost a month. Since she and Nick left for Istanbul."
"She loves it there." Gabe loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on his impeccably pressed white cotton dress shirt, revealing a triangle of fine dark chest hair. "But my parents are worried sick about her. I can't believe her doctor let her travel in her condition."
Devin swallowed hard and turned to stare out the window. She'd tattooed her share of gorgeous, muscle-bound men and hadn't so much as blinked. But one glimpse of Mr. GQ's freaking chest hair and she was practically hyperventilating.
Pathetic.
"News flash," Devin said when she could finally breathe again. "Holly's not due for like five months. Women in her condition travel all the time. And Nick added an ob-gyn and a nurse to their entourage."
With his money, he could have a fully staffed maternity ward on set if he wanted to. And she had no doubt he would if shooting on his latest Trent Savage pic went longer than expected. She'd never seen a couple as devoted to each other as Nick and Holly. It was almost enough to make her forget what a fucking farce love could be.
Almost.
They lapsed back into silence. Devin focused on the blurred buildings speeding by outside the grimy window. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ignore Gabe, sitting only inches away. His thigh brushing hers when he shifted. The scent of his cologne—citrusy, with a hint of cedar—teasing her senses.
Majorly pathetic.
"Can I ask you something?" His words tumbled out, like he was afraid if he didn't say them at light speed, they wouldn't come out at all.
"Uh, sure." She turned to him with a shrug. "I guess so."
"Would you say I'm…" He raked a hand through his close-cropped, chestnut hair. "Do you think I'm, well, boring?"
Devin almost choked. Boring? Seriously? Of all the words in the English language, boring was just about the last one she'd choose to describe Gabe Nelson. A little strait-laced, maybe. Serious. Panty-meltingly hot. But boring?
Hell, no.
Is There Such A Thing As A Beta/Alpha
Hero? Or Is That An Alpha/Beta Hero?
One of the first things you learn as an aspiring
romance writer is that you can’t write a successful romance without a
compelling, dynamic and of course sexy-as-hell hero. The plot may be
fast-moving, with pulse-pounding action, and the writing style fluid and
engaging, but if the male lead doesn’t make the reader’s heart go
pitter-patter, the story will be a dud.
Nick, the hero of my first book, Triple Threat, is the ultimate alpha hero. Tall, dark, handsome and
commanding, he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy who sees what he wants and
goes after it. Flawed but redeemable, he hit all the right notes for a romance
hero.
When I sat down to write the second book in my Art of Seduction series for Harlequin
Blaze, I was faced with a dilemma. As much as I love Nick (and I’ll always have
a soft spot for him, since he’s my first hero), I wanted to create a totally
different type of leading man for Triple
Time.
I knew who he was going to be: Gabe Nelson, brother of
Holly, the heroine in Triple Threat. And
I knew who his heroine was going to be: Holly’s street-smart, wise-cracking
BFF, bartender/tattoo artist Devin Padilla. But I didn’t know what Gabe was
going to be, except that, like me, he’d work as an assistant district attorney,
prosecuting criminal cases in the busy Manhattan district court system. (Okay,
I don’t work in New York. But I am a prosecutor by day when I’m not writing
romance.)
The first thing I did in trying to shape Gabe’s
personality was to get a good physical image of him by surfing the net and
looking at literally hundreds of pictures of hot guys. (Yeah, I know. It’s a
tough job. But somebody’s got to do it.) Obviously, Gabe had to be attractive.
But I didn’t want him to be as in-your-face built and buff as Nick, who’s based
on True Blood and Magic Mike hunk Joe Manganiello.
Then one day my hubby was home sick watching The Time Traveler’s Wife, which stars
Eric Bana. I sat down to watch with him, and I knew I’d found my Gabe. Incredibly
good looking in an accessible,
guy-next-door-who-gets-his-muscles-doing-yard-work-and-not-in-a-gym kind of
way. I also knew I wanted Gabe to be like my chick-flick-watching husband: a man’s
man who wasn’t afraid to show his sensitive side when the occasion warranted it.
Sort of an alpha/beta, if you will. Or a beta/alpha. If that was even possible.
As I wrote Triple
Time, two predominant influences (not counting my husband) sort of rose to
the surface as my prototypes for Gabe: Atticus Finch from Harper Lee’s novel
(and my personal favorite book of all time) To
Kill A Mockingbird, and Alex P. Keaton, the character played by Michael J.
Fox in the TV show Family Ties. Like
Atticus, Gabe believes in the justice system and fights for what is right. In
the courtroom, he is cool and confident, the master of his domain. And like
Alex, he takes life seriously and isn’t quick to let loose and have fun. What
some people might describe as stuffy.
Until he meets Devin. She’s his polar opposite in
almost every way, a free-spirit who was abandoned by her parents and has fended
for herself since age eighteen. When Gabe needs to learn to lighten up in order
to get his boss’s endorsement to run for District Attorney, he knows Devin is
the one to help him. What neither of them expects is that they won’t be able to
keep their hands off each other.
