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Date: January 28th, 2020, Posted by mollie
Dear friends,
Do you feel as I do? Are you tired of toxic, demoralizing, negative news? Do you want to read something uplifting, fun, light, and colorful? Then you’ll love my Valentine’s Day new release Sex With Strangers. Read to the bottom for the first chapter—yours free:)
“I absolutely enjoyed this story. I loved the storyline, I loved the characters, I loved the humor. I couldn’t put it down. The descriptions were perfect. I loved everything about this book especially the humor. It was funny, sad at times, and I loved it.”
~ Patricia Quinn
44-year-old Ruby Evans doesn’t want to be a ‘leftover girl.’ But finding a ‘forever’ man is proving impossible.
Suddenly single after 20 years of marriage, her husband is the only man she has ever slept with. But the one bit of security that she always thought she’d hold onto for the rest of her life is brutally ripped from her.
Humiliatingly and cruelly ex-ed when her husband trades her for a younger model, Chanel Zest, a long-time friend and motivational life coach, comes to Ruby’s rescue. Together they embark on a quest to reclaim and rebuild Ruby’s shattered life and begin the grueling process of dating again.
But, once in a pink moon, Ruby has to play dirty. . .
If you loved Brigette Jones’s Diary and enjoy romantic comedy, you’ll love Sex With Strangers.
Full of quirky humor and the promise of a happily ever after.
Sex with Strangers is a clean romance with a few spicy bits.
“A really good, hip, fun book. It was a riot. Great fun!”
~ Robyn Donald
“I thoroughly enjoyed it. Just lovely.”
~ Daphne Claire
CHAPTER ONE
GET A LIFE COACH
New York, December 2005
People start over all the time. Why can’t I?
My friend Chanel’s a life coach here in New York. She’s one of the best. She even has her own column in The New Yorker. Chanel has generously offered to help me. To be honest I really think I’m beyond help.
11 months ago my husband, Jon, left me for a younger woman. I’m still feeling lost, betrayed and empty. When she turns up at my place unexpectedly, Chanel tells me she thinks I have abandonment issues. No kidding! It’s 3 pm on Sunday and I’m still in my pajamas, sprawled out on the sofa reading romance novels.
“What on earth are you reading, Ruby?” she says, screwing up her nose. She picks up several paperbacks from the stack beside the sofa. “The Virgin Bride? As if! Husband For Hire? Why bother? Why on earth are you feeding your head with this stuff?”
“Princess Diana read Barbara Cartland novels and she married a prince,” I say crossing my arms defensively.
“Yes, and how did that work out for her?” Chanel asks.
With my left foot carefully slip Joan Lust’s recent novella Cuddle Up With A Prince under the sofa. “Besides, they’re not mine,” I lie. “They’re Millie’s. I figured seeing as I’m not getting any romance I may as well read about people who are.”
“These aren’t your daughter’s,” Chanel says tossing the books back on the sofa. “J.K. Rowling is more her bag. You’d be better off reading books about wizards and magic than you would this stuff. People who can—date, and people who can’t—write about it,” she says dismissively. ”Reading these—these fairy tales is not going to help.”
I want to tell her that reading love stories helps hugely. That reading romance makes me feel less lonely. That reading romance lets me escape. That reading romance gives me hope. But I don’t bother.
“The truth is you fear abandonment and this explains your reluctance to start dating again,” Chanel continues. “Think Meghan Markle.”
I stare at her blankly.
“What would her life be like if she clung onto her dead-beat ex?”
“Crap.”
“Exactly. It’s time you went looking for a new husband,” Chanel says when I confess I haven’t been out for months.
Well, that’s not strictly true of course. Every weekday I go to my job in a towering office on Fifth Avenue where I work as a trainee public relations adviser for The Miss America Pageant. Believe me, there’s a lot of work to do as we work to rebrand the organization. But I love that finally women are being appraised on more than big boobs and hairspray. And, after, the mass exodus of lewd members of the leadership team, finally, women are running the show.
I have other non-paid jobs too. Like walking my dog Snoutts in Central Park and running Millie, my fifteen-year-old daughter, around.
“I don’t have time,” I lie. “Besides I’m quite happy sitting here at home. Honestly,” I protest, picking the anchovies off last night’s pizza.
“Nonsense,” she snaps as she brushes the dog hair from her expensive skirt. “Every woman needs a man. Especially you, Ruby.”
I mumble through a mouthful of cold pizza, “But I’m enjoying my spare time—reading books, doing what I want, not having to race to get my make-up on before my husband got up and saw the real me. You don’t care what I look like though do you, Snoutts?” I say, reaching down and patting the Dalmatian-cross I rescued from death-row.
Snoutts looks up at me adoringly.
I’m lying of course. The truth is I’m miserable. I miss my husband. I shouldn’t after what he did, but I do. I miss being married. I miss having someone make decisions with me and dealing with things I don’t want to, like taking the rubbish out and doing our accounts.
Actually, I miss sex the most. We had great sex, even after 18 years and 13 days. What if I never have sex again! That’s my greatest fear. I don’t know how I would even begin to meet a man, let alone have sex with a stranger.
“It’s easy when you know-how,” Chanel says. “Not only am I the queen of dating but in my professional role I’ve helped masses of women reclaim their sexual freedom.”
I wish I had her self-esteem I think as I look at her. Chanel isn’t the world’s greatest beauty. She’s got a prominent Jewish nose that would give Barbara Streisand a run for her money. But she has charisma like Jeff Bezos has money. She only has to walk into a room and men practically trip over themselves.
I’ve always admired the carefree way she flicks her vibrant orange hair, smiles demurely, and regales men with a mix of witty banter and sexual innuendo. I don’t think self-consciousness even exists in her vocabulary. She wears clothes that leave little to the imagination, though she’s not exactly Twiggy.
“I’m voluptuous, darling. Voluptuous. Men love women with curves,” she says proudly.
I know her real secret, though, it’s her confidence. I’d do anything just to have a smidgen of it. It’s hard to feel confident when your husband’s done a runner.
Chanel’s also an expert when it comes to breaking up. From what I can remember she’s never dated any man for longer than three weeks, and women pay her hundreds of dollars just for an hour of her time, eagerly drinking the wisdom she dispenses and coming back for seconds.
She’s promised to give me her top get-over-a-break-up-quick tips. I tell her plenty of people have been giving me dating advice. It’s just left me confused.
“A guy at work told me ‘the best way to get over a woman is to get under another,’” I tell her.
Chanel rolls her eyes and groans. “Men have a different way of working through their grief, darling.”
I tend to agree. For starters, everything I’ve gleaned from scanning men’s magazines suggests they don’t have an issue having sex with strangers.
“I can’t imagine stripping off and being naked with anyone other than my husband,” I confide. “Maybe the reason men are so untroubled is because there’s a worldwide shortage of eligible men.”
“Don’t let statistics scare you,” she says, when I tell her that in New York, women outnumber men three-to-one.
“That’s not what scares me,” I say. “For over 18 years my husband was the only man to see me naked. We always had sex with the light off. What if I meet someone who’s into. . . well, you know, kinky stuff like doing it with the light on, or in car parks in broad daylight? I’ve read about things like that.”
Fear clamps my stomach. “God, I couldn’t bear it. They’d only have to see my stretch marks and my rolled-up tummy and they’ll do a runner, too. My belly still hadn’t bounced back,” I say, pressing my palms firmly on my stomach. “In fact, the only thing it does is bounce.”
Chanel’s finger rests on her lips as though she is savoring diplomacy. “Breaking up is hard to do, Ruby. Everyone knows that but crying over spilled milk isn’t going to bring him back,” she says, her voice thick with intensity.
“I think 18 years of marriage is a bit more than a puddle of milk, Chanel.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Ruby. Of course, I am sensitive to the fact that you’ve been together a long time, but to be honest, you are rather dragging out the healing process.”
She crosses to the shelf over the fireplace and picks up several framed pictures of Jonathon and me on our wedding day.
“Hanging on to happy-couple photos is definitely not the way to go. Never let yesterday consume today, Ruby.” Chanel strides to the mahogany sideboard at the end of the room and throws the photos in the bottom drawer.
As she closes the drawer I fight back tears. Perhaps Chanel is right, hanging onto memories only pulls me back into a past that is no longer my future.
“If you can help me get over the humiliating fact that my husband abandoned me for another woman and got his PA to send me a text confirming my marriage was over, you’re a miracle worker. I just can’t let go. I just can’t move on. I just—“
“You just want your old life back,” Chanel says, finishing my sentence. “Never gonna happen.”
The truth knifes through me, jolting me to a stop.
“The text thing was pretty low. I know. I feel it. But don’t worry. Have faith. Life is about to get a whole lot better. I am a miracle worker,” she says confidently. I hear that from my clients all the time. Trust me, darling. Before long you’ll be thanking that vixen for taking him off your plate.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” I gaze nostalgically at the mahogany sideboard, then turn to her and force a smile. “Still I’m willing to be convinced.”
“I’m going to share a few of my miracle cures with you. Are you ready for number one of my hot tips? “
I nod enthusiastically. Chanel’s passion for her work and life is infectious. I’ve never, ever seen her down despite the fact that life has dealt her some pretty tough cards. I knew her when she was Zelda Abromovich. She changed her name to Chanel Zest when she was twenty. Chanel after her muse Coco Chanel, she told me, and Zest to better reflect her personality.
