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Blurb:
Henley, the head of cyber security at Blaine
Technologies, is a man no one crosses. He watches employees constantly using
his network of cameras and enforces his rules by any means possible. Rumors of
his violent past, his scarred hands and huge size have resulted in him being
feared by everyone… almost everyone.
Katalina, the new intern, worries about the
revelation of her most painful secret much more than she fears her sexy boss’s
wrath. She sees the loneliness in his dark eyes, feels the gentleness in his
marred fingers, tastes the need in his kisses, and she knows he watches her.
His silly rules about not stripping for the cameras and no sex at the office
are destined to be broken.
Kat likes to be watched. Henley can’t look away.
Will this beauty be able to tame her beastly boss?
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Buy
Links:
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Excerpt:
No
one in this coffee shop knows who I am. I stand in the line, waiting to place
my order. They don’t know about my past. They don’t know my last name. I tap my
lavender heels against the floor, drumming an up-tempo tune into the
tan-colored tile. They won’t remind me why I shouldn’t be happy.
I
need to be happy. I need to laugh, to have fun, to focus on this fresh start.
If I don’t, I’ll cry, and I promised my father I wouldn’t cry. I plaster a
silly smile across my face and I tap my heels harder against the floor. These
two actions lighten my mood, allowing me to cope with my emotions.
The
bleary-eyed woman swaying in front of me yawns, adding vocals to my beat. For
LA locals, it’s six in the morning. For a recently displaced New York native
such as myself, it feels like nine o’clock. I’m eager to start my new job and
my new life on the West Coast.
I’m
two hours early. The internship orientation session at Blaine Technologies is
scheduled for eight o’clock sharp, not one minute before and not one minute
after. Although caffeine is the last thing I need, standing in line at this
coffee shop gives me something to do and someone to watch.
I
slide my gaze to the fascinating someone waiting at the front counter. The
biggest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life looms over the cash register, his
feet braced apart as though he’s preparing for battle. His ebony hair is
cropped close to his head, hiding nothing, and he’s dressed completely in black
like a villain from a 1970s spy movie.
I
survey my behemoth’s broad shoulders. It’s all him under his jacket, not a hint
of padding disturbing the cut. His suit is bespoke, custom made especially for
his big body, and I suspect the designer was English. My mystery man is wearing
Barker Blacks, his leather shoes as large as the rest of him. Even his matching
dress shirt is well made, the collar and cuffs stiff and crisp.
He
glances over his right shoulder, meets my gaze, and I inhale sharply. His eyes
are as dark as his ensemble, his nose flattened and his chin square. Everything
about him screams power, strength, vitality, and the woman in me responds, my
nipples tightening, my breasts pressing against the blazer of my favorite
lavender suit.
My
behemoth returns his gaze to the frazzled barista and I exhale, my head
spinning. It has been years since I’ve allowed myself to notice a man, to think
about what I want, what I need. My fingers tremble as I smooth my flared skirt.
I want this stranger desperately, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.
This
is a problem, as I have no idea how to snag his attention. My last date took
place when I was seventeen, and I suspect flashing my breasts at a pep rally
won’t land me this sophisticated man. I chew on the inside of my cheek, having
no other clever ideas.
I
ponder my next steps, and my stranger moves away from the front counter,
clasping a cup of coffee with his thick fingers. He ordered plain black coffee,
no cream, no sugar, no whipped cream, and hell no to the chocolate sprinkles.
My father likes his coffee the same way.
My
mystery man stops at the lid and stir stick island and a stout man wearing
mismatched jacket and pants rushes to the counter, barking his order at the
disheveled barista. The rest of us shuffle forward in line. The tall skinny
brunette behind me pleads into her sparkly pink phone, begging her boyfriend to
give her one more chance. She’ll be the girl he needs, she promises. She’ll
lose those last five pounds.
I
don’t know where she’ll lose those five pounds. She’s already as thin as a yard
of fine silk ribbon. I look down at my more ample bosom, my breasts wrapped
snugly in the blazer.
“No,
please.” The brunette sobs. “Derek! Derek!” She glances at her phone’s small
screen and her face crumples. My heart aches for her. She doesn’t know how to
hide her sorrow, not like I do. I can help her with this.
I
touch the girl’s bare arm, diverting her attention away from her phone. “Who
did your pedicure?” I feign an interest in her perfect pink toes. Although her
beige sandals are adorably strappy, my goal is to distract her from her
grief. “I have to know,” I insist.
The
brunette wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. “I—I—I—”
I
glance around us fervently as though I’m afraid someone will overhear us. The
behemoth is watching me, his dark eyes glinting with intelligence. Some people
think big men are dumb. Some people also think blond women are stupid and no
one should wear pink at a funeral. I learned long ago to ignore some people.
“Look
at what happened to me on the flight here.” I slip my right foot out of my
lavender pumps and wiggle my big toe. A huge chip of coral polish has flaked
off, revealing raw nail. “I rushed for a flight, banged into a baggage cart,
and that was it. My pedicure was ruined.”
The
brunette’s red-rimmed eyes widen. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s
a disaster.” I ignore the behemoth’s shaking shoulders. He doesn’t understand.
My mystery man has the strength to deal with loss directly. He doesn’t need to
pretend, to use trivial distractions as a means to cope. He would never travel
across an entire country seeking to escape his sadness.
“I’m
in a strange city,” I explain. “I have so many cute sandals and I can’t wear
them.” I shove my foot back into my shoe, hiding the offending toe.
As
we exchange information and bad salon stories, the behemoth leaves. I watch his
broad shoulders disappear into the LA sunshine and feel as though I’ve lost a
piece of my soul, a part of my future.
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Bio:
Cynthia Sax lives in a world
where demons aren’t all bad, angels aren’t all good, and magic happens every
single day. Although her heroes may not always say, “I love you”, they will do
anything for the women they love. They live passionately. They fight fiercely.
They love the same women forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers
himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world
together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places
such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Twitter: @CynthiaSax
Who needs a man? Not Isla. Because it's not like they look hawt or smell good enough to eat... Okay, maybe they do but she's an independent woman. No way is she tempted in any way, shape or form. She can take care of herself, thank you very much. In more ways than one.
The Mistress rules all, but who rules the Mistress? 
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