Release date: 27 January 2014
Blue-blooded Amelia “Amy” Astor was a champion, America’s sweetheart, and on track to give the US Olympic medal glory before she gave it all up to join skating’s equivalent of the circus. Now she’s a professional princess, the lead in Enchanted Ice. But in an industry that values young, cheap, and healthy, her age, salary, and injuries are a liability.
So when she’s offered a job teaching Hollywood heartthrob Shane Marx to skate for a role in a hockey film, she leaps at the opportunity. Maybe with the right kind of exposure, she can survive one more season and put off decisions about her future a little longer. If she invites the wrong kind of exposure …well, there’s that pesky morals clause waiting in the wings.
Shane Marx traded his boy band dance moves in TruAchord for acting lessons years ago. His blond, blue-eyed gorgeousness makes him the most sought after romantic comedy lead in the movie industry. But lately his clean-cut image has been tarnished by one sex scandal after another.
When America’s ice princess meets Hollywood’s hottest leading man, what could go wrong? Inside that sequined costume is a woman of steely determination who has conquered many of her demons. And beneath his sinfully attractive exterior, Shane Marx is a man still battling his.
by Rachel Cross
Sensuality Level: Sensual
Fueled by black jelly beans and Pinot noir (never together), Rachel Cross writes fast-paced contemporary romance with a twist. She lives by the beach in California with her surfer dude/helicopter pilot husband and two daughters. Before becoming a romance author she was a professional firefighter, paramedic, clinical research manager, small business owner, and Weekly World News tabloid “model.”
An excerpt from Spiraling:
An odd snapping sensation and a rush of slick heat accompanied his final thrust. A thrust that seated him balls deep in disaster. Shane Marx retracted his hips, removed his hands from the smooth, firm ass and took two stumbling steps away from the woman on her hands and knees on the edge of the bed. Too late. He stared down in horror at the remnants of the condom, still attached at the base, a wide tear splitting the tip.
The woman’s body trembled from the effects of his exertions.
His heart rate ratcheted up. “Uh.” He racked his brain for a name. Nope. Nothing. Given how swiftly things proceeded at the club, he wasn’t sure they’d exchanged that information. She knew who he was, and after thirty minutes of foreplay in the guise of dancing, she’d been eager to get him back to her place.
“We may have a problem,” he said.
The woman belly flopped onto floral sheets, then rolled over with a satisfied groan. She looked at him, her face slack with the remnants of pleasure and fatigue, mascara smeared almost to her cheeks. She pushed tangled blonde hair off her damp face. “What?”
Following his gaze she spotted the ruined condom and her eyes widened. Her hand investigated the apex of her thighs and she giggled.
He clenched his teeth.
“Oh.” Her smile was coy. “You don’t have to worry. I’m clean.”
“Yeah? That’s good. Me too.” But that wasn’t his greatest concern, and from the calculating gleam in her eye, she knew it.
He pressed his palm to his forehead as fears of paternity suits, child-custody hearings, and tabloid photos throbbed to life.
What were the odds? Slim to maybe? He had never, ever had a condom failure. TruAchord would have been dead on arrival if he or any of his boy-band mates had been hit with a paternity suit back in the day. Years later he was still neurotic about using them.
Shane backed up until he was in the attached bathroom. He peeled off and flushed the condom. “Are you on the pill or anything?” he called out. When he came back into the room she was kneeling on the bed, holding up her iPhone to take a picture of him. He covered himself with both hands, took two strides forward, and wrested the phone from her grasp. He flipped through her photos, deleting the fuzzy one she’d taken as his heart thundered in his chest.
He glared at her. “So not cool.”
His agent would have a seizure if more naked photos emerged. The one some twit sent out last month had been bad enough. “Good God, Shane! Who wants to see a full frontal of you sleeping? At least the quarterbacks and politicians have the decency to get photos of their erections. Don’t get me wrong, we should count ourselves lucky you’re a show-er and not a grower, but this is a disaster! I’m having a hell of a time passing this off as a Photoshop job.”
Apparently there was such a thing as bad publicity, and that picture had killed his audition for a lead in the latest Sparks film. No matter. He was done being typecast as the guy with issues in all that chick-flick crap. Maybe that photo would put him in consideration for a grittier role, but two? Two photos would indicate he had a problem. He held her phone while he slipped on his jeans. He pocketed it, and then checked his pants for wallet, keys, and his phone. Two steps across matted beige carpeting took him to the doorway where he spared her a glance.
She frowned at him from where she stood, naked beside the bed, one hand on a curvaceous hip, the other stroking through highlighted extensions. She spent way too much time in the tanning booth. The florescent light from the bathroom gave her skin a terracotta glow.
Revulsion surged through him.
“Are you on the pill or not?” he repeated.