It all sounded plausible at the time but I knew the real reason was that she wanted to emancipate herself from her past. I wouldn’t mind being able to liberate myself from my entire family—but we’ll get to that later.
Chanel’s come a long way since those troubled days. I figure if she can reinvent her life after all she’s been through then she can help me too.
“Start keeping a journal. It’s a wonderful way to start your day,” she continues enthusiastically. “Early each morning pour out your feelings onto the page. Empty the horrible stuff out of your head onto paper, then write some positive intentions about how you want to feel. This will free you up and allow you to enjoy the rest of the day. I promise you.”
“Hmm, sounds wonderful,” I say, nibbling my nails. “I’d love to stop going over and over and over all the things that I must have done wrong to make Jon leave, and wondering about all the ways I could’ve have tried to make him stay. Things like if only I’d dressed more sexily, given him blow jobs—”
Chanel thrusts her hands in the air. “Stop! Blow jobs don’t determine a happy marriage.”
“According to Barbara Cartland they do,” I say glumly. “She says that’s why Charles left Diana.”
“Camilla is why Charles left his marriage,” Cheryl says firmly. “Cheating spouses are why marriages end.”
“Perhaps if I hadn’t been crabby when I had my period or been more understanding when his favorite team got thrown out of the World Cup. Or if, let’s be really honest, Chanel, I’d be younger.”
“You’ve got to stop with the terrible self-talk Ruby. Do you have any idea what power your words and thoughts have over you? What are you feeling in your body right now?”
“In my body?” I look down at my chest and then my feet. All I can see is Mickey Mouse running up and down my flannel pajamas. “I’ve got no idea. It’s not saying anything to me. Should it be?”
“Your body is your temple, Ruby. It speaks to you all the time. You just haven’t been tuned into it before now. Notice what your body barometer does when you start going on and on and beating yourself up like that. It makes you feel depressed, doesn’t it? No wonder when you start affirming that kind of rubbish.If only. If only. Start saying some kind, loving thoughts about yourself and see what happens. Getting rid of that processed food would help too.” Screwing up her nose Chanel picks up the remaining pizza and gives it to Snoutts who looks at it with disinterest.
“It’s not even really suitable for the dogs,” she says turning back to face me. “Now, tell me right now five things that are great about you.”
“Um. . .er . . .” I trawl through my memory bank and draw a blank. “Gosh, you’ll probably think I’m a real sad-sack but I can’t even think of one. You don’t think I’m a lost cause, do you?”
“Of course I don’t, darling. No judgment, Ruby. It’s quite, quite normal. You wouldn’t believe how often people struggle to think of anything nice to say about themselves. You do know there’s a global self-esteem virus. Why else would so many people be popping Prozac?”
I avoid Chanel’s gaze and wonder if I should be canceling my prescription of antidepressants.
“Well, there’s your first bit of homework,” Chanel says. “Keep two journals. One for recording all the sad-sack stuff—things like how you’re feeling, times when you feel blue, angry, etc. Then get yourself a fun, funky journal. We’ll call it the passion journal. Start collecting positive things people say about you, and record things that inspire you or make you feel good.”
Chanel reaches into her bag and pulls out a small spiral-bound notebook. “Here’s your first bit of feedback.”
She rips out a page, and hands it to me, along with her favorite citrus-orange Shaeffer fountain pen. “Write down what I am about to say and then transfer it to your passion journal. You are a kind, generous, loyal, intelligent and resilient woman.”
The pen crawls across the page. I feel like such a fraud. Tears bleed across my eyes as I write each word. But then I start to feel better. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear someone say something nice about me.
I stand up and give her a hug. “I don’t think anybody has said anything quite so nice to me in a very long time.”
“I’m sure they have, darling But words are like photos—unless we record positive memories we forget them. It’s amazing how memorable criticism is though. Which leads me to my next top tip for getting over a break-up fast. Learn how to meditate. Meditation is the biggest thing since gluten-free bread.”
“I don’t know, Chanel. I really don’t think I could handle shaving my head and I can’t see myself wearing a yellow robe any time soon either.”
“Don’t be silly, Ruby. You don’t have to go all weird and new age to meditate. Just saying some simple things over and over is enough.”
“Like what?” I ask her.
“Like baaaa, lamb, sheep. . .”
“Sounds pretty weird to me, Chanel.”
“I’m joking, silly. But the truth isn’t too far away. Any word can be a mantra. Mastering the art of meditation is simply disciplining yourself to repeat the same word over and over again. By concentrating on only one thing you can gradually silence the thousands of random thoughts that are spinning around and around in your head.”
Saying one thing over and over sounds easy enough. I decide to try meditation tomorrow. I’m keen to start feeling better and Chanel must know what she’s doing because she’s the life coach and has qualifications coming out her ears.
“The next tip is fabulous. I know you’re going to love it. Eat loads of chocolate ice-cream,” she suddenly looks serious. “The ice-cream has to be Mövenpick.”
I’m starting to wonder about Chanel. Her advice doesn’t sound very normal. But then Chanel is quite possibly the zaniest person I know. I do like ice-cream, and Mövenpick is exquisite.
“The next tip is in the same box as getting rid of photos,” Chanel says.
I brace myself.
“Delete lovey-dovey emails, bin the heart-wrenching texts and burn old love letters.”
I bite my lip pensively. I’m a romantic at heart and asking me to throw away my love letters is like asking Linus or Baby Bop to throw away their comfort blanket.
I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.
“Hanging onto old emails is seriously bad relationship feng shui,” Chanel insists. “Change the energy flow in your home. Change your life.”
“It sure would be great if all I had to do to get over Jonathon was press delete, and whammo he would be gone,” I say.
“Believe me it is,” Chanel says. “. . . that and dating and time. Of which, might I say, I think you’ve had quite enough. Grieve any longer than 11 months and you’ll head down the slippery slopes of depression. Believe me, that’s the last thing you want. It’s a steep climb once you’ve plummeted. Besides, you don’t want Jonathon to think he’s dated you, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Good. I can tell you, both as your friend and life coach, that there is no way I’m going to let that cheat come out of this break-up better than you.”
I suddenly feel self-conscious sitting around in my pajamas. Perhaps I am sliding toward the icy slopes of depression.
“I guess I can store my letters at my parent’s and retrieve the emails back from the trashcan if I don’t feel better,” I whisper tentatively.
Chanel’s brows furrow into a scary frown. “What’s the point of holding onto them?” Chanel says impatiently. “They’re only words. Words from the scum that left you for another woman.”
Ouch, that hurts. But it’s true. I resolve to push delete as soon as I get to work.
“The next tip is a no-brainer but you’d be surprised how frequently people don’t realize how unhelpful some of their friends can be. To really move forward it’s important to surround yourself with friends who make you laugh – and who will introduce you to other single men.”
“Other than you, Chanel, I can’t think of anyone. Most of my friends were Jonathon’s friends and those who have stuck with me don’t laugh anymore. They’re working ninety-hour weeks and are so stressed out that all they do is come home and blob out in front of the telly. Gosh, now that I think of it that’s why so many of my girlfriends are like me—shagless and single. As for my married friends— well, it turns out they weren’t really my friends at all.”
“It’s incredible how invitations to dinner parties dry up when you’re single and dateless,” Chanel says.
“I know. And when I did go to a few I got the distinct impression some of the women thought I was threatening. As if! To be honest,” I say, “I just end up feeling miserable. They’re married and I’m not.”
“Which brings me to the next rule. Stay away from married friends.” Chanel wags a manicured finger at me. “And stay well away from anyone who looks even the teeniest bit like they might get married.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Definitely don’t go to any weddings. You’ll only get stuck on the singles table, and believe me,” she says solemnly, “that’s dating suicide.”
“Really? I thought that would be a great way to meet someone.”
Chanel lowers her chin and looks at me over the bridge of her nose, “Are you kidding me? Only the desperate go to weddings on their own. Far better to buy a date rather than go it alone. Desired people are desirable, “ she says. “Which leads nicely into tip seven: Be glad that you were loved and that you had that person in your life. Some people live their whole lives never being loved.”
I sniffle as tears loom again. “I was glad. Really glad. I was happy loving my husband. I thought he’d be in my life forever.”
“Don’t be sill, Ruby. That’s irrational,” she says, handing me a tissue. “Nothing lasts forever. But,” she says, her voice softening, “tip eight is relevant here: give it time. Grief does have its own sense of timing.”
This doesn’t sound like Chanel. “Are you sure?” I ask uncertainly, wiping my eyes.
“Just don’t grieve too long. No one likes a sad-sack.”
That sounds more like Chanel.
“On that note, and concluding today’s lesson, is tip nine: find some fun! Book a holiday. Have a makeover. Spoil yourself rotten. Have something to look forward to or do whatever gives you a buzz. Which leads me to the next point,” she says, reaching into her bag. “I’ve got just the cure. Do you remember my cousin Julie?”
“The pretty one who left her husband and ran off with a surf instructor from Malibu?”
