Friday, October 16, 2015

New Release! In Bed with the Bodyguard by Lynne Silver



Gallery owner Ariana Rose's life is picture-perfect-until her father is accused of running a massive Ponzi scheme and skips town. The media quickly casts Washington, DC's sweetheart as America's most hated heiress. After the police ignore a violent attack on her home, Ari has only one place left to turn . . .

Taking a bullet for the president made Secret Service agent Lance Brown a national hero. His sexy smile and action-star body made him a national sex symbol. And his devotion to protecting the innocent makes him the man in charge of guarding Ariana Rose. She denies her role in her father's crimes, but neither she nor Lance can deny the heat building between them. Together they play a dangerous game . . . only it's not criminal-it's carnal.

ISBN: 9781455591312

Release Date: October 13, 2015

Publisher: Grand Central Forever Yours

Price: $3.99 (eBook) $16.00 (paperback)

Word Length: 70,000



Buy Links



Amazon: http://amzn.to/1NYgEcZ

Barnes and Noble: http://bit.ly/1O9BiVi

Google Play: http://bit.ly/1Us6dOC

iBooks: http://apple.co/1KfZ9SE

Kobo: http://bit.ly/1JBNUDK






About the Author: Romance author, Lynne Silver, writes the popular Coded for Love series and other hot contemporary romance novels, such as Love, Technically. Before writing romance, she wrote fiction of a different sort, drafting press releases for technology corporations. Washington DC is her home (non) state, where she resides with her husband and two sons. She is represented by literary agent, Jessica Alvarez of Bookends LLC.


Stalker Links:

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/tU2O5

Facebook: www.facebook.com/lynnesilverauthor

Website: www.lynnesilver.com



Excerpts:

Last summer if you’d told Arianna Rose she’d be walking alone through her Georgetown neighborhood on a sultry Saturday night, she would’ve laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the forecast. And then gone on to flirt with the nearest man for another free drink, because Arianna Rose didn’t do alone on a weekend. For that matter, she wasn’t often spotted alone on any night of the week. But times change and people change. Which was why Ari was strolling solo up the incline of Wisconsin Avenue, past the Apple Store toward the art gallery she called home. Her life had changed.

Not everything had changed; she still didn’t cook. A grocery sack full of the essentials—wine, takeout sushi, more wine, and bottled water—filled her arms and made navigating the brick sidewalk in her ubiquitous stilettos tricky. A lesser woman would’ve turned an ankle by now, and Ari might also if a cute guy were nearby and available to help with the grocery bag. But for now, she enjoyed her walk through the twilight and used the time to mentally make a to-do list for the upcoming gallery show.

She paused for a moment when she was about a block from home.

“Hi, Tom, your favorite Delivery Diva is here,” she said, forcing a smile on her face for the benefit of a homeless man who never returned the gesture and was wrapped in a blanket, despite the sweltering summer heat.

A narrow brown eye peeped out at her. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

Skirting to the side of the overly stuffed, torn army duffel bag, Ari reached into her grocery bag and pulled out a takeout container. “BLT on wheat.” Gently she set the container down.

“Prefer white,” came the usual gruff answer.

“Wheat’s healthier. You’re welcome,” she called, straightening and turning to leave.

“Something going on up there,” Tom said and jerked his head toward the direction of her place. “Looks like your place. Better go see.” Now he smiled in the face of possible disaster.

“Thanks.” Roughly five feet from her gallery, she stopped to heft the bag higher and peer at a crowd clustered around her front window. What was going on?

She pushed her way through the throng to her front door but stopped in horror. Her gallery. The glass from her big picture window lay in a million sharp shards all over the sidewalk like glittering fairy dust. The gathered crowd murmured and peered into her shop.

“What happened? Who did this?” She grabbed the shoulder of a boy wearing a navy Georgetown hoodie. “Did you see who did this?” she said on a wild accusation.

“Nope. I was walking by when I saw the damage.” He looked at her with interest and sudden insight. “Is this your place?”

She nodded blindly, no longer looking at Joe Hoya college boy. Were her paintings okay? Her precious canvases? It would be terrible to have to call her artists and explain that their babies were damaged.

“Damn, you better call the police.” He whistled and strolled off down the hill.


He was right. This was an act of vandalism. Or terrorism, and any other ism she could think of.

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