Lost MelodyBy Dolores Maroney
BLURB:
....Out of sight, out of mind. That’s what Melody Ravenswood was
counting on when she invented a new life for herself as Mel Harper in the small
farming community of Willowbrook, Texas. She could be herself, whoever that
was. Having long since lost her identity to being the only child and sole
beneficiary of a legendary rock and roller, she was finally going to live the
normal life she craved – a job, a house, friends and no paparazzi.
....Hank Travis is the last thing Mel needs in her new life. The
local boy turned rock and roll star’s sexy, won’t take no for an answer pursuit
makes her long for a life she has only dreamed of. Before Mel can have the
future she wants with Hank, she must confront her past and find the Melody she
lost along the way.
Genre: Contemporary erotic romance
Pages: 266
Available: ebook & print
2014 HOLT Medallion Award of Merit - Virginia Romance Writers
Finalist - 2014 Booksellers Best Award - Greater Detroit Romance Writers
2013 Reader's Choice Award Finalist - RomCon
Winner - 2012 Melody of Love Contest - Music City Romance Writers
BUY Links:
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###
Author Bio:
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EXCERPT:
Hank
leaned back in his desk chair. A stack of invoices awaited his attention but
images of Mel Harper eclipsed everything. She had stepped into his line of
sight and somehow lodged herself into his consciousness, refusing to go away.
He
could still see her rose-petal lips telling him she was new in town. Even
though he had been on tour for most of the last six months, the information had
not been news. He had lived in Willowbrook his entire life. If Mel Harper had
been here for long, he would have remembered her. Just like he would never
forget the first moment he saw her.
He
had been so absorbed in the song he was listening to and trying to concentrate
on his dad’s tax returns, he hadn’t noticed her at first. Something had caught
his eye, and he’d glanced up. There she’d stood in the doorway, clutching a
greasy bag in a white knuckled grip while she balanced two paper hot-cups in
her other hand. Large, sky-blue eyes framed by long lashes had taken his
measure, and he’d gladly returned the favor.
At
that point, if she had turned out to be a stalker he wouldn’t have cared. Talk
about visions coming to life. She was the subject of every wet dream he’d ever
had—small, perky, and sexy as hell with those curves of hers. Dressed in her
stylish business attire, a lurid fantasy involving a secretary, a desk, and a
fair amount of sexual harassment had instantly popped into his head.
He’d
managed to shake the fantasy out of his head, but he couldn’t shake her image.
The fact she was a reporter didn’t seem to matter much to his body even though
a small portion of his brain still urged caution where the species was
concerned. What would it hurt to indulge his libido a little bit? It wasn’t
like he was going to see her again anytime soon. Willowbrook was small, but he
didn’t spend much time in town when he was at home, and few people came to the
farm. Avoiding her would be easy enough.
He
closed his eyes and let the image take shape in his mind.
She
couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two, petite, but not fragile. Her dark
hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her skin reminded him of warm
milk, creamy and smooth.
At
first, he’d thought she had to be a fan—perhaps a crazy one. Being the drummer
for the rock band BlackWing, he’d had his share of pushy fans. It wouldn’t have
been the first time one had tracked him down, but he’d never had one walk right
in without invitation and bring breakfast, too. Crazy fan or not, she’d been
about the sexiest thing he had ever seen. His hormones had snapped to attention
faster than he could get his feet under him. When she’d turned and he’d seen
her ass and the way the rose-colored fabric molded itself to her curves as she
walked…. Well, there’d been no stopping the fantasies at that point.
Then
she’d introduced herself, and his desire had hit a brick wall. Worse than a
fan. Worse even than a stalker.
The
wet dream was a reporter.
The
revelation should have killed his interest, and it had for a few minutes. He
shouldn’t be thinking about her, not in any way, shape, or form. But here he
sat trying to concentrate on work, and there she was, front and center in his
thoughts. Sexy. She sure as hell didn’t shop locally. Those were big city
clothes—understated, sophisticated, classy. And either she didn’t know who he
was or she was a very good actress as well as a reporter.
He
acknowledged the improbability, but with reporters, you never knew. Some would
go to any length to get a story. He needed to steer clear of her, avoid further
contact, keep temptation at arm’s length. He had plenty to do. Enough to keep
him busy and far away from town for the next few months. He didn’t have to see
her. He didn’t have to talk to her.
He
wrestled his runaway libido under control and turned his attention to the
blinking light on his message machine. He listened to two messages from his
publicist, one from his agent, and one from his father indicating he would
bring a friend along for dinner. The last and most important message was from
Sir Jonathan Youngblood in London.
