HEAT WAVE
By Karina Halle
Standalone
Release Date: November 16, 2016
Synopsis
They say when life closes one door, another one opens.This door happens to lead to paradise.And a man I can never, ever have.
Still grieving the loss of her sister who died two years ago, the last thing Veronica "Ronnie" Locke needed was to lose her job at one of Chicago’s finest restaurants and have to move back in with her parents. So when a window of opportunity opens for her – running a kitchen at a small Hawaiian hotel – she’d be crazy not to take it.
The only problem is, the man running the hotel drives her crazy:
Logan Shephard.
It doesn’t matter that he’s got dark brown eyes, a tall, muscular build that’s sculpted from daily surfing sessions, and a deep Australian accent that makes your toes curl.
What does matter is that he’s a grump.
Kind of an asshole, too.
And gets under Ronnie’s skin like no one else.
But the more time Ronnie spends on the island of Kauai, falling in love with the lush land and its carefree lifestyle, the closer she gets to Logan. And the closer she gets to Logan, the more she realizes she may have pegged him all wrong. Maybe it’s the hot, steamy jungles or the invigorating ocean air, but soon their relationship becomes utterly intoxicating.
There’s just one major catch.
The two of them together would incite a scandal neither Ronnie, nor her family, would ever recover from.
Forbidden, Illicit, off-limits – sometimes the heat is worth surrendering to, even if you get burned.
With a forbbiden story, filled with intensity and passion Karina Halle brings
Heat Wave. A book that was born in the heart of a paradise, where fate alings to brings
you love, a family - ohana - and the unexpected.
This is the story of a powerful second chance romance between Veronica Locke and
Logan Sheppard. From the beggining the author puts us on a place where the "what ifs"
taint a love story that it looks like was doomed to fail from the first look shared between the couple, but see, life is tricky and wether we don't follow its rules we will end coming back to the ones that truly belong to us.
I saw him first.
It
shamed me to think it then, it shames me to think it now.
But
that’s what the truth does to you sometimes. It shames you because it’s only in
the truth that you realize how human you really are. What a raw, devastating
thing that is, to embrace your humanity and learn to live with all your sharp
points, the hollow places, the cracks and the crevices. To be utterly real. To
be terribly flawed.
Those
cracks had always been forming inside me, slowly making their way to the
surface over the years. In my family, there wasn’t much you could do but try
and hold yourself together, to stick glue on your wounds, to paste over the
imperfections. But the cracks still grew, until all of us were held together by
crumbling cement, just statues waiting to collapse.
That
was years and years ago. I was just twenty-two at the time. A baby. I’m still a
baby in the grand scheme of things, but there’s something precious about your
early twenties, where you think you’re so much older, bigger, than you are,
where life is just about to deliver the crushing blows that will knock you off
your feet for the rest of your days. The small things become the big things and
the big things become the small things and you aren’t quite sure when they made
the switch.
But in
the end, I saw him first. He was mine, even before he knew it. He was mine in
some strange way that I still don’t understand. The only way I can think of to
explain it is…
You
just know.
There
are moments in your life, people in your life, that when they cross your path
and meet your eye, you know. Maybe it’s all in the chemistry, certain
pheromones that react when they mix together, maybe it’s a smell that triggers
a memory, maybe it’s a glimpse at a future you don’t recognize or a hint at the
past, a life you’ve lived and forgotten. Whatever it is, you know that moment,
that person, is going to shape you for the rest of your life.
That’s
what it was like when I saw him. Standing over by the windows and staring out
Lake Michigan, like he was wishing he could be anywhere but there.
I
wished the same. My mother’s the deputy mayor of Chicago and this was another
one of her fundraisers I felt obliged to attend. It was tradition in my family,
for my father, for me, for my sister, to show up and wave the flag of support.
It didn’t seem to matter that the stuffy politicians that surrounded these
events never paid me any attention. And if they did, it was the wrong kind of
attention, always the sixty-year-old man leering after the young thing with the
nice smile.
Luckily
I didn’t smile all that often. My resting bitch face took over whenever I was
deep in thought, which was pretty much all the time.
But
this guy…I felt a kinship with him. I felt like I knew exactly what he was
thinking, feeling, and that it was completely wrapped up in and connected to
everything that was going through me.
