She’s a Holiday Grinch…
Carly Gatlin doesn’t want to spend another Christmas alone. With her beloved father gone, she’s desperate to be part of a family—so she’s spending the holidays with her step-brothers on Stewart Island. But even with sand, sun, and not a snowflake in sight, everything reminds her of what she’s lost. So no tree trimming, cookie baking, or kisses under the mistletoe for her, thanks. Especially not from Due South’s sexy bartender, Kip.
He’s a too-hot-for-his-Santa-suit killjoy...
Kip Sullivan’s moved hundreds of miles away from his family who’d like to see him married off before his next birthday—on Christmas Eve. Then ten days before the big event, his meddling relatives arrive en masse, and dear God, they’re planning to stay. With match-makers breathing down his neck, it’s becoming harder to ignore the temptation to unwrap Carly like a present under the tree.
The Kiwi barbecue isn't the only thing sizzling this summer...
Kip agrees to help make Carly’s first New Zealand Christmas special. He’s got five holiday missions to complete—one involving a frisky fake reindeer—before he hopes to claim a mistletoe kiss…and maybe even Carly’s heart.
Christmas just isn’t Christmas without this spicy yet sweet Due South novella.
Tracey Alvarez lives in the Coolest Little Capital in the World (a.k.a Wellington, New Zealand) where she’s yet to be buried under her to-be-read book pile by Wellington’s infamous wind—her Kindle’s a lifesaver! Married to a wonderfully supportive IT guy, she has two teens who would love to be surgically linked to their electronic devices.
Fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, she’s the author of contemporary romantic fiction set predominantly in New Zealand. Small-towns, close communities, and families are a big part of the heart-warming stories she writes. Oh, and hot, down-to-earth heroes—Kiwi men, in other words.
When she’s not writing, thinking about writing, or procrastinating about writing, Tracey can be found reading sexy books of all romance genres, nibbling on smuggled chocolate bars, or bribing her kids to take over the housework.
She stepped under the shade of the first huge pohutukawa, blinking as her eyes struggled to adapt.
“Concentrate, zoomie,” she whispered. Her fingers fumbled up the grooved handle to find the trigger. “You got this.”
“Not this time, sweetheart.”
A strong arm wrapped around her body, pinning her arms helplessly to her side. Plastic pressed to the throbbing vein in her throat. Water seeped out of the gun and dripped down her neck. The shivers returned with a vengeance, but this time, they had nothing to do with chilly water and everything to do with the man pressed full length against her.
Warm breath puffed against her ear, and the cradle of his hips butted into her bottom. “Drop your weapon.”
Kip may as well have said, “Drop your panties.” His deep, rough voice affected her the same way.
Never surrender your weapon, zoomie.
Her throat seized, her mouth parched to sticky dryness. “No.”
Plastic squeaked, and more water oozed out of the gun, trickling down her overheated skin. The strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm flexed, not tight enough to hurt, just enough for her to know she couldn’t break free without a struggle—and another soaking.
“Resistance is futile.” Something soft and warm brushed over her earlobe, continued with butterfly lightness down the column of her throat to the very spot where her vein leaped under the skin. “I have you right where I want you. So drop it. I win.”
Her knees filled with wibbly-wobbly Jell-O, and her fingers on the gun handle had all the strength of mini sponge cakes. She was a sweet, hot mess from him grabbing her and breathing on her neck? Double-dammit. She’d underestimated the enemy’s skills at tactical engagement.