He
mentally calculated the time difference between Texas and London. The
RavensBlood cover album held top priority, so he made the overseas call. He
left yet another voice mail for Sir Jonathan. Frustrated with his lack of
success, he traded his office for a soundproof rehearsal room.
Hours
later, he noticed the yellow light on the control panel next to the door
blinking, signaling he had company. He glanced at his watch. Damn. Hopefully,
his dad already had the steaks on. His stomach sent up its own audible signal.
He’d done it again, lost himself in the music, and forgotten about everything
else. Oh well. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last either.
He
shut off the equipment, stretched stiff muscles, and urged Betty Boop to her
feet. As he stepped from the barn, the smell of mesquite and grilling beef
greeted him. He locked the pedestrian door and stretched again.
Endless
Texas sky, azure blue in the late afternoon light, was a welcome sight. No
matter how hectic his life got he always had this to come back to. The farm,
and the acres of planted fields, grounded him. He loved the rambling old
farmhouse he’d inherited from his maternal grandparents. The house was solidly
rooted in family history, and the farm predictable in its seasonal routines.
Solid and predictable were good things as far as he was concerned. But above
all else, Willowbrook was where he lived his life. It was home.
He
paused, inhaling the warm, humid air. The smell of turned earth and cut grass
was as familiar and comforting as his worn jeans. He surveyed the expanse of
young cotton plants growing in the fertile black soil, and peace settled over
him. The weight of the world could be on his shoulders and a stroll through
these fields would make it all go away. His grandfather had taught him the
value of a good long walk to organize his thoughts and calm his soul.
After
his mother died, he’d worn a new path through the fields, watering the plants
with his tears as he went. Some might think farm life was isolating, but he
knew better. In the fields, he felt part of something big, bigger than he could
fathom.
The
land comforted, but he longed for another kind of comfort—the kind that came
from sharing his life with another. He would never leave the farm, but he hoped
to one day find someone who loved it as much as he did, maybe have some kids he
could pass the farm down to, but until that happened, he’d continue on his
present path. He had the best of two worlds, and there was absolutely nothing
wrong with that.
His
stomach growled again, urging him to follow his nose to the source of the
heavenly smell. He headed toward the patio and grill beneath the ancient oak
tree, hoping his dad and whomever he’d brought with him had saved him a Lone
Star.
Henry
waved a greasy spatula at him in greeting. “It’s about time you got out here.
We’ve been waiting for you. The steaks are almost done.”
Thanks
to the girth of the old oak, supposedly planted by his great-grandfather over
one hundred years ago, he couldn’t see the ‘we’ his dad spoke of. He rounded
the tree and stopped cold in his tracks. He caught a glimpse of leg and his
blood pressure skyrocketed. The guest wasn’t one of his dad’s domino playing
buddies. That leg belonged to a female. A young, shapely female. One who
painted her toenails candy-apple red.
No. He wouldn’t do this to me. Not my
own father. Hank licked his dry lips and closed the distance. What had
she told his father in order to finagle an invitation to dinner? It must have
been good to get him to go along with it. Dad
knows how I feel about reporters.
He
stalked past his father. Mel Harper occupied his favorite lawn chair. She stood
as he approached. Holding a sweating glass of white wine in one hand, she
tucked the fingers of her free hand in the pocket of her shorts. Lord help him
if he thought she’d looked good in her fancy business clothes. That was nothing
compared to how shorts and a tank top showed off her curves. He’d never get her
out of his mind. Not after tonight. A bead of perspiration clung to her
hairline and his fingers itched to sweep it away for her. Better yet, if he put
his lips there…
“It’s
good to see you again, Hank,” she said with an innocent smile that didn’t fool
him one bit.
What
remained of his good mood vanished faster than biscuits at a church supper.
“What are you doing here?”
Author Bio:
....
Dolores has been married to the same wonderful guy for thirty-six
years. They have two grown daughters, a son-in-law, two granddogs and a
grandcat. She makes her home in the wilds of New Jersey (yes, there are wilds
in NJ). A Texan with roots that go all the way back to the Republic of Texas,
Dolores says you can take the girl out of Texas, but...well, you know the rest.
....She's been a stay-at-home mom for most of her
married life - a job she says is under-rated on the difficulty scale. Now that
her girls are grown, she's still available to them anytime, day or night, but
she fills her days with writing romance novels and reading.
....Dolores is also an award winning author of
erotic romance under the pseudonym, Roz Lee.
