Release Date: Sep 24, 2012
Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Series: Stratton Wolves (Book 2)
Publisher: Summerhouse Publishing
Fed up with the hollow glitz and fakery that is Hollywood, screen siren Krystal Kerr heads home to Stratton to get her feet back on the ground and re-charge. Things don’t go quite to plan when her little car, picked more for its colour than any mechanical reliability breaks down, leaving her to be rescued by her very own knight in shining armour. Only this knight isn’t a man, he’s a werewolf with his own ideas on dealing with damsels in distress.
Kyle Roberts has watched every film Krystal has ever made, so when she falls into his lap, or more accurately, he tows her little car back to the workshop he runs with his uncle, he can’t believe his luck. But his admiration for her acting abilities don’t stop his wolf scenting the woman it wants. So what if she’s older than he is. Age is just a number, and there’s a few numbers he’d like to introduce her to…
But when Hollywood comes calling in the shape of a slick agent, and a rabid pack of reporters, can Kyle put aside his pride and convince his woman that he’s the wolf for her?
© 2012 Mina Carter
Today was obviously not her day. Or yesterday, or the day before that. In fact, this whole freaking month hadn’t been her month. With a sigh, Kristen Mann tucked her dyed red hair behind her ears and glared at the smoke trickling from under the hood of her car.
Leaning back against the door, she ferreted about in her pocket for her cell phone. How fucking clichéd could it get? Single woman broken down on the side of the highway, needing help? She scowled as she pulled the phone from jeans that felt spray-painted on thanks to the heat and swore as she snagged a nail. Fucking extensions. She’d be glad to be rid of them now that she wasn’t filming. The hair extensions were already gone, thank God, leaving her hair swinging against her neck in a riot of curls.
Along with the hair, she was free of the layers of makeup and the ridiculous wardrobe the last movie, a sci-fi romance, had required. Forget the out of this world costumes of other franchises, the director had wanted ‘Bigger, darling, and better. Out of this universe!’
Which meant Kristen had spent most of the last month with what amounted to a jewelled colander on her head, avoiding the octopus hands of the film’s male lead, Todd Stone.
A veteran of the film industry, and the sex symbol for the last decade, under the smile and charm Stone was a letch. Pure and simple. She’d lost count of the times he’d grabbed her ass, or tried to grope her breasts as they were filming. Each day had become an exercise in avoidance, and within a week she’d become a master at standing just out of reach, or getting objects between them. It had turned into a game with the other actresses on set, those playing her character’s retinue of hand-maidens. A book was run over who could get the best block in on Stone, with points awarded for inventiveness and actually getting the guy to squeak on set when his hand, or other appendages, were crushed.
But there were times when she couldn’t avoid him. She shuddered, recalling the incident at the end of filming when he’d managed to trap her alone in her dressing room. His hot breath on her neck, the thick bar of his cock pressed against her ass as he whispered. “Come on baby, let me show you a good time.”
She hadn’t been interested to start with. Stone was just too slick and polished, a product of the relentless Hollywood machine. She’d been even less interested when he’d ground his cock against her ass and followed up with, “I’ve heard all about you, you’re a dirty little girl, aren’t you? I’ve been looking forward to this.”
She knew what he was referring to. Twice divorced, her first has been from a domineering agent who’d tried to control her and her sky-rocketing career. Ex-husband number two was a wanna-be actor who’d latched onto her coat-tails until she’d seen what he was after. They’d both seen what Stone was seeing: the sultry, sensual on-screen persona that was nothing like the real woman beneath.
Unfortunately most people only saw ‘Krystal Kerr’ the siren. So far she’d been named in at least two high profile Hollywood divorces and linked with the break-down of a politician’s marriage. The first two she could kind of see, since she’d worked with the two actors, even if they’d never met socially. Since the third was a woman she’d never met, and Krystal had never given any indication of being that way inclined, she had no clue what was going on there. Probably a slack day in the news room.
She closed her eyes as the anger she’d felt then rolled through her again. “It’ll be real good, I promise.”
Hiding her fury, she’d turned, all sultry-like and slid her hand between them to cup his balls. Instead of the fondle he’d obviously expected, she tightened her grip, yanking upwards to hiss into his face. “Never touch me again. Or I’ll perform a little surgery via acrylic nail, understand me?”
The look on his face had been priceless. Like a guppy out of water as he struggled with the twin assaults on his person and on his ego. When she’d let him go, he’d scuttled off and sulked for the entire wrap party. As a result the female cast had a blast and got drunk without being worried about Stone cornering one of them. Kristen had won the pool by unanimous decision, but donated it all to the local animal shelter. She had more than enough money. Her fee for that film alone was a ridiculous amount.
Some of which she really should have spent on a better damn car. She cast another glare over her shoulder at the smoke now starting to peter out and sighed. It wasn’t the car’s fault. She’d walked onto the first car lot she’d seen and picked it purely on colour. The bright yellow had appealed to her inner child and even though it screamed ‘look at me’ she didn’t care. No one would be looking for world-famous screen siren Krystal Kerr in a second hand motor driving across country, so she figured she’d be safe.
Safe from media attention, maybe, but not from acts of God, mechanical breakdown or normal attention. At least no one knew exactly where in small-town America she was from, so she wasn’t likely to find paparazzi on the doorstep when she arrived.
Brought back to reality, she smiled and gave a thumbs-up as another vehicle slowed down, the driver leaning out of the window with a look of concern on his face.
“Yeah, woman broken down…I got it, thanks bud,” she muttered to herself behind the smile, holding up her cell phone and indicating the billboard she’d pulled up in front of. Roberts and McLachlan, it read in big, bold letters. Tyres, services and breakdowns a speciality.