Monday, June 20, 2016

HUGE Midsummer #sale at @AllRomance Books!



Two of my indie published books are available from All Romance Ebooks at a 25% discount!

And here they are:


http://tinyurl.com/6steamyARE 


Six sizzling short stories by award-winning, best-selling author Suz deMello, including contemporary, multicultural, New Adult, historical, paranormal, shapeshifter, medieval Scottish, vampire and power exchange. 

What readers have said about these stories: 

Five stars! Sizzling hot! 
--Kathy Heare Watts, Goodreads 


hot and steamy! 
--Tina Williams, Goodreads 


Five Stars! sizzling hot. 
--Redrabbitt on Amazon.com 



http://tinyurl.com/SecretFatherARE 


When Linda Travers was fourteen, Dave Madsen, then age seventeen, rescued her from a snowy death. They later met at an end-of-term party at their college and lost their virginities to each other before Dave left the country.

And now...Despite spending her teenage years mooning over Dave, Linda has moved on with her life. Being left pregnant and alone will force that on a gal. Age twenty-five, she lives in their hometown with their six-year-old, Mac. Then botanist Dave reappears. A vicious snakebite has left him needing rehab from the only physical therapist around—Linda.

Their college lovemaking was the first time for both, so Linda and Dave remember each other. She’s amazed to feel the same old anger, hurt, and need. Less emotional, Dave’s curious about Linda, wondering why she didn't leave her address and phone number for him when what they’d shared had been so good. Neither totally believes the explanations the other offers.

Since the rescue, Dave was always Linda’s hero, but she doesn’t know him anymore. Is he worthy of fathering their son? And what of their love? Can they create a future…together as a family?

This book has received many five star reviews on Amazon, with comments like:
"Be sure to read this great book!"
"I loved this book... It hooked me quickly and wouldn't let go.."
"I thoroughly enjoyed this touching story!"


Enjoy!

Friday, June 17, 2016

It's a hot hot hot summertime anthology! Check out WICKEDLY WANTON

http://tinyurl.com/WW-ARE (all romance ebooks)


My story in this set is For My Master, romantic suspense with a touch of BDSM. Or maybe it's BDSM with a touch of romantic suspense!

This story is about agent Kathie Belmont, who's long lusted after her boss, Ross Guerrero, but has never even flirted with him. Could he be the strong but tender Master she craves?

Ross wants Kathie in his life—on her knees. But the constraints of their jobs with an ultra-secret US security agency have come between them. Will their undercover roles as a sex slave and her Master bring them together...forever?

Here's a snippet to pique your interest:

from Chapter One
  
Station chief Ross Guerrero tapped a pencil on his blotter and scrutinized Kathie Belmont, seated on a straight-backed chair on the other side of his wide, government-issue desk. A soft-faced young woman, she had the healthy good looks of a college student or a California beach cutie, common here in San Diego. Her mink-brown hair with tasteful gold highlights was blunt cut at her chin, masking a strong jaw line. Wide, long-lashed eyes regarded Ross with openness and candor.

With multiple piercings in each ear and a silver toe ring peeping from her sandal, she looked like any girl attending San Diego State, UCSD or even Chula Vista High. In reality, Belmont was twenty-nine years old, had graduated with honors in criminal justice from Pepperdine, then gone on to a short but successful career as a police officer in Los Angeles. She’d joined the agency, performing well during training and in her first assignments. Now he’d find out if she was ready for more demanding tasks.

Her appearance was as useful as her black belt and her Glock. Living proof of the maxim “you can’t judge a book by its cover,” Agent Belmont, who’d been orphaned as a teen, had capably cared for her two younger siblings, fighting to keep her family together. She was as competent an operative as any he’d encountered during his thirteen years with the agency.

 “Here’s the situation.” Ross leaned forward. “There’s a group of baddies selling drugs just over the border. Mostly steroids, but some crystal, crack, horse … you name it, they’ve got it. Because they’re in Mexico, the usual law enforcement agencies can’t go in.”

Her hazel eyes gleamed. “But we can.”

 “Yes, we can. But there’s a twist.”

She shrugged tanned shoulders, revealed by her sleeveless pink blouse. “Isn’t there always?”

“They run their drugs and whores out of a party house.” He eyed her, wondering if she was up for the job. “An orgy house.”

Her brows lifted. “They still exist in the age of AIDS?”

“They do. This one is in a chi-chi area called the Zona Rio, on the south side of the Tijuana River.” He paused, tapping the pencil on the blotter. “I can’t go in without a woman.”

She cleared her throat. “Exactly what would this mission entail, sir?” Her voice was crisp and professional.

Even so, Ross noted the signs of nervous excitement. A slight sheen of perspiration between her breasts, where their tops were displayed by the scooped neck of her shirt. She fiddled with her hair and didn’t meet his eyes. She crossed her suntanned knees, exposed by a blue denim mini-skirt, then recrossed them, giving him a brief glimpse of pink panties. His pulse jumped. Had she intended to flash him?

He cleared his throat. “They won’t know you understand Spanish," he continued. "You’d listen as well as watch my back. This is a group of evil bastards with absolutely no morals. They’re even selling to steroids to minors, school kids with a dream of getting out of the slums as athletes.”

Her lips firmed. “Let’s get ’em, sir.”

“Your life could depend upon unswerving obedience to my commands. Truthfully, Belmont, I’m not sure you can do it.”

She bristled. “Why not?”

“Remember that Mexico is mostly a third-world country. The status of women…” He shrugged. “You’d come with me as my submissive. My slave.”

Her elegant jaw dropped. “You’re shittin’ me.”

He wagged a finger at her. “Language, young lady.”

“Pardon me, sir.” She shut her mouth with an audible snap, then said, “Is this plan sanctioned by HQ?”

He evaded, saying, “You know that they give me considerable latitude.”

Her eyes narrowed. “In other words, no, but you think you can get away with it.”

He smiled.

“So why?” she asked, her voice dropping to a shaky whisper.

“I think you know why, Belmont.” He walked around the barrier of his desk and knelt next to her chair. His face was now level with hers, and his gaze fixed on her eyes, her wide, nervous, expectant eyes. He read fear there, as well as blatant feminine curiosity.

He’d have her exactly the way he wanted, but he’d have to take care. A single wrong move, and she’d bolt.

He leaned closer, inhaling her cologne, a fresh, bright scent he didn’t recognize but suited her perfectly. He let his lips brush her neck, and watched the tiny hairs shift in subtle response. “You know why,” he murmured into her ear before nipping the lobe.

She gasped, and he chuckled. “Just let go, Belmont. Just…let go.”

She turned her head to shoot him a steady look from those compelling hazel eyes. This time, their gazes met and clashed. Her eyes were bold, unflinching, utterly unafraid.

Like what you read? Find it here:

http://tinyurl.com/WW-ARE (all romance ebooks)

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Ready for Summer? NAUGHTY HEATWAVE is here! (@naughtyLiterati @goodreads #boxset #romance)



We in the Naughty Literati have been working our fingers to the bone getting out another anthology of romance fun! 

http://tinyurl.com/hos954c
My story is Alice's Sheikh, something I've been working on for a long time. While you might think that a sheikh story is too cliched/romance-y for the wild and wicked Suz deMello, you'd be wrong. In my mild-mannered persona of Sue Swift, I sold two sheikh books to Silhouette Romance, a now-defunct division of Harlequin--and they were both bestsellers. I am not the most canny of businesswomen, but even I understand that success leaves clues, and two bestselling sheikh books could mean a third bestselling sheikh book.

Alice's Sheikh is part of a projected trilogy called A Fortune to Win. The premise of the trilogy is contained in the Prologue to Alice's Sheikh:




LORD DARLINGSIDE AND WIFE MARA 

FOUND DEAD


DRUG OVERDOSE SUSPECTED

 [ROME] The jetsetting couple known as ‘Marvey,’ Harvey Winningham, Lord Darlingside and his supermodel wife Mara Tove, were found at three a.m. today (local time) drowned in the historic Trevi Fountain. An autopsy is planned, which many fear will confirm the initial assumption that the couple’s known heroin addiction caused their deaths. Reportedly, used syringes were found on the fountain’s marble balustrade… They leave three adult children: Peter, age 26, the new Earl Darlingside; daughter Alice, 23, a teacher; Sophia, 19, a model.

…one week later…


CONTENTS OF ‘MARVEY’ WILL REVEALED

[LONDON] …Though the Winningham family solicitor, Rabbie White of White, Cheshire and Queen (Lincolns Inn Fields) remains closemouthed, an unidentified source close to the family states that the Winningham fortune, encompassing a manor house in Kent, a mansion in Hampstead, and invested monies totalling some 50 million pounds, will be divided between ‘Marvey’s’ children. However, the ‘Marvey’ trust requires the heirs make a substantial non-monetary contribution to society. Whether each child’s acts are sufficient to inherit is a decision left solely to White’s discretion. Apparently Lord and Lady Darlingside wanted to ensure that their progeny did not follow the same dangerous path they trod…

here's a snippet to whet your appetite...

Chapter One

 Port Sudan Airport, six months later

The clatter of gunfire shocked Alice Fortune into brief immobility. Dropping everything, she ducked for cover under the nearest row of shabby seats. The terminal’s interior lights went out, leaving a blackness so absolute that it warned of a widespread power outage. Even the car park’s lights had ceased twinkling through the grubby windows.

Shouts in a language she didn’t recognize pierced the air, but otherwise, the little terminal was deathly still. She wondered if airport personnel knew of an impending attack, for she was alone. Her heart banged against her ribcage, and she told herself to stop inventing tales to scare herself more. Wasn’t the situation frightening enough?

