ROWDY GHOSTS and HOT ROMANCE
March 9, 2011 | Author Friend Promo
ARIADNES THREAD is another terrific Marie Treanor novel filled with twists, plot, and thigh-clenching fire. Be sure to pick up a copy to keep you warm on these chilly spring evenings.
It’s New Year, the house is haunted and the owner’s sexier than sin. Burglary isn’t meant to be like this!
Glaswegian single mother Ariadne McSween is not having a happy New Year.Instead of celebrating with family and friends in time-honoured tradition, she’s helping her scallywag brother and his even less savoury friends burgle a mansion in the Scottish Highlands. And nothing is going right.
First there’s the bad weather and car breakdowns. Then, instead of a quick, quiet robbery under cover of a noisy party, Addie finds herself flirting outrageously with the house’s owner, sexy concert pianist and accused murderer, John Maxwell. Worse, her violent and erratic accomplice, Shug, takes their hosts hostage.
Another complication: The house turns out to be haunted, and not just by the ghost of eminent composer Christopher Maxwell. Two randy spirits drawn to the lust of living want to join the party—along with the vengeful shade of John’s murdered wife.
Soon Addie becomes entangled in a host of mysteries, like why are Ariadne and her cohorts being paid to rob a house that holds nothing more valuable than dusty musical manuscripts? And most of all, how does she avoid falling in love with the chief victim of her crime?
In this particular situation, she hardly lost herself in the music. She was in the house of people she was helping to rob. She had to play extremely quietly while listening for sounds of approach. Her nerves jangled, and she had to ignore the creepy, guilty feeling of being observed that had freaked her when she first sat down. Besides which, she’d forgotten some of it and had to improvise.
With a frustrated gasp, she dragged her hands upwards off the keys as if they’d been burned. Enough of this, Ariadne!
Twirling round on the stool, she leapt to her feet—and faced the man standing in the open doorway.
“Fuck!” she uttered before she could prevent it.
It wasn’t Jim, or even Shug. Dimly lit from behind as well as from the piano lamp, she had only the impression of a large man in a kilt, arms folded as he leaned against the door-frame to watch her.
“Before we’ve been introduced?” he enquired.
His voice was Scottish, but only just. The sort that would be considered English where she came from. Worse, it was deep and low, with a devastating timbre that vibrated right to the bits you didn’t want to think about while trespassing with criminal intent.
To her alarm, he pushed himself off the wooden frame and came toward her. His kilt swung round good, strong legs—stop looking at his legs!—as he walked, leisurely and graceful as a big cat. He was tall, rumpled as you’d expect of any self-respecting New Year reveler, tieless, his kilt and unbuttoned jacket crushed, shirt open askew at the throat, his dark, curly hair falling in wild disorder across his forehead. Black eyebrows stretched upwards in straight, dramatic lines from the bridge of his nose—devil’s eyebrows—and beneath them, intense, unquiet brown eyes regarded her without blinking. Shadows lurked beguilingly below finely sculpted cheekbones. His nose was slightly hooked, adding a predatory air to already Byronic good looks.
He didn’t look happy.
It was only willpower that prevented her climbing backwards across the stool to get away from him.
Releasing her gaze, his dropped to the region of her lips, flickered lower across her body and back up to her face. Surely that wasn’t a lustful gleam in his eyes now? Trick of the light… In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed off.
“Or have we?” he asked sardonically.
Addie found her voice at last. “Have we what?” she demanded with more aggression than she’d intended.
Christ, I hope not!
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I’ll be back Wednesday with a new release from the brilliant author Melissa Bradley. Until then…
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell