Hi everyone – Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel, Felice Navidad, er my language skills stop there and I’m not sure I got those right, even the Merry Christmas! Thanks so much to Mary for her utter devotion to ménages – long and short, soft and – oh – er – hard. I’ve written quite a lot – they’re all MMFs – so featuring bisexual guys and a straight female.
I hope everyone has a wonderful time and doesn’t eat too much, drink too much and – oh what am I talking about – this is the time to eat and drink as much as you can because the diet starts on the first of January.
I’ve already had my Christmas present – a new laptop. So of course, I’m still working on old faithful. Until I have time to fathom out the new office program – I’m sticking with what I know. Plus I’ve almost finished writing my latest book and I don’t want to transfer it and find there are issues. So me and Mr. Toshiba – he with the sexy missing keys – will be with each other for a little while yet.
The reason I chose to showcase Just What She Wants – is that it’s a Christmas story and for once, not set in my home country of England – but in Orlando. For me Christmas is always about cold and sometimes about snow but the only place it snows in Orlando is every night in December, on the hour from 6 until 9 in the aptly name town – Celebration. It’s not real snow – but foam, though the kids don’t care. They roll around in it. If I thought I could get up again after I’d rolled around, I might have joined them a week ago. But now I’m no longer in Orlando but in the cold and dreary UK- but guess what! As I write this snow is threatened. Just as long as it doesn’t come while I’m trying to get somewhere.
For one lucky commentator – there is a free ebook waiting for you – any from my backlist. It doesn’t have to be the one detailed below.
I wish you and all your friends and family – even the ones you don’t like – a very happy Christmas and a brilliant New Year!
xxx Hugs xxx love xxxx
Barbara Elsborg lives in West Yorkshire in the north of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Vulcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.
After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.
Her books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, and she hopes they are as much fun to read as they are to write.
With a name like hers, Indiana Jones knows she ought to be adventurous and daring but when she’s tricked into taking a vacation on her own, and discovers she’s staying at a swinging resort, she wants to spend the week in her room. But the place is run by two of the most tempting men she’s ever seen. She could have just what she wants and no one would ever know.
Marc finds it hard to see his partner Kyle in physical and mental anguish but if the guy won’t talk about it, what can he do? Finding a third might be the answer and he has just the woman in mind, unless she runs off before he can make her smile.
Crippled and depressed, Kyle can’t even kiss his partner and wonders why the guy puts up with him. If only he could let the past go and move on. Maybe, just maybe, an intriguing guest will show him the way.
Even with nothing to declare, Indie always felt guilty when she came through customs. As she stood in line, she bit back the urge to shout, yes, I’m bringing three bikinis, my best underwear, and a butt plug into the country, and instead kept her head down. She didn’t actually have a butt plug. Well, she did, but not in her luggage because with her luck, her bag would burst open and Medium-sized Pink Thing would roll to the feet of some gorgeous stranger who might well have asked her out had he not seen her naughty secret.
She smothered her sigh of relief when the sniffer dog moved on. The mutts were probably trained to listen for guilty exclamations. She’d never taken illegal drugs in her life, yet the dogs always found her luggage particularly fascinating. Probably because whenever she took care of her brother’s cat, it slept in her bag. The customs official took the form she’d filled in, gave it a quick glance, and waved her on her way. Despite misgivings about coming on her own, she felt a ripple of excitement at being in another country with the chance of being someone other than Poor Indie, if only for a couple of weeks.
A short monorail journey later, she emerged into the vast atrium of Orlando International Airport to be confronted by the most enormous Christmas tree she’d ever seen. It looked amazing, smothered in shimmering lights and huge silver, red, and purple balls. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat didn’t shift. She’d planned to escape Christmas with all its trimmings and memories, but she suspected she nurtured a forlorn hope.
As instructed by email, she made her way down the escalator to baggage claim though she had nothing to collect. She’d carried her bag with her from the first carousel situated just past the immigration desks. Her gaze settled on a tall, slim guy with jet-black hair wearing sunglasses who stood next to her destination. He stared straight ahead, and the tight set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the rigid way he held himself upright, told her he was in pain.
Indie smothered her gasp when she stepped in front of him. With a lean face, stubbled chin, and sharp cheekbones, he was handsome enough to make angels pant with lust, and he held a sign saying Heden. He was hers—sort of. She’d never swooned in her life but thought she might be about to.
Think of something clever to say.
“Hello. Me you looking for? Indiana.” Oh, blast.
“Excuse me?” he said.
Deep breath. “I think you might be waiting for me. My name’s Indie Jones. Lisa couldn’t come. She broke her leg this morning tripping over her mother’s dog. Winnie’s small and cute, cream colored, and blends into the carpet. Oh, the dog, not the mother.” Shut up.
Even without seeing his eyes, she recognized the look, the sort reserved for annoying children about to be sent to bed with no supper, and hopes of him feeling even a tiny bit of what she felt turned to sludge.
He held out his hand. “Kyle Landon.”
As he wrapped his large, tanned hand around hers, muscles between her legs tightened in a way they usually only did in bed, with a bit of help. For the last year, with only her help.
“Indiana Jones?” he asked.
She gave him points for not smirking. “My parents were huge fans of the movies. Obsessive nuts, actually, and yes, I know Indiana was really the dog’s name, but I’d rather be Indiana than Henry or Junior.” She grinned. He didn’t smile back. Oh well, good looks and a sense of humor were a lot to ask for.