“She did? Oh yes. . .that was ages ago. A year at least. She’s been single since then and having a fantastic time. But we’re keen to take our loving offshore and have some European fun. We’re already booked,” she says, passing me a travel brochure, “and the best part is, there’s room for you!”
I take the brochure tentatively and thumb through it before returning to the cover page and reading, Contiki for 18-35s. European Inspiration Tour: 19 days from London to Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Munich, Venice, Rome, Florence, Lucerne, Paris and more. “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. But Contiki? Don’t you think we’re getting a little old for this?”
“Don’t be silly, Ruby. We’re the perfect age. We’re 35 -“
“We’re over forty, Chanel.”
“Don’t say the “f” word, Ruby, it’s not polite. Besides, we don’t look a day over thirty. With our wisdom, experience and mature outlook on life, we know who we are and what we want. We’re an asset to the young.”
“We are?”
“Yes, we are! Men love confidence, and confidence comes with experience. Which Julie and I have. . . and you will soon. We’ve got it all mapped out, and Contiki is just the company to help us realize our dreams.”
“What dreams, Chanel?” I ask nervously.
“We want sex,” she replies matter of factly, “and lots of it.”
“We do?”
“Absolutely. I read an article in The New York Times the other day that said one of the biggest regrets people had was not having enough sex. That and not marrying the right person. And you know about that already. I for one don’t want to die with regrets. Do you, Ruby?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not? How many lives are you planning to have, Ruby?”
“Don’t be silly, Chanel. Everyone knows you only get one.”
“Not everybody believes that,” she corrects me. “But for simplicity’s sake let’s assume it’s true. Do you really want to use yours up crying over a disloyal prick of a husband or are you going to join our race?”
“What race?”
“Our race to conquer Europe. Julie and I have set each other a dare. We’ve got to bonk a guy in every city we go to. The winner gets to have fabulous sex with a bevy of European lovers.
“And the loser?”
“The loser gets to have sex—only with less strangers.”
“I don’t know, Chanel. This sounds a bit desperate and dangerous. I mean, gosh, we’re middle-aged, and you already have a head start when it comes to picking up strange men. To be honest, it’s not really my thing.”
“Come on, it’ll be good for you. A fresh start. A chance to sample some of the stuff you’ve been missing. Maybe have a fling with a younger man. Haven’t you heard that old Chinese proverb about being as old as the last guy you screwed?”
“I can’t say I have, Chanel. I think we must read different books.”
“Yes, darling, we do,” Chanel says, glaring at Roberta Lust’s novel stuffed under the couch. “Think of it as sexual healing, Ruby. The point is to have fun flings, not full-on relationships. Besides, having one night stands has been scientifically proven to boost your chances of finding love again. Not only do they broaden your sexual repertoire, but they also boost your self-esteem. And let’s face it, darling, yours is pretty deflated. So what’s to lose?”
“Scientifically proven?”
“Absolutely! 100 per cent guaranteed. Knowing you may never see your conquest again allows you to practice the one thing that will stand you in good sexual stead forever.”
“Which is?”
“Saying what you want in bed.”
For a moment I’m sure my breathing has stopped
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re mortified right?”
“Have I gone a pale shade of white?” I hope my laugh sounds less self-conscious and more, ‘this is going to be so much fun.’
“Grinding your teeth together kind of gave you away,” she says putting her arm affectionately around me. “Relax! Believe me—I know. Asking for what you want is the key to a happier life. One-night stands are the perfect way to practice. Oh and news flash. Sex outside of marriage is not a cardinal sin. This is the new millennium, the era of female empowerment, freedom, and choice. Don’t waste your life making the wrong ones my sweet. Life’s too short and too precious for that.”
I do like the idea of getting away, and coming from a family of seven sisters has instilled a competitive streak in me. But racing to take European men to bed isn’t exactly the same as grabbing the last potato at dinner. And everyone knows that European men are a lot less uninhibited. They’re bound to want to do it with the light on.
I clench my hands over the cushions on the couch. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Chanel. I mean, it’s all right for the two of you—you’re experienced. I wouldn’t know where to start. Gosh, I think I’d fall over if any man other than Jonathon looked at me in an amorous way.”
I twist my gold wedding band. The divorce isn’t finalized yet and wearing his ring still gave me comfort. It was like a neon sign telling the world someone had picked me. I was wanted.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you up to speed. I’m a life coach after all. Helping people with relationship issues is my specialty.”
Suddenly I’m more nervous than when Millie tricked me into going on the world’s biggest, oldest, and most rickety rollercoaster. I’m half excited and half out of my mind with fear. Mostly it’s fear I feel as I say, “It all sounds great. When do we start?”
Feel the fear and go dating anyway, right? Although in Chanel’s hands at least I won’t die.
Will I?
DID YOU ENJOY THIS EXCERPT?
Sex With Strangers—available for Valentine’s Day pre-order now!
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Audio coming soon!
Here are a few others you may like:
The inspiration behind Sex With Strangers
How Trauma Can Fuel Your Life Purpose
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Posted in: Mollie's Blog, New Excerpt, New Release, New Romance Novel, Sex With Strangers
Tags: love, Romance books, Romantic comedy
Date: January 28th, 2020, Posted by mollie
44-year-old Ruby Evans doesn’t want to be a ‘leftover girl.’ But finding a ‘forever’ man is proving impossible.
Suddenly single after 20 years of marriage, her husband is the only man she has ever slept with. But the one bit of security she always thought she’d hold onto for the rest of her life is brutally ripped from her.
Humiliatingly and cruelly ex-ed when her husband trades her for a younger model, Chanel Zest, a long-time friend and motivational life coach, comes to her rescue. Together they embark on a quest to reclaim and rebuild Ruby’s shattered life and begin the gruelling process of dating again.
Once in a pink moon, Ruby has to play dirty…
If you loved Brigette Jones’s Diary and enjoy romantic comedy, you’ll love Sex With Strangers.
Full of quirky humour and the promise of a happily ever after.
Sex with Strangers is a clean romantic comedy with a few spicy bits.
“I absolutely enjoyed this story. I loved the storyline, I loved the characters, I loved the humor. I couldn’t put it down. The descriptions were perfect. I loved everything about this book especially the humor. It was funny, sad at times, and I loved it.”
~ Patricia Quinn
“It was cute and fun to read. I really enjoyed the story because I liked it was charming and cute, a little humorous. I thought this story was a great kept my interest, had to finish the story I would recommend it to friends and family.”
~ Carol G.
“A playful and true view of a recently divorced woman. Every woman who has gone through a divorce after more than one-decade long marriage identifies with this story. The insecurities about going out single again, the difficulties in relating to previous friends as most of them are couples (nobody likes to be the third wheel), the feeling that you are viewed as a competitor (by a previous friend) and the list goes on. Not everyone has a supporting net as Ruby – the main character – does and even though her life coach has quite a few shortcomings about relating to people and finding love she does help Ruby to get on with her life. There are quite a few steamy parts but most of the book is written with a lot of humor and the characters are easy to get fond of. It’s a true picture of modern newly divorced women and it was a fun read!”
~ Claudete Takahashi
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ENJOY THIS FREE EXCERPT NARRATED BY ME
Bride of Gold; Married by Christmas; Flight of Passion; Claimed by The Sheikh; Love All of Me
Posted in: Books by Mollie Mathews, Full Length Novels
Date: January 24th, 2020, Posted by mollie
Dear friends,
Did you know that Princess Diana read Barbara Cartland novels? It was news to me and inspired a scene in my new release, Sex With Strangers.
This story began many moons ago at a romance writer’s retreat, facilitated by Mills and Boon authors Robyn Donald and Daphne Clair. The feedback from these wonderful passionate and experienced writers, and others on the writer’s retreat, was so encouraging:
“I love it!”
“We thoroughly enjoyed it”
“You’ve got the beginnings of a really good, hip, fun book”
“The chapter heads are just lovely”
“It was a riot. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Great fun!”
“I can see the movie now.”
“When are you going to finish it?”
I decided it was time for it to air!
Many of the events are inspired by true stories—both my and others’ experiences. I’ve encountered so many people over the years who are looking for love again, and just don’t know how or where to start.
I hope you giggle and laugh from deep in your belly as you read this story. Like I did, remembering and rewriting some of these scenes (and flashing back to events that were true.)
And my hero Fergus O’Farrell? A few people told me that you can’t have an Irish hero that wears green pants and is called Fergus. The Fergus I met once, told me a different story.
He was so hunky, he could wear anything—or nothing at all! Think Jamie Dornan (better known as Christian Grey), Colin Farrell, and Pierce Bronsan (the only ever Irish James Bond), the alpha Irish sexy men who rock our world.
Talented, hot-looking and super sexy.
I hope you enjoy a wee excerpt.
C
CHAPTER ONE
GET A LIFE COACH
New York, December 2005
People start over all the time. Why can’t I?
My friend Chanel’s a life coach here in New York. She’s one of the best. She even has her own column in The New Yorker. Chanel has generously offered to help me. To be honest I really think I’m beyond help.
11 months ago my husband, Jon, left me for a younger woman. I’m still feeling lost, betrayed and empty. When she turns up at my place unexpectedly, Chanel tells me she thinks I have abandonment issues. No kidding! It’s 3 pm on Sunday and I’m still in my pajamas, sprawled out on the sofa reading romance novels.
