Book Blurb:
The Diva and the
Duke – Book One of The Three Goddesses Series
When a 21st
century diva...
Haven Edwards is a
sensual, intelligent, 21st century diva with an “exotic” career. Wanting
nothing more than to move past her ugly divorce, she attends an adults
only Carnal-val where she’s compelled to steal a strangely glowing
pocket watch. Overcome with its power, she winds it. A portal opens beneath her
feet, hurtling her back through time to 1817 where she crashes into the life of
the very proper, very sexy, Logan Dunham. A duke with a deep distrust of
beautiful women, Logan can’t understand his staggering desire for the woman
with the quick wit, and jade green eyes—the woman who haunted his dreams long
before they met.
…meets a 19th
century duke…
Haven is determined
to find a way home, but she can’t shake her hunger for the dark, brooding duke.
He’s a duke, he’s out of her league, right? So why does her heart beat a little
faster whenever he is near? Why does her mind conjure images of happily ever
after?
One touch, and they
are consumed by their desire. But before they can untangle their feelings for one
another, a sociopath with a god complex and a knife fetish sets his evil
intents on Haven. In order to save her life, Logan must destroy the demons of
his past, and learn to trust a power he doesn’t understand. What happens when
he arrives too late? Will the time-swept diva be lost forever, or will the diva
get her duke?
…the sparks fly,
tempers and passions flare, and two souls touch across time.
The Diva and the
Duke is a time-travel, paranormal, Regency suspense filled to the brim with
spicy wit, fiery romance, hot sex, humor, and a villain you have to read to
believe.
Excerpt – THE DIVA
AND THE DUKE – © 2014 JACKSON D’LYNNE
Haven hid behind the
bed curtain when the maid brought in a very late dinner, and fought back
nervous giggles at the utter craziness of the situation. Not only had she just
made earth shattering love to a 19th century duke for the third time, she was
ducking behind a silken curtain in order to keep their “indiscretion” a secret
from his household staff. If they were in 2013, there wouldn’t be a need for
the secrecy—they’d be uncaring about who knew about their intimacies. In 2013,
no one cared, it wasn’t their business, everyone had sex, right? In 1817, sex
outside of marriage was juicy gossip that could literally turn an entire
society on its head. As if no one had affairs. She’d read enough Regency era
romance novels to know better.
Struck again by the
overwhelming disparities in their times and cultures, she blew a pent up
breath. When the bedroom door clicked shut, she let her legs fall from their
bunched position behind the curtain.
Logan set the tray
of food on a footstool, made his way to the bed, removed his dressing gown, and
climbed in.
“God, Haven, your
legs are so long, luscious, and as smooth as silk. I can't help but touch them.
How are your legs are so sleek?”
A rush of blood
through her brain buzzed behind her ears. She couldn’t concentrate on his words
when his hands slowly caressed her bare leg.
Smooth? Sleek? She tilted her head, and blinked. It took
her a moment to figure out what he meant. When she realized he meant hairless, a loud laugh burst from her.
“You mean why aren't they covered in a layer of prickly hair?”
He raised an eyebrow
at her, and hesitated before answering. “Covered in hair, yes.”
Women's razors,
Nair, cosmetic wax, and other hair removal beauty treatments were commonplace
in the 21st century. In 1817, women didn't have the luxury of electrolysis, so
unlike the historical romance novel portrayals of sexy, bare legged heroines,
realistically, women in Regency England had gams that could double as cacti in
stockings.
“Well, in 2013, a
woman can go to a dermatologist, a skin doctor, or a special oasis for stressed
out women called a spa. At the spa, or dermatologist, you can get a procedure
called electrolysis. Using a laser, a beam of concentrated light, they burn out
the root of the hair along a targeted area. I had the procedure on my legs.
They will never grow hair again.”
Eyes wide, he
murmured, “That sounds painful.”
“It’s totally safe,
I didn’t feel a thing, but afterward I did get a terrible rash at the top of my
right thigh.” She shuddered in pleasure when his hand slid its way from her
calf to the very top of her inner thigh.
“Now that’s a shame,
but I do appreciate the results,” he drawled low.
Her tummy did a
flip-flop when a sexy smile lit up his face. God, this man was too damn
gorgeous. “So, how do you still have all your teeth? And they’re pearly white
and gleaming clean to boot.” Seemingly inspired by her words, he nipped the
sensitive area beneath her right ear which sent delicious shivers through her.
He smiled again when his actions elicited a moan.
He furrowed his brow
in puzzlement. “Why wouldn't I have all of my teeth, and why wouldn't I take
care to keep them clean?”
She giggled. “When
you've seen as many photos of Europeans in history books as I have, you'd know
the answer.” Laughing again, she smiled. “The running joke in America is that
men and women in England are a smile's worst enemy. They don’t care about their
oral hygiene, so their teeth are crooked, tinted shades of brown, or missing
altogether. Hence my surprise at your perfect teeth. They are white, clean,
straight, and all there.”
The smile in
question appeared and commenced the stomach flip flops. “That isn’t a fair
assumption. That observation cannot possibly be true of all Britons. While I
haven't examined my aunt's teeth as I would a horse I was eying at
Tattersall’s, I do believe her teeth are still there. She snaps them at me
often enough.”
She threw her head
back on the pillow and laughed. Rising over her, he looked down at her, his
eyes burning black, desire and want etched into every feature.
“I love your laugh.
You don’t do it often enough.” His husky voice sent shivers over her quickly
warming skin.
Her playful smile
transitioned into one of sensual appreciation. How could this man say something
so innocuous, and still turn her inside out?
After a long, deep,
body humming kiss, Logan’s expression turned contemplative. Was his pensive
face ever a good face? Bracing for a sour turn in their sweet interlude, she
waited for him to speak.
“Haven, the night of
the dinner party, after I’d...ahem...accused you of slashing my mother’s
portrait, you said something that didn’t stir my mind until now.”
A low flutter beat
against her stomach. “What?” She took a fortifying breath.
“I believe you said
you hadn’t “asked to be spied on and
creeped out”. What does ‘creeped out’
mean, and who was spying on you?”
She let her breath
out with a rush, the flutters in her stomach dying away. Squeezing the bridge
of her nose, she paused, unsure of where to start she explained. “Creeped out
means I felt uncomfortable, uneasy, because I thought someone was standing
outside the powder room waiting for me.” Thinking back to their earlier
confrontation over the misplaced, or rather purposely placed glove, she
continued, “Apparently, I was right. My glove didn’t get up and walk into the
gallery by itself. Someone followed me to the powder room, waited for me to go
in, stole my glove, shredded the painting, and then left my glove there as
planted evidence.” Fury furled through her like a slow burning blaze. “Who in
the hell would do that? What could they possibly gain from framing me? I am
nothing, no one.”
Especially to you...
She looked over at
him. He sat silently, a quizzical look drawing his brows together.
“Why didn’t you tell
me this immediately?” He sounded affronted.
She huffed in
frustration. “I tried! When you get on your high horse and are hell bent on
cramming someone’s guilt down their throats, there’s no getting through to you.
Although, you must have heard some of what I said.”
Chagrin flooded his
expression. “I do hear you, Haven,” he said smoothly. When she pinched her
expression in disbelief he amended, “I heard
you. The words just didn’t fully form in my mind until the heat of the
situation cooled.”
She laughed. Their
current situation was much hotter than that of their earlier argument.
Much hotter.
Trying to get her
mind out of the gutter where it swam amongst debris shaped like rock hard
cocks, she bit her lip. When the sharp pain focused her mind, she asked, “Who’d
want to slash a painting of your mother, and then blame me? Who would have
motive?”
Throwing his legs
over the side of the bed, he made to stand up, but turned to her instead.
“Honestly, I do not know. My mother didn’t have an enemy in the world. As per
her wishes, everyone loved her, would do anything for her, and she thrived on
the attention. She would do anything for the adoration.” His voice hitched as
the last words rumbled passed his lips. His face darkened, and his eyes turned
a smoldering black. A bitter, inky black.
She should tread
lightly, change the subject and let the cards fall where they may, but where
had that gotten her so far? In a sweltering, loveless hell, that’s where. She
wanted out. She wanted to pull out the sledgehammer and smash through the walls
he’d erected around his heart, and show him he didn’t have to be bound by the
shadows of his past.
So, she swung the
hammer. “So you can’t think of anyone who would want to destroy your mother’s
portrait? Maybe someone she’d wronged? She can’t have been a saint, no one is.”
“No,” he ground out,
“not a saint.”
His voice flattened,
and his expression blanked. “She tried to kill me.”
