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Author(s): Tarah Scott

Yes, magic exists. Not the backwater voodoo witches practice where Mississippi Deputy Sheriff Margot Saulnier grew up. But the age-old black magic a woman weaves around a man that draws him under her spell. The kind Margot’s best friend used to kill her husband…and get away with it.

Margot chases her friend to Scotland, determined to prove her guilty of murder. No one will stop Margot. Not the SAS agent sent to watch her…and not the Scottish lord legend says murders his lovers when they cannot free him from the spell that has imprisoned him in Castle Morrison for three hundred years.

He’s just a legend.

And magick doesn’t exist.

There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Chapter One
Murderers weren’t born. They were made. At least, that’s what Margot had told herself these last four years. She opened the door to Castle Morrison and stepped inside the small entryway. Her hand tightened on the strap of the duffel she carried. She’d left Mississippi behind fifteen hours ago and was now on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, about as far north as a person could get in the Scottish Highlands. The countryside was just as remote as Wilkinson County, and probably just as wild.

Gooseflesh crept across her arms with an unexpected desire to turn and head back home—back to her father, the job she’d left behind and the front porch swing that squeaked too loudly on sultry summer nights. Exhaustion, she told herself. That and the fact she was about to face a murderer.

She took three paces through the arched doorway into the reception area and stopped. Caterine Bowers, the new owner of Castle Morrison, stood alongside a young brunette behind a mahogany reception counter at the far end of the room.

Cat hadn’t changed in the four years since Margot had seen her. The boys back home had gone wild over her perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six body. With lustrous, jet black hair that brushed her waist and the feminine walk she’d perfected, she’d fucked her way through half of Wilkinson County. Margot didn’t blame her for that. Hell, she’d had her share of those southern boys. It was the fact Cat had murdered Donny four years into their marriage—and gotten away with it—that Margot hated.

Cat’s invitation for Margot to visit her in Scotland offered the opportunity that had been lacking when Cat fled to L.A. six months after Donny’s death. Eighteen months later, Cat dropped off the radar. Margot couldn’t let that happen again—couldn’t let Cat murder again. And she would.

Cat looked up from the papers she and the brunette were studying. The emerald green eyes that had gotten her name shortened from Caterine to Cat lit up. Margot chilled. As Deputy Sheriff of Wilkinson County, she’d convinced criminals she was their friend in order to get their confessions. But none of those criminals had been her best friend…and none of them had murdered her husband—Margot’s cousin. So how was she going to hide the fact she was here to prove that Cat killed Donny?


Margot smiled. Cat skirted the counter and hurried toward her. Margot dropped the duffel and started forward. They met in the middle of the room and Cat pulled her into a warm hug. Margot relaxed as if embracing the same friend she’d shared everything with, from make-up to Jimmy Thornton in the twelfth grade.

Cat pulled back and looked into her face. “You look exhausted.”

Margot startled at hearing the clipped Yankee tones coming from Cat’s mouth. What had happened to her Mississippi drawl? The four years she’d been gone from Mississippi wasn’t nearly long enough to lose that southern inflection.

Margot gave a tired smile. “Beyond exhausted.”

Cat grinned. “Sorry, there are no direct flights from Wilkinson County to Scotland.”

“WilkinsonCounty?” Margot grunted. “There aren’t any direct flights from anywhere in Mississippi to Scotland.”

Cat slipped an arm around her shoulders. Margot forced herself not to stiffen when Cat gave her a squeeze.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” Cat looked past Margot, and Margot glanced back to see her cab driver standing at the counter, her suitcase and duffel beside him on the floor.

“Hold on.” She started to pull free.

Cat’s arm tightened around her. “Never mind. Dahlia, see to him, will you please, and have Margot’s bags sent up right away.”

The brunette smiled and turned her attention to the driver.

Cat directed Margot across the foyer to a staircase on the left wall. “You’re going to love Morrison Castle,” Cat said.

“There’s nothing like it in Wilkinson County.” She released Margot and went ahead of her up the stairs.

Margot followed, grimacing when the entrance disappeared around a hard right turn and the narrow stairwell closed in behind her like a coffin. Her legs moved as if slogging through mud and she released a tired breath when the stairs finally opened into a hallway that was expansive by comparison. Cat turned left.

Margot looked back at the slit in the stone wall that held the staircase. “Those stairs would challenge the most seasoned spelunker. How do people pass on them?”

Cat laughed. “The Scots are big on togetherness.”

Margot imagined two men coming face to face, backs pressed against opposite walls as they sidled past one another. If the men were anything like the large specimens she’d seen working the castle grounds, they would exchange more than just greetings.

