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Informationen zum Autor J. Kenner spent more than ten years as a litigator in Southern California and Central Texas, using her rare free time to indulge her passion for writing. California born, she now lives—and writes—in Texas, with her husband and daughters. Klappentext An emotionally charged romance between a powerful man who's never heard "no" and a fiery woman who says "yes" on her own terms He was the one man I couldn't avoid. And the one man I couldn't resist. Damien Stark could have his way with any woman. He was sexy! confident! and commanding: Anything he wanted! he got. And what he wanted was me. Our attraction was unmistakable! almost beyond control! but as much as I ached to be his! I feared the pressures of his demands. Submitting to Damien meant I had to bare the darkest truth about my past-and risk breaking us apart. But Damien was haunted! too. And as our passion came to obsess us both! his secrets threatened to destroy him-and us-forever. Release Me is intended for mature audiences. 1 A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I shiver, wishing I’d taken my roommate’s advice and brought a shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four days ago, and I haven’t yet adjusted to the concept of summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell. Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson Number One: Always carry a sweater if you’ll be out after dark. Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue- gray waves shimmering with dappled gold. I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward, drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun. I regret that I didn’t bring the battered Nikon I’ve had since high school. Not that it would have fit in my itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no. But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I’m determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and snap a picture. “Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn’t it?” I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned patron of the arts—and my hostess for the evening. “I’m so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but we don’t have sunsets like that in Dallas.” “Don’t apologize,” she says. “I pay for that view every month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better be spectacular.” I laugh, immediately more at ease. “Hiding out?” “Excuse me?” “You’re Carl’s new assistant, right?” she asks, referring to my boss of three days. “Nikki Fairchild.” “I remember now. Nikki from Texas.” She looks me up and down, and I wonder if she’s disappointed that I don’t have big hair and cowboy boots. “So who does he want you to charm?” “Charm?” I repeat, as if I don’t know exactly what she means. She cocks a single brow. “Honey, the man would rather walk on burning coals than come to an art show. He’s fishing for investors and you’re the bait.” She makes a rough noise in the back of her throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you to tell me who. And I don’t blame you for hiding out. Carl’s brilliant, but he’s a bit of a prick.” “It’s the brilliant part I signed on for,” I say, and she barks out a laugh. The truth is that she’s right about me being the bait. “Wear a cocktail dress,” Carl had said. “Something flirty.” ...