“What on earth are you reading, Ruby?” she says, screwing up her nose. She picks up several paperbacks from the stack beside the sofa. “The Virgin Bride? As if! Husband For Hire? Why bother? Why on earth are you feeding your head with this stuff?”
“Princess Diana read Barbara Cartland novels and she married a prince,” I say crossing my arms defensively.
“Yes, and how did that work out for her?” Chanel asks.
With my left foot carefully slip Joan Lust’s recent novella Cuddle Up With A Prince under the sofa. “Besides, they’re not mine,” I lie. “They’re Millie’s. I figured seeing as I’m not getting any romance I may as well read about people who are.”
“These aren’t your daughter’s,” Chanel says tossing the books back on the sofa. “J.K. Rowling is more her bag. You’d be better off reading books about wizards and magic than you would this stuff. People who can—date, and people who can’t—write about it,” she says dismissively. ”Reading these—these fairy tales is not going to help.”
I want to tell her that reading love stories helps hugely. That reading romance makes me feel less lonely. That reading romance lets me escape. That reading romance gives me hope. But I don’t bother.
“The truth is you fear abandonment and this explains your reluctance to start dating again,” Chanel continues. “Think Meghan Markle.”
I stare at her blankly.
“What would her life be like if she clung onto her dead-beat ex?”
“Crap.”
“Exactly. It’s time you went looking for a new husband,” Chanel says when I confess I haven’t been out for months.
Well, that’s not strictly true of course. Every weekday I go to my job in a towering office on Fifth Avenue where I work as a trainee public relations adviser for The Miss America Pageant. Believe me, there’s a lot of work to do as we work to rebrand the organization. But I love that finally women are being appraised on more than big boobs and hairspray. And, after, the mass exodus of lewd members of the leadership team, finally, women are running the show.
I have other non-paid jobs too. Like walking my dog Snoutts in Central Park and running Millie, my fifteen-year-old daughter, around.
“I don’t have time,” I lie. “Besides I’m quite happy sitting here at home. Honestly,” I protest, picking the anchovies off last night’s pizza.
“Nonsense,” she snaps as she brushes the dog hair from her expensive skirt. “Every woman needs a man. Especially you, Ruby.”
I mumble through a mouthful of cold pizza, “But I’m enjoying my spare time—reading books, doing what I want, not having to race to get my make-up on before my husband got up and saw the real me. You don’t care what I look like though do you, Snoutts?” I say, reaching down and patting the Dalmatian-cross I rescued from death-row.
Snoutts looks up at me adoringly.
I’m lying of course. The truth is I’m miserable. I miss my husband. I shouldn’t after what he did, but I do. I miss being married. I miss having someone make decisions with me and dealing with things I don’t want to, like taking the rubbish out and doing our accounts.
Actually, I miss sex the most. We had great sex, even after 18 years and 13 days. What if I never have sex again! That’s my greatest fear. I don’t know how I would even begin to meet a man, let alone have sex with a stranger.
“It’s easy when you know-how,” Chanel says. “Not only am I the queen of dating but in my professional role I’ve helped masses of women reclaim their sexual freedom.”
I wish I had her self-esteem I think as I look at her. Chanel isn’t the world’s greatest beauty. She’s got a prominent Jewish nose that would give Barbara Streisand a run for her money. But she has charisma like Jeff Bezos has money. She only has to walk into a room and men practically trip over themselves.
I’ve always admired the carefree way she flicks her vibrant orange hair, smiles demurely, and regales men with a mix of witty banter and sexual innuendo. I don’t think self-consciousness even exists in her vocabulary. She wears clothes that leave little to the imagination, though she’s not exactly Twiggy.
“I’m voluptuous, darling. Voluptuous. Men love women with curves,” she says proudly.
I know her real secret, though, it’s her confidence. I’d do anything just to have a smidgen of it. It’s hard to feel confident when your husband’s done a runner.
Chanel’s also an expert when it comes to breaking up. From what I can remember she’s never dated any man for longer than three weeks, and women pay her hundreds of dollars just for an hour of her time, eagerly drinking the wisdom she dispenses and coming back for seconds.
She’s promised to give me her top get-over-a-break-up-quick tips. I tell her plenty of people have been giving me dating advice. It’s just left me confused.
“A guy at work told me ‘the best way to get over a woman is to get under another,’” I tell her.
Chanel rolls her eyes and groans. “Men have a different way of working through their grief, darling.”
I tend to agree. For starters, everything I’ve gleaned from scanning men’s magazines suggests they don’t have an issue having sex with strangers.
“I can’t imagine stripping off and being naked with anyone other than my husband,” I confide. “Maybe the reason men are so untroubled is because there’s a worldwide shortage of eligible men.”
“Don’t let statistics scare you,” she says, when I tell her that in New York, women outnumber men three-to-one.
“That’s not what scares me,” I say. “For over 18 years my husband was the only man to see me naked. We always had sex with the light off. What if I meet someone who’s into. . . well, you know, kinky stuff like doing it with the light on, or in car parks in broad daylight? I’ve read about things like that.”
Fear clamps my stomach. “God, I couldn’t bear it. They’d only have to see my stretch marks and my rolled-up tummy and they’ll do a runner, too. My belly still hadn’t bounced back,” I say, pressing my palms firmly on my stomach. “In fact, the only thing it does is bounce.”
Chanel’s finger rests on her lips as though she is savoring diplomacy. “Breaking up is hard to do, Ruby. Everyone knows that but crying over spilled milk isn’t going to bring him back,” she says, her voice thick with intensity.
“I think 18 years of marriage is a bit more than a puddle of milk, Chanel.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Ruby. Of course, I am sensitive to the fact that you’ve been together a long time, but to be honest, you are rather dragging out the healing process.”
She crosses to the shelf over the fireplace and picks up several framed pictures of Jonathon and me on our wedding day.
“Hanging on to happy-couple photos is definitely not the way to go. Never let yesterday consume today, Ruby.” Chanel strides to the mahogany sideboard at the end of the room and throws the photos in the bottom drawer.
As she closes the drawer I fight back tears. Perhaps Chanel is right, hanging onto memories only pulls me back into a past that is no longer my future.
“If you can help me get over the humiliating fact that my husband abandoned me for another woman and got his PA to send me a text confirming my marriage was over, you’re a miracle worker. I just can’t let go. I just can’t move on. I just—“
“You just want your old life back,” Chanel says, finishing my sentence. “Never gonna happen.”
The truth knifes through me, jolting me to a stop.
“The text thing was pretty low. I know. I feel it. But don’t worry. Have faith. Life is about to get a whole lot better. I am a miracle worker,” she says confidently. I hear that from my clients all the time. Trust me, darling. Before long you’ll be thanking that vixen for taking him off your plate.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” I gaze nostalgically at the mahogany sideboard, then turn to her and force a smile. “Still I’m willing to be convinced.”
“I’m going to share a few of my miracle cures with you. Are you ready for number one of my hot tips? “
I nod enthusiastically. Chanel’s passion for her work and life is infectious. I’ve never, ever seen her down despite the fact that life has dealt her some pretty tough cards. I knew her when she was Zelda Abromovich. She changed her name to Chanel Zest when she was twenty. Chanel after her muse Coco Chanel, she told me, and Zest to better reflect her personality.
It all sounded plausible at the time but I knew the real reason was that she wanted to emancipate herself from her past. I wouldn’t mind being able to liberate myself from my entire family—but we’ll get to that later.
Chanel’s come a long way since those troubled days. I figure if she can reinvent her life after all she’s been through then she can help me too.
“Start keeping a journal. It’s a wonderful way to start your day,” she continues enthusiastically. “Early each morning pour out your feelings onto the page. Empty the horrible stuff out of your head onto paper, then write some positive intentions about how you want to feel. This will free you up and allow you to enjoy the rest of the day. I promise you.”
“Hmm, sounds wonderful,” I say, nibbling my nails. “I’d love to stop going over and over and over all the things that I must have done wrong to make Jon leave, and wondering about all the ways I could’ve have tried to make him stay. Things like if only I’d dressed more sexily, given him blow jobs—”
Chanel thrusts her hands in the air. “Stop! Blow jobs don’t determine a happy marriage.”
“According to Barbara Cartland they do,” I say glumly. “She says that’s why Charles left Diana.”
“Camilla is why Charles left his marriage,” Cheryl says firmly. “Cheating spouses are why marriages end.”
“Perhaps if I hadn’t been crabby when I had my period or been more understanding when his favorite team got thrown out of the World Cup. Or if, let’s be really honest, Chanel, I’d be younger.”
“You’ve got to stop with the terrible self-talk Ruby. Do you have any idea what power your words and thoughts have over you? What are you feeling in your body right now?”
“In my body?” I look down at my chest and then my feet. All I can see is Mickey Mouse running up and down my flannel pajamas. “I’ve got no idea. It’s not saying anything to me. Should it be?”
