Seared by a bigamous love cheat, London designer Deborah Tremaine backs
off sex. But when charismatic Serbian, Zoran Pavlović, who wants to
demolish an art deco cinema she’s campaigning to save, crosses her path
she’s up for a fling.
Zoran has clawed his way out of Serbia’s turbulent past but believes his
background means he won’t find happiness simply because he can’t trust a
woman to cherish him for who he is — a Serb. But he’s a hot-blooded Slav
up for no-strings sex and Deborah sends him into overdrive.
Deborah’s finances are in meltdown when a customer goes bust. Zoran
dangles a business deal based in Belgrade, Serbia that she can’t refuse.
She’s confident the job won’t compromise the campaign and decides that
Zoran is the guy who can jump-start her love life.
They embark on a sizzling affair but tension, erotically sexual and work
related, skyrockets. Incidents trigger the revelation of their personal
demons. Can they escape the black holes?
Excerpt: (Heat rating’ scorching)
Ko je ta zena? “Who is that woman?” Zoran Pavlović trained his
binoculars on the pigeon-haunted roof of the derelict cinema, his eyes
zoning in on the endless blue-jeaned legs, the wind-blown auburn hair,
the high, full breasts jutting against the thin fabric of her
sherbet-lemon T-shirt. She was primetime. A hardening heat coiled
through his groin.
“That’s Deborah Tremaine, sir, the interior designer who’s spearheading
the campaign.” His aide sweated nervously in the summer sunshine. “I
think we ought to…”
“I think,” Zoran said and dealt him a trenchant glance, “you should
leave the thinking to me. I want you to stay here and monitor this
Nice view, Zoran muttered as he assessed his options for handling her.
She was brandishing a crimson flag emblazoned with the purple slogan
Save Our Heritage Now! having scaled the ladder hauled into place by her
supporters. Singing “We Will Overcome,” they’d blockaded the bulldozers
and charmed the guard dogs into shadows with choice chunks of meat.
Zoran sprang from the Land Rover, a powerful body in black— denims,
T-shirt, trainers—and cut a swift path over the rubble. Tipped off that
activists planned to stage a long sit-in, they’d already spiked
redevelopment for months—months that left him seriously out of pocket.
It couldn’t go on, it wouldn’t go on. Action was imperative—action that
would be characterized as friendly persuasion in his native Serbia,
although possibly something quite else in England—but he’d ride out the
storm. He’d ridden out worse.
“Quite the warrior princess, Boadicea,” he murmured as, storming the
treads, he scaled the parapet with spider-like agility. He flicked her a
cool, controlled gaze, his belly knotting as he registered the
luminosity of her skin, the scent of lavender shampoo in the shining
cloud of hair, eyes of lapis blue, a soft mouth that promised so much.
“I’m Zoran Pavlović. We haven’t met before…”
Their eyes swerved together and held, and suddenly Deborah’s heart was
drumming with the most primitive sexual charge. She felt like melting
ice, lost and floating in a warm flood. As the sensuous amber-richness
of his cologne infused her senses, a wave of entrapment clutched her and
she inched away. “I’m sure I’d remember if we had.”
She’d tracked him as he sharked across. The strong sunlight highlighted
the glossy, cropped, raven-black hair, restless energy exuding from the
long-limbed body, the T-shirt taut against wide shoulders. The polished
skin with its hint of olive. She knew he owned the site and was once
mauled by the media for his predatory style but now played them like a
Stradivarius violin with his promise to deliver jobs and homes.
“Welcome aboard,” she added caustically. “So what’s on offer?” She
tilted her head speculatively and lifted her chin. The dangling,
animist-style earrings from central Africa clinked softly, the antique
beaten silver contrasting with the sudden, bright color in her creamy
skin as his glance stripped her naked. God, this wasn’t supposed to
happen. She was a foolish, reckless nineteen-year-old again, easily
aroused and prone to coup de foudre.
He was well armed for the fight. “We’ll talk when you’re down.”
Serena Fairfax spent her childhood in India, qualified as a Lawyer in
England and joined a London law firm.
Romance is hardwired into her DNA so her novels include a strong
romantic theme. However, she broke out of the romance bubble with one
(you’ll see which one when you visit the Books page), which is a quirky
departure in style and content.
She’s also authored several short stories that feature on her blog http://www.serenafairfax.com/serena_fairfax_author_blog/
Fast forward to a sabbatical from the day job when she traded in bricks
and mortar for a houseboat which, for a hardened land lubber like her,
turned out to be a big adventure.
Apart from writing and reading (all kinds of books), a few of her
favorite things are collecting old masks, singing (in the rain) and
exploring off the beaten track.
She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists Association, which is a very
supportive organization. She and her golden retriever, Inspector
Morse, who can't wait to unleash his own Facebook page, divide their
time between London and rural Kent. (Charles Dickens said: Kent, sir.
Everybody knows Kent. Apples, cherries, hops and women).
Siren Bookstrand: www.sirenbookstrand.com/serena-Fairfax
Siren BookStrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/loving-that-feeling
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Loving-Feeling-Siren-Publishing-Classic-ebook/dp/B00HQ0IOOG/
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Feeling-Siren-Publishing-Classic-ebook/dp/B00HQ0IOOG/
Apple iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/artist/serena-fairfax/id487813547?mt=11
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/loving-that-feeling-serena-fairfax/1118197748?ean=9781627409261