I don’t
know where I found the nerve to go over and talk to him. He seemed so much
older, not quite the sixty-year-old politicians I was used to seeing, but maybe
in his early-thirties. More than that, there was some kind of aura around him.
Sounds stupid, I know. Whatever it was, it was like he belonged in some whole
other universe than here, a star on earth, permanently grounded and yearning to
be in the sky.
It was
usually Juliet’s job to go around and make everyone feel warm and comfortable
at these events—hell, in every event—but she wasn’t here yet. And though I
could have easily stayed in the shadows, I was pulled to him, like he had a
wave of gravity whirling around him.
I
remember what I was wearing. Strappy flats because I hated wearing heels, a
knee-length cocktail dress in emerald green, sleeveless, high-neck. It made me
look older and I wore it because my mother always wanted me to look like a
lady.
With a
glass of champagne in hand, I made my way over to the windows, my heart racing
the closer I got to him. He looked taller up close, well over six feet. His
shoulders were broad, like a swimmer’s, and suddenly I had a vision of him
diving into the lake. The navy blue suit he was wearing looked well-tailored
but he seemed uncomfortable in it, like he couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
I stood
beside him for a moment, following his gaze out the window. He seemed lost in
his thoughts but out of my peripheral his head tilted slightly and he brought
his eyes over to me while I kept staring at that wide expanse of water,
stretching out to the horizon.
“Can’t
wait to get out of here?” I asked, but though my tone was mild, my delivery was
bold. It was as if someone else had taken a hold of my body, forcing me to
speak. I slowly turned my head to meet his eyes.
I was
taken aback for a second. He was staring at me like he knew me, even though I’d
never seen him before. Then again, I was sure I’d been staring at him in the
same way. That feeling of knowing. He knew me, I knew him, and who the hell
knows how that was possible.
His
eyes were brown—are brown—dark with currents of gold and amber, giving them
beautiful clarity. Slightly almond shaped. His brows were also dark, arched,
adding to the intensity of his gaze. He’s the type of guy whose eyes latch onto
you, dig deep, trying to sift through the files of your life, see who you
really are.
“How
did you know?” he asked, a full-on Australian accent rumbling through his gruff
voice. It made my stomach flip, my core smolder. How deed you now, is what it sounded like. Funny how I stopped
hearing the accent after time.
I gave
a half shrug and looked back to the party. More people had flooded the room,
mingling around the appetizers. My mother was in the corner, a crowd of
politicians around her. She didn’t see me. She never did.
“Because
I think I’d rather be in the middle of Lake Michigan too,” I told him, “then be
stuck here with all these people.”
“These
people,” he repeated. My focus was drawn to his lips, full, wide, tilting up
into a smirk. Beneath them was a strong chin and even sharper jaw, dusted with
a five o’clock shadow that seemed permanent, like the man couldn’t get a clean
shave even if he tried. “How do you know I’m not one of these people?”
“Because
you’re over here and not over there. How come you keep answering my questions
with more questions?”
He
studied me for a moment. My blood pounded in my head and I felt a giddy kind of
thrill at how this was progressing. If anything, I was proud for holding my own
with this handsome stranger. He was the first man I ever really felt at ease
with.
He
cleared his throat, offered me a quick smile before he nodded at the lake, his
hands sliding into his pockets. “She almost looks like the ocean, doesn’t she?”
“Not
quite the same as Australia, I would imagine.”
“No
hiding this accent, is there?” He glanced at me and stuck out his hand, which I
shook for a moment, warm palm to warm palm. “I’m Logan Shepard. Australian. And
the reason I’m here is because I was invited by a friend of mine. I’m only in
town for a few days and he didn’t want to go alone. He’s over there.” He nodded
at a tall black man in the corner, listening intently to another man.
“Warren Jones,” he said, as if I should know
him. Perhaps I should. He probably thought I was one of them. “He’s local and the key piece to my investment.”
I
wasn’t one for business talk—I never had anything to contribute other than
lamenting student loans—but I wanted him to keep talking. “What’s your
investment?”
“Starting
my own hotel,” he said. “In Hawaii. Have you ever been there?”
“Once.
When I was eight. I think we were in Honolulu. I remember a city, anyway.
Waikiki Beach.”
“This
hotel is in Kauai. The Garden Isle. Went there once as a teenager and couldn’t
get it out of my mind.”
I
didn’t know the right things to say. I wanted to ask more about the hotel, what
it means when you have an investor, but I didn’t want to appear dumb. I kept my
mouth shut.
“You
haven’t introduced yourself,” he said. “Protecting a secret identity?”
I
smiled, close-lipped. “Not really. I’m Veronica Locke. American. And I
unfortunately I don’t have much else to add to that.”
“Locke?”
he repeated, eyes darting to my mother. “Are you the daughter of the deputy
mayor, Rose Locke?”
“One of
them,” I told him.
He
nodded quickly. “I see. No wonder you’d rather be in the middle of the bloody
lake. I bet you have to do this stuff all the time.”
“It’s
not so bad.” I took a sip of my drink so I didn’t have to say anything more and
looked away at the crowd. The bubbles teased my nose, making my eyes water.
I could
feel his gaze on me as he spoke. “I’m sure you have plenty more to say about
yourself though. Where do you work? Student?”
“Culinary
arts,” I told him. “I’m one of those crazy people who dream of being a chef one
day.”
He
frowned. “Why is that crazy?”
I gave
him a look, forgetting that most people have no idea how hard it is. “Because
it’s a long road, long hours, and nothing is guaranteed. People think being a
chef is easy. They see Gordon Ramsey or Nigella Lawson and think it’s all fame
and food and money and they have no idea what it’s really like. I’m not even
out of school and already I feel half-beaten.”
He was
still frowning. He did that a lot, I would soon learn. “Sounds like life to
me.” His eyes dropped to my lips and something intensely carnal came over them,
like suddenly I was the food, not the wannabe chef. “Did you want to get a
drink somewhere. After this? When you’ve done your daughterly duties?”
I
swallowed hard. I didn’t know what a drink meant. Just a drink? A date? Was it
sex? I started going through my head, trying to think of reasons why it was a
bad idea. My legs were shaved, did my bra and underwear match? Did I have a
condom? I had taken the pill this morning, even though my last boyfriend and I
had broken up months ago. I hadn’t been with a guy, let alone a man, in a long
time.
Don’t flatter yourself, I quickly
thought. What makes you think he’d be
interested in you that way?
“Yes,”
I said when I finally found my voice. “Yes, I would like that.”
A spark
flashed in his eyes, lighting them up in such a way that made my toes literally
curl. Damn. I was in trouble with this man. “Any way you can get out of your
duties sooner?” he asked.
I
couldn’t help but smile, raising my brow at his presumptuousness, while simultaneously
trying to hide the fact that I was freaking out. I looked around the room and
tried to judge how likely it was that someone would notice if I was gone. My
mom was still surrounded by a wall of people and no one was paying any
attention to us, standing by the windows, already removed.
A sad
thought hit me, sliding past before I could really dwell on it: no one even notices when I’m here.
“If
we’re quick and sneaky,” I told him.
“Being
quick isn’t in my repertoire,” he said, “but I could give it a shot.”
Again.
Damn. I wasn’t one to blush but I could feel my cheeks heating up and hoped my
skin supressed the flush. He was so much older than me in so many ways, the
last thing I wanted was to appear the naïve schoolgirl.
And I
didn’t know what to say to that. He was staring at me with those dark eyes, a
look so intense yet sparkling with charm and something…wicked.
I’d
never find out how wicked they could be.
“Ronnie!”
A melodic, ultra-feminine voice sliced through the moment like an unwieldy
machete, causing me to flinch, my fingers tightening around the stem of the
glass.
Oh no, I thought. Not now.
Logan’s
head swiveled toward the sound of the voice, like a hound picking up a scent. I
didn’t bother looking over, I kept my focus on him, watching his expression
intently. It changed, as I knew it would.
She had walked into the room.
He saw
her.
And
like it was for so many men, that look of lust I had thought was for me, was
now for her.
That’s
when I knew it was over. Whatever thing I had felt for him, it didn’t matter
anymore, not when she was in the room. Nothing ever mattered as long as she was
around.
I might
have saw him first.
But he
was all hers after that.
Halle is represented by the Waxman Leavell Agency and is both self-published and published by Simon & Schuster and Hachette in North America and in the UK.
Hit her up on Instagram at @authorHalle, on Twitter at @MetalBlonde and on Facebook. You can also visit www.authorkarinahalle.com and sign up for the newsletter for news, excerpts, previews, private book signing sales and more.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario