Title:
Wicked,
My Love
Author: Susanna Ives
Series: Wicked Little
Secrets
Publication
Date:
March 3rd, 2015
ISBN: 9781402283604
A smooth-talking
rogue and a dowdy financial genius
Handsome, silver-tongued
politician Lord Randall doesn’t get along with his bank partner, the
financially brilliant but hopelessly frumpish Isabella St. Vincent. Ever since
she was his childhood nemesis, he’s tried—and failed—to get the better of her.
Make a perfectly
wicked combination
When both Randall’s political
career and their mutual bank interests are threatened by scandal, he has to
admit he needs Isabella’s help. They set off on a madcap scheme to set matters
right. With her wits and his charm, what could possibly go wrong? Only a
volatile mutual attraction that’s catching them completely off guard…
Today we are pleased to have Susanna
Ives join us for a round of Marry, Kiss or Kill! For this stop, we asked her to
choose between Tom Hardy, Tom Hiddleston, and Kit Harington:
“I’ve
thought long and hard about this, and I’ve decided to marry Tom Hardy, because
he makes parts of my body go all tingly just looking at his intense eyes and
sweet lips. But it will be an open
marriage because I need to repeatedly kiss Tom Hiddleston all over his
body. I’ll kill Kit Harington’s Jon Snow
character to save R.R. Martin the bother.”
Susanna
Ives
started writing when she left her job as a multimedia training developer to
stay home with her family. Now she keeps busy driving her children to various
classes, writing books, and maintaining websites. She often follows her husband
on business trips around Europe and blogs about the misadventures of touring
with children. She lives in Atlanta.
She stationed herself by the
window and scowled as if to say to the people looking in her window for vacant
seats, Don’t get in this carriage. It’s occupied by a dangerous,
sleep-deprived, hysterical woman who wants to be left alone. Stay
away. Stay away. When the conductor’s whistle blew and the train started to
rumble underneath her feet, she released her held breath and rested her head
against the back of the seat.
Wham! The carriage
door flew open and a brown leather bag went flying past her, hitting the
opposite wall. Randall leaped in just as the train lurched forward.“Good
morning, love.”
“W-what are you doing?” she
cried, the great plan that she’d spent the night weaving suddenly torn to
shreds. “You’re supposed to be getting your black heart shackled to some
beautiful nincompoop.”
“You didn’t really think I was
going to let you go alone?”
“No, of course not,” she
stammered, feeling stupid. Why was she so terrible at understanding subtle
meanings? She took everyone at their literal word. She should have known better
from that slippery snake of a man. After all, he was a politician, and a
good one, in a profession not renowned for its honesty and forthrightness.
He sat himself down beside her,
his woodsy scent clogging her nose and setting her nerves alight. She switched
to the opposite seat. “And don’t sit next to me. I don’t want people to think
we’re lovers.”
“We’re lovers?” He shot her a sly
glance. “Did you get me foxed out of my poor wits, take advantage of me in my
defenseless state, and then not have the courtesy to tell me? Did I enjoy it?”
She refused to dignify that bit
of lunacy with a direct answer. “Your mother, Judith, everyone thinks that I
l-love you. Oh, my throat hurts for uttering such moronic nonsense.”
He extended his legs, cupped his
hands behind his head, and let a charming smile laze on his lips. His blue coat
molded to his lean, flat belly and the contour of his sex bulged in his brown
trousers. “Naturally they think that,” he said. “What’s not to love?”
She averted her eyes, determined
not to look at his male part. However, the generous, manly swell in the fabric
was now emblazoned on her brain. “I really don’t have the time to discuss all
the things that I don’t love about you. The list is quite long, and I’m a bit
upset. I didn’t get any sleep, and now you are here to complicate everything. I
just…just want to read.” She unfurled her journal and bowed her head, hoping he
would take that as a cue to be quiet.
She gently rocked in her seat, as
if it were a comforting cradle, trying to keep her curious eyes from roving
back to his lap as she read and reread the first paragraph in an article about
interest rates in the banks of Holland. She had almost made it to the second
paragraph when she felt his shoulder rub against hers.
“Just relax,” he said, settling
next to her. “We’re not lovers. I detest you as much as you detest me.”
“I don’t detest you,” she
corrected. “I just don’t like you some—well, most of the time.”
“I certainly despise you, no
question about that. Now that we have our mutual dislike for each other
clarified, I think we should play a little game.”
She looked at him askew. “The our
bank fails, we lose all our money, and our names and reputations are ruined game?
I hear that it’s great fun until they cart us off to the poorhouse.”
“No, it’s the
let’s-invent-false-identities-so-as-not-to-cast-suspicion game.”
“Oh.” It made sense. She hated
when Randall made sense.
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