Gabe was such a fun hero to write. He starts off thinking
he wants one thing out of life and ends up realizing what he needs is something
– and someone – completely different. And it was a blast putting him in uncomfortable
situations, like an underground rave, and forcing him out of his shell. I hope
readers will accept a hero with both a dash of alpha and a splash of beta and come
to love Gabe’s strong but sensitive nature as much as I do.
Book Blurb:
How to unravel your
straight-laced lover . . .
Gabe Nelson would be a great
district attorney, but his public image is too boring to get voters’ attention.
Tattoo artist Devin Padilla can help him show off his fun, sexy side, but she
needs something in return—Gabe’s legal expertise to track down her missing
brother. She’s not his type, but they can’t keep their hands off each other,
whether it’s good for his image or not.
At first, Devin thinks she got
the easy end of the bargain. Gabe’s the sexiest stuffed shirt in Manhattan, and
his kisses practically set her on fire. But every deal has its fine print. As
their relationship goes from business to pleasure, Devin realizes this one
won’t cost her soul…it’ll just steal her heart.
Buy Links:
Author Bio:
Regina Kyle knew she was
destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a
touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal
briefs, representing the state in criminal appeals. At night, she writes steamy
romance with heart and humor.
A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives on
the Connecticut coast with her husband, teenaged daughter and two melodramatic
cats. When she’s not writing, she’s most likely singing, reading, cooking or
watching bad reality television. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America
and her local RWA chapter. Triple Tine is
her second novel. She is also the author of Triple
Threat, the first book in her Art of Seduction series for Harlequin Blaze.
My Links:
@regina_kyle1
Excerpt:
She held her breath and shifted nearer to Gabe, who
slipped his hand from her mouth to her wrist and pulled her around the
Dumpster.
The sharp rasp of a match strike echoed in the muggy
August air. “How about that chick he was with? Sweet piece of ass.”
Instinctively, Devin lunged toward the voices, but Gabe
held her back, wrapping a protective arm around her waist and tugging her
against his rock‑solid
torso. She pressed her lips together, her heart beating fast from the threat of
being discovered—and from Gabe’s hot, hard embrace.
“Put that damn thing out. We don’t have time for a
smoke break. They can’t have gotten that far. Come on.”
The men moved off, their steps and voices fading into
the darkness.
“Christ, that was close.” Devin let out the breath
she’d been holding and shuddered, prompting Gabe to wrap his other arm around
her and draw her closer. “Think it’s safe to head out?”
“Too soon.” His mouth was at her ear, his lips tickling
the lobe as he spoke. “We need to give them a head start.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He was too tempting, too close,
the inexplicable pull he had on her too strong to resist. She spun in his arms
so that the fringe on her tube top swung wildly, brushing his chest. “Got any
ideas how we can pass the time?”
“Oh, I’ve got ideas.” He loosened his hold and tried to
step away from her, but she followed him, twining an arm around his neck to
keep him from escaping.
“Let me guess. Charades? Would You Rather? Pin the
Banana Peel on the Dumpster?” Her hand threaded through the short crisp hairs
at the nape of his neck, and she guided him with one knee, backing him up
against the exposed brick of the warehouse. “Or maybe something a little
more…intimate?”
“You realize we’re on a public street, right?” He
looked both ways like he was casing the area for witnesses. “Anyone could come
along and find us. Hell, someone almost did.”
She laughed softly and tossed her hair, making sure to
give him a whiff of her perfume. Chanel No. 5. Endorsed by Marilyn Monroe and
guaranteed to drive a man wild. Was that what she’d been planning when she’d
given in to a last‑minute
whim and dabbed it on before leaving her apartment? She shook off the question
and trailed a finger down his arm. “That didn’t stop you from making out with
me on my doorstep.”
“I wasn’t…myself that night.”
Her wayward finger traveled up his chest and undid one
of the buttons on his polo. “And you are now?”
“I’m not sure anymore.”
She eased a leg between his, rocking into him.
He moaned. “You make me crazy.”
“Crazy can be good.” She tilted her head to run her lips
along his jawline. “Very, very good.”
“Or
very, very bad.” His silky voice was almost a caress, so low she barely heard
him. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
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Regina Kyle was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age ten with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes romance with heat, heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives on the Connecticut shoreline with her husband, daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s singing, reading or watching bad reality television. Find her at www.reginakyle.com.
Today's Gonereading item is:
A selection of mugs and cups
Click HERE for the buy page
A selection of mugs and cups
Click HERE for the buy page
It is hard to resist a hero that makes your heart pitter patter. ;)
ReplyDeleteFun guest post! I think I would really like Nick!
Thanks for sharing this!
Hi Ali, yes it is!! Hubba hubba :)
DeleteWell that looks pretty yummy, Debbie!
ReplyDeleteI knew you'd like it Anna! :)
DeleteThis sounds delicious and yeah I love a hero who makes my stomach flip-flop
ReplyDeleteme too Kim :)
DeleteAlphas are overrated. bring on the betas, the nerds, the unassuming boy next door!
ReplyDeleteHey Braine, ain't that the truth. One of my favorite hero types is the nerd. Thanks!
Delete