“Your body is your temple, Ruby. It speaks to you all the time. You just haven’t been tuned into it before now. Notice what your body barometer does when you start going on and on and beating yourself up like that. It makes you feel depressed, doesn’t it? No wonder when you start affirming that kind of rubbish.If only. If only. Start saying some kind, loving thoughts about yourself and see what happens. Getting rid of that processed food would help too.” Screwing up her nose Chanel picks up the remaining pizza and gives it to Snoutts who looks at it with disinterest.
“It’s not even really suitable for the dogs,” she says turning back to face me. “Now, tell me right now five things that are great about you.”
“Um. . .er . . .” I trawl through my memory bank and draw a blank. “Gosh, you’ll probably think I’m a real sad-sack but I can’t even think of one. You don’t think I’m a lost cause, do you?”
“Of course I don’t, darling. No judgment, Ruby. It’s quite, quite normal. You wouldn’t believe how often people struggle to think of anything nice to say about themselves. You do know there’s a global self-esteem virus. Why else would so many people be popping Prozac?”
I avoid Chanel’s gaze and wonder if I should be canceling my prescription of antidepressants.
“Well, there’s your first bit of homework,” Chanel says. “Keep two journals. One for recording all the sad-sack stuff—things like how you’re feeling, times when you feel blue, angry, etc. Then get yourself a fun, funky journal. We’ll call it the passion journal. Start collecting positive things people say about you, and record things that inspire you or make you feel good.”
Chanel reaches into her bag and pulls out a small spiral-bound notebook. “Here’s your first bit of feedback.”
She rips out a page, and hands it to me, along with her favorite citrus-orange Shaeffer fountain pen. “Write down what I am about to say and then transfer it to your passion journal. You are a kind, generous, loyal, intelligent and resilient woman.”
The pen crawls across the page. I feel like such a fraud. Tears bleed across my eyes as I write each word. But then I start to feel better. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear someone say something nice about me.
I stand up and give her a hug. “I don’t think anybody has said anything quite so nice to me in a very long time.”
“I’m sure they have, darling But words are like photos—unless we record positive memories we forget them. It’s amazing how memorable criticism is though. Which leads me to my next top tip for getting over a break-up fast. Learn how to meditate. Meditation is the biggest thing since gluten-free bread.”
“I don’t know, Chanel. I really don’t think I could handle shaving my head and I can’t see myself wearing a yellow robe any time soon either.”
“Don’t be silly, Ruby. You don’t have to go all weird and new age to meditate. Just saying some simple things over and over is enough.”
“Like what?” I ask her.
“Like baaaa, lamb, sheep. . .”
“Sounds pretty weird to me, Chanel.”
“I’m joking, silly. But the truth isn’t too far away. Any word can be a mantra. Mastering the art of meditation is simply disciplining yourself to repeat the same word over and over again. By concentrating on only one thing you can gradually silence the thousands of random thoughts that are spinning around and around in your head.”
Saying one thing over and over sounds easy enough. I decide to try meditation tomorrow. I’m keen to start feeling better and Chanel must know what she’s doing because she’s the life coach and has qualifications coming out her ears.
“The next tip is fabulous. I know you’re going to love it. Eat loads of chocolate ice-cream,” she suddenly looks serious. “The ice-cream has to be Mövenpick.”
I’m starting to wonder about Chanel. Her advice doesn’t sound very normal. But then Chanel is quite possibly the zaniest person I know. I do like ice-cream, and Mövenpick is exquisite.
“The next tip is in the same box as getting rid of photos,” Chanel says.
I brace myself.
“Delete lovey-dovey emails, bin the heart-wrenching texts and burn old love letters.”
I bite my lip pensively. I’m a romantic at heart and asking me to throw away my love letters is like asking Linus or Baby Bop to throw away their comfort blanket.
I’m not sure if I’m ready for this.
“Hanging onto old emails is seriously bad relationship feng shui,” Chanel insists. “Change the energy flow in your home. Change your life.”
“It sure would be great if all I had to do to get over Jonathon was press delete, and whammo he would be gone,” I say.
“Believe me it is,” Chanel says. “. . . that and dating and time. Of which, might I say, I think you’ve had quite enough. Grieve any longer than 11 months and you’ll head down the slippery slopes of depression. Believe me, that’s the last thing you want. It’s a steep climb once you’ve plummeted. Besides, you don’t want Jonathon to think he’s dated you, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Good. I can tell you, both as your friend and life coach, that there is no way I’m going to let that cheat come out of this break-up better than you.”
I suddenly feel self-conscious sitting around in my pajamas. Perhaps I am sliding toward the icy slopes of depression.
“I guess I can store my letters at my parent’s and retrieve the emails back from the trashcan if I don’t feel better,” I whisper tentatively.
Chanel’s brows furrow into a scary frown. “What’s the point of holding onto them?” Chanel says impatiently. “They’re only words. Words from the scum that left you for another woman.”
Ouch, that hurts. But it’s true. I resolve to push delete as soon as I get to work.
“The next tip is a no-brainer but you’d be surprised how frequently people don’t realize how unhelpful some of their friends can be. To really move forward it’s important to surround yourself with friends who make you laugh – and who will introduce you to other single men.”
“Other than you, Chanel, I can’t think of anyone. Most of my friends were Jonathon’s friends and those who have stuck with me don’t laugh anymore. They’re working ninety-hour weeks and are so stressed out that all they do is come home and blob out in front of the telly. Gosh, now that I think of it that’s why so many of my girlfriends are like me—shagless and single. As for my married friends— well, it turns out they weren’t really my friends at all.”
“It’s incredible how invitations to dinner parties dry up when you’re single and dateless,” Chanel says.
“I know. And when I did go to a few I got the distinct impression some of the women thought I was threatening. As if! To be honest,” I say, “I just end up feeling miserable. They’re married and I’m not.”
“Which brings me to the next rule. Stay away from married friends.” Chanel wags a manicured finger at me. “And stay well away from anyone who looks even the teeniest bit like they might get married.”
“Okay,” I mumble.
“Definitely don’t go to any weddings. You’ll only get stuck on the singles table, and believe me,” she says solemnly, “that’s dating suicide.”
“Really? I thought that would be a great way to meet someone.”
Chanel lowers her chin and looks at me over the bridge of her nose, “Are you kidding me? Only the desperate go to weddings on their own. Far better to buy a date rather than go it alone. Desired people are desirable, “ she says. “Which leads nicely into tip seven: Be glad that you were loved and that you had that person in your life. Some people live their whole lives never being loved.”
I sniffle as tears loom again. “I was glad. Really glad. I was happy loving my husband. I thought he’d be in my life forever.”
“Don’t be sill, Ruby. That’s irrational,” she says, handing me a tissue. “Nothing lasts forever. But,” she says, her voice softening, “tip eight is relevant here: give it time. Grief does have its own sense of timing.”
This doesn’t sound like Chanel. “Are you sure?” I ask uncertainly, wiping my eyes.
“Just don’t grieve too long. No one likes a sad-sack.”
That sounds more like Chanel.
“On that note, and concluding today’s lesson, is tip nine: find some fun! Book a holiday. Have a makeover. Spoil yourself rotten. Have something to look forward to or do whatever gives you a buzz. Which leads me to the next point,” she says, reaching into her bag. “I’ve got just the cure. Do you remember my cousin Julie?”
“The pretty one who left her husband and ran off with a surf instructor from Malibu?”
“She did? Oh yes. . .that was ages ago. A year at least. She’s been single since then and having a fantastic time. But we’re keen to take our loving offshore and have some European fun. We’re already booked,” she says, passing me a travel brochure, “and the best part is, there’s room for you!”
I take the brochure tentatively and thumb through it before returning to the cover page and reading, Contiki for 18-35s. European Inspiration Tour: 19 days from London to Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague, Munich, Venice, Rome, Florence, Lucerne, Paris and more. “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. But Contiki? Don’t you think we’re getting a little old for this?”
“Don’t be silly, Ruby. We’re the perfect age. We’re 35 -“
“We’re over forty, Chanel.”
“Don’t say the “f” word, Ruby, it’s not polite. Besides, we don’t look a day over thirty. With our wisdom, experience and mature outlook on life, we know who we are and what we want. We’re an asset to the young.”
“We are?”
“Yes, we are! Men love confidence, and confidence comes with experience. Which Julie and I have. . . and you will soon. We’ve got it all mapped out, and Contiki is just the company to help us realize our dreams.”
“What dreams, Chanel?” I ask nervously.
“We want sex,” she replies matter of factly, “and lots of it.”
“We do?”
“Absolutely. I read an article in The New York Times the other day that said one of the biggest regrets people had was not having enough sex. That and not marrying the right person. And you know about that already. I for one don’t want to die with regrets. Do you, Ruby?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not? How many lives are you planning to have, Ruby?”
“Don’t be silly, Chanel. Everyone knows you only get one.”
“Not everybody believes that,” she corrects me. “But for simplicity’s sake let’s assume it’s true. Do you really want to use yours up crying over a disloyal prick of a husband or are you going to join our race?”
“What race?”
“Our race to conquer Europe. Julie and I have set each other a dare. We’ve got to bonk a guy in every city we go to. The winner gets to have fabulous sex with a bevy of European lovers.
“And the loser?”
“The loser gets to have sex—only with less strangers.”
“I don’t know, Chanel. This sounds a bit desperate and dangerous. I mean, gosh, we’re middle-aged, and you already have a head start when it comes to picking up strange men. To be honest, it’s not really my thing.”
“Come on, it’ll be good for you. A fresh start. A chance to sample some of the stuff you’ve been missing. Maybe have a fling with a younger man. Haven’t you heard that old Chinese proverb about being as old as the last guy you screwed?”
“I can’t say I have, Chanel. I think we must read different books.”
“Yes, darling, we do,” Chanel says, glaring at Roberta Lust’s novel stuffed under the couch. “Think of it as sexual healing, Ruby. The point is to have fun flings, not full-on relationships. Besides, having one night stands has been scientifically proven to boost your chances of finding love again. Not only do they broaden your sexual repertoire, but they also boost your self-esteem. And let’s face it, darling, yours is pretty deflated. So what’s to lose?”
“Scientifically proven?”
“Absolutely! 100 per cent guaranteed. Knowing you may never see your conquest again allows you to practice the one thing that will stand you in good sexual stead forever.”
“Which is?”
“Saying what you want in bed.”
For a moment I’m sure my breathing has stopped
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re mortified right?”
“Have I gone a pale shade of white?” I hope my laugh sounds less self-conscious and more, ‘this is going to be so much fun.’
“Grinding your teeth together kind of gave you away,” she says putting her arm affectionately around me. “Relax! Believe me—I know. Asking for what you want is the key to a happier life. One-night stands are the perfect way to practice. Oh and news flash. Sex outside of marriage is not a cardinal sin. This is the new millennium, the era of female empowerment, freedom, and choice. Don’t waste your life making the wrong ones my sweet. Life’s too short and too precious for that.”
I do like the idea of getting away, and coming from a family of seven sisters has instilled a competitive streak in me. But racing to take European men to bed isn’t exactly the same as grabbing the last potato at dinner. And everyone knows that European men are a lot less uninhibited. They’re bound to want to do it with the light on.
I clench my hands over the cushions on the couch. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Chanel. I mean, it’s all right for the two of you—you’re experienced. I wouldn’t know where to start. Gosh, I think I’d fall over if any man other than Jonathon looked at me in an amorous way.”
I twist my gold wedding band. The divorce isn’t finalized yet and wearing his ring still gave me comfort. It was like a neon sign telling the world someone had picked me. I was wanted.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you up to speed. I’m a life coach after all. Helping people with relationship issues is my specialty.”
Suddenly I’m more nervous than when Millie tricked me into going on the world’s biggest, oldest, and most rickety rollercoaster. I’m half excited and half out of my mind with fear. Mostly it’s fear I feel as I say, “It all sounds great. When do we start?”
Feel the fear and go dating anyway, right? Although in Chanel’s hands at least I won’t die.
Will I?
DID YOU ENJOY THIS EXCERPT?
Sex With Strangers—available for Valentine’s Day pre-order now!
To grab your copy from Amazon, click here>>getbook.at/SexWithStrangers
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Audio coming soon!
Posted in: Mollie's Blog, New Excerpt, New Release, New Romance Novel, Sex With Strangers
Tags: Excerpt, love, romance authors, Romance books, Romantic comedy, The power of creativity, Writer's Life
Date: January 20th, 2020, Posted by mollie
Three women. Three lives. And the lies that bind them. Why is everyone afraid of the truth?
When a lonely young American woman inherits a painting she discovers her whole life was a lie. Desperate for the truth, she goes in search of her true identity. The painting is her only clue. But everyone is determined to keep its secret past repressed, including Vitaliano Rossi, the Italian gold tycoon, unnaturally suspicious of her motives, who wants the painting vanquished. How can she discover who she really is and convince him that his love means more to her than gold?
Praise for Book Two in the Gemstone Billionaire’s series—The Italian Billionaire’s Scandalous Marriage
Reader Reviews:
“I loved the premise that she needs the hero to unlock the secrets to explain her past—it’s great conflict.”
“I really enjoyed this story, your writing, the characters and the kiss. Thanks!”
“What a blinking good read—more please. I was hooked from page one.”
“I want to know the secret in the painting.”
If this is the first time you have read a Gemstone Billionaire story, you can easily read each book as a standalone.
To grab your copy from Amazon, click here>> getBook.at/ScandalousMarriage
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EXCERPT
Prologue
‘You should never have responded to that email. I don’t understand you, Alexandra.’ Bitterness bled from her mother’s words.
Alex Spencer pressed her lips together, momentarily fixing her gaze on the desolate New York sky as snow began to fall. ‘Okay, so an email arrives out of the blue telling me the man who I thought was my father isn’t,’ she said, shoveling summer clothes into a well-traveled leopard-print suitcase. ‘And then I find out my real father is dead and he’s left me some valuable paintings—and I’m supposed to ignore that?’
‘Why do you insist on digging up the past? I’ve told you no good will come of it.’
Alex knew they would never agree. She wanted to say, “Mom, why are you making everything so difficult? Why won’t you talk to me about my father? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” But she’d already tried, and every time her mother evaded answering. Despite what her mother had done, for the sake of their tie of blood, which was the only thing left between them, she had to keep the peace.
‘Why do you have to go back to New Zealand? What more do you hope to achieve that wasn’t settled six months ago? What point is there?’ Elizabeth Spencer pressed, fixing disapproving eyes on her errant daughter.
‘You know why I need to go back, Mother,’ Alex said quietly, careful to stop exasperation creeping into her voice.
Her mother’s brown eyes turned a chilly shade of black. ‘After all Charles and I have done for you,’ she spat. ‘He’s been more of a father to you than that man ever was.’ Although she would never say it, the accusation whistled through her mother’s pursed lips. Why would you want to do something so selfish?
Alex forced herself to count to ten. It was as if her mother thought keeping something so important a secret from her own daughter all these years was no big deal. It was as though she thought that replacing a real dad with a surrogate dad gave her a stable identity.
How could Alex possibly explain without severing their relationship for good? Finally, she knew why she had never felt understood, never felt accepted, never felt she belonged. And while everything was such a mystery she knew that she could never find peace until she understood her past.
‘Mom, I told you when I came back for Christmas that I’d only be here for a few weeks. Please don’t let us spend our last moments arguing.’ Alex forced an uncertain smile hoping it would melt her mother’s iciness.
Her boutique travel business meant she was never home for long. She was like those dandelions; settling for a spell then drifting away. She was no longer a child. Yet in this matter she longed for her mother’s approval.
‘Why can’t you let go of this thing you’ve got about your father?’ Her mother fired. ‘What more do you have to know, for heaven’s sake? He was an artist. He left you a few paintings. End of story.’
It wasn’t the end of the story. Far from it. In fact of the six paintings her biological father had left her in his will she knew with gut-churning clarity that only one would unlock buried secrets. Secrets her mother seemed resolute never to divulge
‘I want to know everything. I want to know about the man whose blood courses through my veins. I want to know who I am. Why can’t you understand that?’
‘There’s nothing more to say. I was young. Impulsive. He was a mistake.’
Alex’s stomach clenched. She was a mistake. Her mother didn’t have to say it but her tone made it clear.
She was the girl nobody wanted.
Chapter One
Alex pressed against a pillar beneath the cavernous ceiling of the Auckland art gallery, suppressing a yawn as she fought a wave of jet lag. Clutching the exhibition catalog to her chest she swept her gaze over the crowd gathered for the opening of the dazzling retrospective exhibition of her father’s lifeworks. Only yesterday she had been in icy New York and now here she was in the heat of the New Zealand summer, surrounded by Veuve Clicquot, popping corks and intoxicating works of art.
At the center of the gallery stood Clive Gacos, the art dealer who had discovered the man she now knew was her father, exchanging air kisses and handshakes. Impeccably armored in a steel-grey designer suit that complemented his trademark helmet of silver hair he looked in his element as he enthusiastically greeted a procession of art collectors and socialites.
Alex crossed her arms protectively over her chest as women flashed him far too-enthusiastic smiles, and fluttered acrylic nails in shallow waves. She hated crowds at the best of times and tonight, surrounded by so much pretense, she felt doubly out of her comfort zone. Nausea crawled through her stomach as she wondered if Clive’s insistence that she exhibit the painting had been one giant mistake.
Would tonight flush out someone intimately connected to the powerful, yet haunting image? Someone who would help her unearth the past her mother and step-father were so determined to keep buried?
Her gaze drifted to the vast landscape her father had painted running the length of the far wall. Lost Love. Two words that tore her heart apart. Looking at the painting now she wondered if the name she’d given it still fitted. For some inexplicable reason, unlike all her father’s other artworks, he’d left this one unnamed. Why did he leave so few clues to its meaning?
Barely conscious of the crowd pressing around her Alex’s heart quickened as she scanned the craggy Southern Ranges, their soaring peaks troughed on the canvas with a hurtle of blue and ochre and gold. Her gaze honed in on the hauntingly beautiful face of a woman, infused within the rocks. Why had her father painted a woman’s face into the landscape? And whose was it—so beautiful?
The woman seemed to reach through time and space, lifting agonized eyes, calling Alex’s name, drawing her deeper and deeper into the painting’s mystery. Instinct told her something deeply personal had happened to inspire the painting, something that could shed light on her past? For twenty-five years her life had been a lie. Months of searching for clues to her past had ended in granite walls of silence.
Yet the way her heart pounded, her eyes pooled with tears, and every hair on her body stood on end each time she looked at the painting, told her that there was a deeper reason her father wanted the painting to remain in her possession. Alex was sure her father was enticing her to discover the painting’s secrets. Why else did he leave this particular painting in his will to the daughter he’d never met?
She tore herself away from Lost Love and stood at a distance observing people’s reactions in the hope that she would discover someone who found the painting as meaningful as she did. An older woman stared at it the longest, her eyes pooling as she fingered the elaborate gold locket at her throat.
A young man and woman holding hands stopped in front of it, and the woman slipped her palm from her partner’s as she stepped closer to study the face of the woman. A middle-aged man’s body grew hard and tense as he looked, and he passed quickly by. Another man with a receding hairline flinched as if someone had punched him in the gut. He reached a hand out to the painting, not quite touching the velvet plains of golden tussock and Rātā trees clinging fiercely to craggy rocks.
Dread wormed through her. The strange and enigmatic image evoked powerful reactions in them all, but none of them betrayed the fact they held the missing piece to her painful puzzle. She pressed her lips together, holding her face tight, as tears pricked her eyes. Showing Lost Love was a hair-brained idea, like searching for a needle in a field of grass. What real chance did she have of discovering someone who knew anything truly intimate about her dead father? Yet what else could she do? All her other inquiries had come to nothing.
Alex heaved a sigh of frustration and turned away. From across the gallery, Clive Gacos caught her anxious gaze. His fluttering fingers flourished a greeting across the room as he slithered to her side. ‘Lost Love. I still think the title’s morbid.’
He cocked his head to one side as his gaze darted from the catalog to the painting before resting on Alex. ‘Couldn’t you have come up with something more commercial?’
Alex wanted to cry out, “It’s how I feel.” Instead, she said, ‘You may be right, Mr. Gacos,’ painting a mask of detached aloofness on her face. Instinct told her Clive was only interested in his fame and glory—not her own painful story. She took his outstretched hand and felt a shiver snake through her spine as cold, steely fingers shook hers.
‘It’s a fabulous turnout, my dear.’ Bleached white teeth flashed a self-satisfied smile. “I’m absolutely delighted.’
‘Are you sure that this is the best way to unearth someone who may know something about this painting, Mr. Gacos? You know how firmly my father was against it being exhibited.’
‘Field of Dreams or Secret Passion would have been better. The right title can really boost sales,’ he said glancing at the painting.
‘That’s interesting’, Alex said flatly. ‘But Lost Love is not for sale.’
Eerie, pale eyes looked right through her. ‘My dear, everything is for sale.’
‘No, Mr. Gacos. It’s not. I’m looking for answers. A sale won’t achieve that.’ Had she been wrong to trust him? Was he just another person in a long line of people to deceive her? ’Besides you told me yourself, my father made it quite clear that the painting must never leave my possession.’
‘My dear, 40 years in the industry has taught me one thing, what an artist says and what an artist means are quite different things. If you gave me ten dollars for every time I’ve heard, “This is my favorite work, I’ll never part with it,” or some other nonsense, I’d be a hundred-fold richer.’ His reptilian eyes scanned her face as though searching for a weakness in her resolve. ‘Of course, none of this matters now that your father is dead.’
Dead.
Alex’s eyes misted as the finality of the word hit her. It was ridiculous. Eleven months ago she hadn’t even known geologist, turned painter, Ted Carr, known in art circles as Jimmie Goldie, was her father and since then she’d had plenty of time to accept the fact that he was gone. But she couldn’t help feeling regret.
If only she’d known her father. If only he was by her side now. Although in a strange way he was, she mused, her eyes misting as she gazed at the painting. Infused with his energy, his passion, his spirit, Lost Love was her only link. It was as though the painting was his voice—allowing him to speak through time and space. But only to those with eyes that could see and ears that could hear, and Alex still had no idea what he was saying.
Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a painting. But why did her father demand it never be exhibited in public? And why did he want her to have it?
‘I expect this exhibition to arouse even more interest in Jimmie’s work, and the longer we hold off the more the painting will appreciate in value,’ Clive blabbered on, oblivious of her raw grief.
Alex clenched her teeth, shutting back a retort at his thoughtless remark. This wasn’t the time to be emotional, nor to incite conflict. She hated disharmony and discord. And although she’d been continually teased because she always chose the peaceful route, putting him in his place would only get him offside.
‘Remind me again Mr. Gacos, just how well did you know my father?’ she said gently.
‘I told you—I discovered him. Made him a sell-out success.’
‘Yes, but what was he really like?’
‘I don’t know. We never met.’
‘But you were his dealer?’
‘I deal in works of art, Miss Spencer. Not people. Besides, your father liked his privacy. I respected that.’
‘Didn’t you wonder why he hid his true identity?’
‘My dear, half the celebrities in the world use fake, made-up names. Careers live and die by people’s memorability. It’s all part of the game. Do you really think Andy Warhol’s paintings would sell for astronomical sums if he went by his real name, Andrew Warhola? Your father was smart. Jimmie Goldie, or Ted Carr—ask yourself, who’s the better investment?’
Tension knotted her shoulders. She was getting nowhere.
‘Want some advice?’
No.
‘Take it from me. There’s no mystery—just a finely executed brand strategy. And you are the lucky beneficiary. So what? He left you this painting. Maybe his conscience got the better of him. In my opinion, it’s an exceptional piece of work, one of his finest, and tantalizingly one that the art world has never seen before. If I were you, I’d sell it. Realize the cash. Return to New York. Go live your life.’
Go live your life. She would—but not before she had her answers. Alex’s gaze drifted back to the crowd. Her only hope was that someone would reveal something in their reaction to the painting. Surely if anyone was connected intimately it would hit them with the same power-punch to the gut as it did to her every time she looked at it.
Suddenly she was distracted by a blaze of rustic color as the most ridiculously handsome man Alex had ever seen strode toward her.
Chapter Two
His six-foot frame wore an immaculately tailored camel jacket, cut from the finest Merino wool and fashionably faded jeans gracing a powerful physique.
His skin was deeply tanned, his hair rich dark chocolate with golden highlights—wavy and slightly tousled. Not a classically handsome pasty metro-sexual like the American suitors her mother continually threw in her path. But a ruggedly handsome man, who looked as though he would be equally at home in a New York boardroom dressed in a sleek Armani suit as he would be rustling cattle in a tough New Zealand Swandri. The man oozed passion, purpose—and danger.
She watched entranced as his gaze swept the room, standing rigidly in the archway with a presence that emanated command. He had a strong, arresting face, coldly handsome with no lines of weakness. A disturbingly primitive tug of attraction quaked through her body. She could imagine this man commanding a Roman Legion, or leading a charge of Templar Knights.
He oozed the power of a leader who made his own rules, ruthlessly sweeping aside anyone who stood in opposition. A smile fluttered to her lips as she imagined the shock on her mother’s face if she married a man so raw and rugged. To her discomfort, she found the idea thrilling and quickly sanctioned her recklessness.
Whether the Adonis had read her mind Alex had no idea, but as he carved his way through the crowded gallery he slowed his stride. He paused opposite her and looked at her, a flicker of recognition glancing across his face as though he wondered if he had met her before, perhaps even bedded her.
His gaze narrowed with the level unwavering gaze of a ravenous lion. Whatever he was thinking Alex’s heart raced. It was as if he could see right through to the essence of who she really was. It was as thrilling as it was intoxicating and disturbing. Near them people glided around the paintings, the vacuous height of the vaulted gallery ceiling amplifying people’s voices, but she was trapped with him in exploding silence.
Usually, she dismissed such attention. But this was more than a fleeting appraisal of desirability, more than an appreciation of the curvaceous femininity of her figure. It was an arrogant assessment projecting the confident knowledge that he could have her if he wanted. The only question appeared to be could he be bothered?
A frisson of danger scuttled down Alex’s spine. Under his penetrating gaze, she felt like a naked model posing for a ravenous sculptor. She picked at the black sequins of her dress, immediately regretting wearing the figure-hugging cocktail number she’d purchased for the formal opening night.
She never wore dresses ordinarily and hated wearing black, but she had wanted to blend in with the art-gallery-noir that she knew everyone else would be wearing. It was the only suitable dress she’d found at the second-hand store on Queen Street in the few hours she had to spare since arriving in Auckland. As her face flared with humiliating heat Alex tugged the bottom of the clinging dress, cursing the shimmering sequins and the above-knee length for attracting his attention.
His piercing green eyes rested for long, uneasy moments on Alex’s quivering lips. The perfect lushness of his mouth quirked dangerously as his gaze inched with leisurely thoroughness before dropping to where her dress clung to her chest.
Every whisper of hair on her body stood like sentries armed for defense. Yet to her intense humiliation she found her barriers weakened. Was it pleasure? Longing? Or desire she felt flood her body with warmth? She couldn’t be sure. It had been years since she’d been with a man, and never with anyone certainly so virile. For the briefest moment, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be taken by him. Every remnant of her rational mind fought the dangerous feeling, but the more she struggled the more her body betrayed her.