Sticky sweat poured off her body while the terminal, without air conditioning, rapidly became sweltering. She huddled deeper behind the dubious sanctuary of the chairs. After her eyes adjusted, she dimly perceived lumps in the darkness—her luggage, including her satchel. She reached for the satchel with a hesitant hand, but it was inches beyond her grasp. Sprawled beneath the chairs, she wondered if she could take a chance, scoot out and grab her most valued bag.

Silence reigned.

Darkness remained.

Alice dithered.

I am not a ditherer, she told herself. Fortunes do not dither. We fling ourselves headlong into whatever fate tosses our way.

A distant motor rumbled, the sound growing louder, coming nearer. She wriggled out from underneath the chairs, reaching for the satchel’s sturdy leather strap.

A door flew open and whacked the opposite wall. Bright lights stabbed through the thick gloom, streaming through open double doors opposite the terminal’s street entrance. Silhouetted against the light was a man, tall and muscular. He strode into the room, grabbed her questing wrist to haul her out from under the chairs and onto her feet. “Hurry! We haven’t much time!” he shouted over the beat of a helicopter’s blades, the growl of its engine.

She stumbled, and her ankle twisted. With a yelp, she regained her footing and jerked her wrist away. “Who are you?”

“Harry Ashraf. I came to pick you up. You’re Alice Fort, aren’t you?” His firm, commanding voice reflected an Oxford education and much impatience.

Harry Ashraf. She peered more closely at him and, despite the dim and shifting light, recognized him from photos she’d seen: Sheikh Haroun ibn-Ashraf al-Aghiba, her employer. Hot Harry, the tabloids called him. The appellation was beyond apt. Large dark eyes, fringed with lashes a woman would kill for, plus cheekbones higher than Everest and a mouth made for deep kisses.

A masterful attitude that made her think of hot sex and multiple orgasms. Not that she’d ever experienced either, but she read a lot. And hoped. And dreamed.

“Er, yes,” she managed.

“So come on. We haven’t much time. The rebels have cut the power lines and they mean to take the airport.” He seized her again, and wisdom told Alice not to resist his strong grasp.

But Fortunes tended to be impulsive, not wise. She tugged her wrist out of his hold and went for her satchel.

“Leave your bags. Everything you need is at my palace.”

“How do you know what I need?” she shouted at him, straining to be heard above the helicopter.

“Listen to me! Are these objects, these bags, worth our lives?”

“Just this one!”

He threw up his hands. “Fine, fine! But come on!” He sprinted toward the doors.

She grabbed her satchel by its strap and stumbled after him, passed through the double doors and into a tunnel, the illumination provided by the helicopter’s lights at its end. He was far ahead of her, and she feared she was slowing him down too much.

Without warning, he turned and tackled her, shoving his shoulder into her midsection. He straightened. Grunting, she folded over his shoulder, draped over him like a poncho.

He ran for the helicopter. Alice clutched her satchel’s strap with one hand and a loose bit of Harry’s camo flight suit with the other. Upside down, she squeezed her eyes shut to avoid getting nauseated, and found herself overwhelmed by other sensations. The hardness of Harry’s body. His male scent. His strong arm wrapped around her thighs, holding her securely.

Desire thundered through her, but how could she be thinking about sex? She squirmed. His grip tightened, and need rushed through her in hot, unwelcome waves. Control yourself. She breathed deeply, hoping she’d calm.

He raced through the tunnel, out of the terminal, and pounded across a short stretch of tarmac to the waiting bird. His arm loosened, and he slid her down the length of his muscular body, then set her on her feet. Gently.

A wave of dizziness that assailed her. She swayed.

He caught her around the waist. “Hang on.” His arm was around her, secure and strong.

She gulped and grabbed onto the front of his flight suit. His chest was solid beneath her scrabbling fingers. She looked up, meeting his gaze.

He smiled into her eyes, and her heart jumped. Then she remembered who he was—her boss—and let go of him. He opened the door of the ’copter and said, “Get in.” Gunfire popped, a little closer, and she gasped. He boosted her up and into the small round cockpit, seemingly without effort. After he ran around to his side of the ’copter and jumped in, she noticed he wasn’t panting, didn’t show the slightest sign of exertion even though he’d just carried a fifty kilo woman fifty feet and lifted her another ten.

She slid into the ’copter’s seat, then set her satchel on the floor next to her feet, relieved to hear no clink of broken glass or scrape of shattered pottery. Fumbling at the unfamiliar, many-strapped seat belt, she tangled it completely while Harry secured himself and lifted the bird into the air.


Like what you read? Find it here:


http://amzn.to/1L07LjY  Naughty Heatwave (summer 2016)—Amazon

http://amzn.to/1U7v7T0 Naughty Heatwave—print



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