Suddenly, with an air of explosive tension, the weight of the stranger lurched forward. His face spun away from her. Alex followed the direction of his fixed gaze, piqued that his interest in her had been so totally diverted. She couldn’t see his expression but she could sense his undiluted fury.
In the next instant, he propelled himself through the crowd, a dozen lithe strides bringing him within a foot of Lost Love.
Her pulse rate ricocheted as she watched transfixed as the stranger froze as if in shock, then shook his head in disbelief. After several tense moments, he rifled through the catalog he carried. His shoulders tensed as he read the small caption, then scrutinized the painting again. He thrust his arms out as if to wrench it from the wall. His hand tightened into a closed fist crumpling the catalog, then thrust it into his pocket.
Alex’s heart pounded then took a dive. Her mind raced ahead as she struggled to understand the intensity of his reaction. Could he unravel her mysterious past?
He swung around, his face set in determined purpose, his gaze scanning quickly over the people in the room. They passed over Alex without a flicker of recognition, every muscle of his face taunt with savagery.
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know, but he looks important—and very wealthy.’ Clive said in a low voice. ‘Let me handle this.’
Clive was off and moving with the silent speed of a cobra toward the stranger before Alex could object. Tension jack-knifed through her chest. What should she do? Run after Clive and risk getting in the way? The stranger had dismissed any interest in her with the aloof detachment of a man who would never cede control. Instinct told Alex where she was concerned he was untamable. Like a wild wolf, the wrong move would send him running. Besides, Clive’s reputation for netting the elusive was legendary.
She reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and took tiny gulps as she hovered anxiously. Would Clive find out what had incited such a powerful reaction? Would the stranger reveal why he had responded so strongly?
Perhaps the painting incited something deep within his soul, she wondered. No that was impossible. The brute didn’t appear to have a soul or he wouldn’t have dismissed her so coolly. Her heart pulsed with the sting of his rejection. He was clearly a collector like many others in the gallery. A numbers man who no doubt prided himself on his many conquests and the number of artworks he possessed.
Alex gripped the stem of the glass as she watched the scene unfold. As Clive tried to beguile him with his charming smile the stranger’s shoulders tensed. Fear rumbled through her as cataclysmic as an earthquake. Was Clive failing? She cursed herself for allowing him to take the lead. A woman with a beehive hairdo, her long neck over-saturated with Opium perfume paused in front of her obstructing her view.
‘Excuse me,’ Alex said, inhaling a heady mix of cinnamon and spice, as she pressed past the woman. The stranger was no longer in front of the painting. Her heart hammered as she stood on her tiptoes and scoured the room. Where had he gone?
A slice of golden caramel moving like a bullet caught her eye as the stranger strode toward the exit. Then, like the sun setting over the ranges in Lost Love in a blink he was gone.
Did you enjoy reading this excerpt?
Book One in the Gemstone Billionaires series available now
To grab your copy from Amazon, click here>> getBook.at/ScandalousMarriage
To grab your copy from iBooks, Barnes & Noble and other great bookstores, click here>>https://books2read.com/u/mVNdn5
Posted in: Mollie's Blog, New Excerpt, The Italian Billionaire's Scandalous Marriage
Tags: clean & wholesome, Excerpt, find love, good romance books, Holiday Romance, love novels, New Release, New Zealand Romance, Passion Down Under, Romance books, True romance
Date: January 15th, 2020, Posted by mollie
Check out the following written and narrated by me.
Flight of Passion
US
https://www.audible.com/pd/Flight-of-Passion-Audiobook/B0874YCXVL
UK
https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/Flight-of-Passion-Audiobook/B0874X8TGX
AU
https://www.audible.com.au/pd/Flight-of-Passion-Audiobook/B0874Y3V2T
KOBO
https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/audiobook/flight-of-passion-4
Love Me Forever
USA
https://www.audible.com/pd/Love-Me-Forever-Audiobook/B081QRGJV8
UK
https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/Love-Me-Forever-Audiobook/B081QQVRV4
Australia
https://www.audible.com.au/pd/Love-Me-Forever-Audiobook/B081QQW4N8
Twist of Fate
USA
https://www.audible.com/pd/Twist-of-Fate-Audiobook/B07YL93YYV
UK
https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/Twist-of-Fate-Audiobook/B07YLBN32S
Australia
https://www.audible.com.au/pd/Twist-of-Fate-Audiobook/B07YL9ZTLJ
The Lightkeepers Lover
USA
https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Lightkeepers-Lover-Audiobook/B07Z9PX3NY
UK
https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/The-Lightkeepers-Lover-Audiobook/B07Z9Q1Q89
Australia
https://www.audible.com.au/pd/The-Lightkeepers-Lover-Audiobook/B07Z9QRWBV
Audio versions of these books and the following are also available from all online bookstores and also libraries (I’m still waiting on Audible to publish the below):
Sex With Strangers
Kobo
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/audiobook/sex-with-strangers-14
Claimed by the Sheikh
Kobo
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/audiobook/claimed-by-the-sheikh-9
The Italian Billionaire’s Scandalous Marriage
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/audiobook/italian-billionaire-s-scandalous-marriage-the
Love Me As I Am
https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/audiobook/love-me-as-i-am-5
I’m currently narrating new stories Great fun!
In less than 15 minutes you could be listening your way to love!
Posted in: Claimed By The Sheikh, Married by Christmas, Mollie's Blog
Date: January 9th, 2020, Posted by mollie
Dear friends,
Over the past few weeks, I have been thinking over the years left behind and the ones to unfold. I have plans to increase my exposure and get more people reading my books. And I also want to take you behind the scenes, revealing my process and how I work, my inspiration and more about my background.
So, as well as sending out my newsletters which will tell of new release updates, I am going to start sharing more on my blog and my Youtube Channel.
What will be I be sharing?
I thought I’d begin by sharing the inspiration and research for my Valentine’s Day new release, Sex With Strangers.
This story began many moons ago at a romance writer’s retreat, facilitated by Mills and Boon authors Robyn Donald and Daphne Clair. The feedback from these wonderful passionate and experienced writers, and others on the writer’s retreat, was so encouraging
“I love it!”
“We thoroughly enjoyed it”
“You’ve got the beginnings of a really good, hip, fun book”
“The chapter heads are just lovely”
“It was a riot. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Great fun!”
“I can see the movie now.”
“When are you going to finish it?”
I decided it was time for it to air!
Many of the events are inspired by true stories—both my and others’ experiences. I’ve encountered so many people over the years who are looking for love again, and just don’t know how or where to start.
I hope you giggle and laugh from deep in your belly as you read this story. Like I did, remembering and rewriting some of these scenes (and flashing back to events that were true.)
And my hero Fergus O’Farrell? A few people told me that you can’t have an Irish hero that wears green pants and is called Fergus. The Fergus I met once, told me a different story.
He was so hunky, he could wear anything—or nothing at all! Think Jamie Dornan (better known as Christian Grey), Colin Farrell, and Pierce Bronsan (the only ever Irish James Bond), the alpha Irish sexy men who rock our world.
Talented, hot-looking and super sexy.
Check out some Irish hunks we love to love here>>
I hope you enjoyed this wee insight into the inspiration behind this book.
Here are some other ways to stay in touch:
1. Follow me on BookBub, – https://www.bookbub.com/authors/mollie-mathews
2. Stay in touch on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/molliemathewsnz
3. Follow me on Twitter – https://twitter.com/Molliemathewsnz
4. Be inspired on Pinterest – https://nz.pinterest.com/molliemathews and Instagram – https://www.instagram.com/molliemathewsauthor
5. Follow my blog – https://molliemathews.wordpress.com
6. Watch me on Youtube – MolliemathewsYouTube
Posted in: Mollie's Blog, New Release, New Romance Novel, Sex With Strangers
Tags: love, Romance books, Romance novels, Romantic comedy, True Love, True romance, Writer's Life
Date: January 6th, 2020, Posted by mollie
I’ve got so many treats in store for you this year. First up, my Valentine’s Day feel-good new release!
In love, the most dangerous enemy is saucy secrets
44-year-old Ruby Evans doesn’t want to be a ‘leftover girl.’ But finding a ‘forever’ man is proving impossible.
Suddenly single after 20 years of marriage, her husband is the only man she has ever slept with. But the one bit of security that she always thought she’d hold onto for the rest of her life is brutally ripped from her.
Humiliatingly and cruelly ex-ed when her husband trades her for a younger model, Chanel Zest, a long-time friend and motivational life coach, comes to Ruby’s rescue. Together they embark on a quest to reclaim and rebuild Ruby’s shattered life and begin the grueling process of dating again.
But, once in a pink moon, Ruby has to play dirty. . .
If you loved Brigette Jones’s Diary and enjoy romantic comedy, you’ll love Sex With Strangers.
Full of quirky humor and the promise of a happily ever after.
Sex with Strangers is a clean romance with a few spicy bits.
Reader Reviews
“A really good, hip, fun book.”
“Hilarious.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
Married by Christmas and Claimed by The Sheikh
Available for pre-order NOW!
Posted in: Mollie's Blog, New Release, Sex With Strangers
Tags: find love, new romance novels, Romance books, romantic books to read, Romantic comedy, True Love