“Staircases were built narrow,” Cat said, “so an enemy had to charge up one man at a time, which gave the defenders a chance to kill them before they reached the upper levels.”

They passed four doors before Cat stopped. “This is the last of the unrenovated rooms. I didn’t want you to have to worry about moving while you’re here.”

She opened the door and stepped inside. Margot followed, catching sight of the bed. The brandy colored quilt looked like heaven on earth. She halted, her attention riveted onto a painting that hung over the fireplace where a low fire burned. The painting’s three dimensional depiction of Castle Morrison made the picture feel as real as the wing backed chair sitting in front of the low burning fire in the fireplace.

Battlemented towers on each corner of the oblong castle rose above the keep’s three stories. Like a velvet caress, ivy crawled up the stone surrounding the heavy, central oak door. Sunlight glinted off narrow, stained glass windows as clear and vivid as newly cut glass.

“Damn,” Margot breathed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Cat asked.

“Magnificent. Who’s the artist?”

“Unknown. The picture’s three hundred years old.”

“Three hundred? But that’s impossible. It’s so…”

“Perfect?” Cat said.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Margot crossed to the fireplace. The castle came into sharper focus as if she had hit the zoom button on her web browser.

“The detail’s amazing.” She reached a hand to touch the ivy, then thought better of it. Three hundred year old paintings weren’t meant to be touched. She faced Cat. Hair on the back of her neck stood on end and she recognized the feeling of being watched. That’s what happened when you stood in the presence of a killer.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Your luggage,” Cat said. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and a young man entered carrying Margot’s luggage. He murmured a hello, then lifted the suitcase onto the stand to the left of the door and set the duffel on the carpet beside it.

He faced them. “Will there be anything else?”

“Hold on, sugar.” Margot started toward the duffel where she kept her money, but Cat lifted a hand.

“No tipping here at Castle Morrison,” she said.

“I don’t mind.”

Cat shook her head. “The caliber of guests who stay here don’t tip.”

“That rich?” Margot asked, as if she didn’t already know the answer. Castle Morrison was a new brand of hotel where the obscenely wealthy squandered their money on the“seventeenth-century-Highland-experience.”

The richest of the rich,” Cat had boasted a week ago when she called to invite Margot to Scotland.

Scottish castles didn’t come cheap—Margot had checked. Castle Morrison sold for three-hundred and seventy-two thousand. Total renovations would set Cat back a cool million, but she would make up the expense in the fees guests paid for the privilege of sleeping in a Scottish castle. A two-week stay ran sixteen thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand American dollars. Cat had a waiting list that stretched into next year. In the next twelve months, she stood to gross twenty-one million dollars.

Helluva business deal, Margot had noted after Cat’s call a week ago. But what woman bought a Scottish castle with the money she inherited from the husband she murdered?

Even better: what murderer invited her cop friend to visit?

“Thank you, Toby.” Cat looked at the bellhop. “That’ll be all.”

He nodded and left, as Cat faced Margot. “You can put your things in the wardrobe.” Cat nodded to a modest built-in armoire on the far wall.

Margot released a sigh. “If I don’t get some rest I’ll get cranky.”

Cat laughed. “And none of us want that.” She crossed to the door. “Come downstairs when you wake up.” She grasped the door handle, then paused and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, stay off the balcony. The wrought iron railing is dangerously loose. I don’t want you falling into the water below.”

Margot jerked her gaze onto the French doors that opened onto a balcony. A shiver snaked up her spine, and ex-Deputy Sheriff Margot Saulnier jumped at the soft click of the door shutting.

Chapter Two

Margot turned right and another hallway in the castle stretched out before her, this one in deeper shadow than the last. She glanced behind her. A single sconce created an eerie shadow dance across the stone walls and floor. She startled at sight of a heavy oak door on the corner of the bend in the hallway. The doorway hadn't been there when she’d walked past. Besides, how could a room be built on the corner of two hallways? Margot hesitated, then faced forward, took one step, another, and another until a door came into view on the left.

She stopped at the door, grasped the handle, and pressed down on the latch. The soft click of latch releasing from catch sent a prickle up her arms. In the last two hallways, door after door had been locked. Her fingers trembled on the handle. Well damn, what would the boys back home in Wilkinson County think of Deputy Sheriff Saulnier unnerved by an unlocked door?

Margot released the handle and pressed against the wood, easing the door open. To her right, low flames bobbed in a fireplace. A sword and dagger hung over the mantle. The blades pointed toward an antique bowl and pitcher sitting on a small table between an open door in the corner of the room and the floor-length curtains opposite her.
She leaned forward and peered around the door. An ornate four-poster bed stood against the left wall, gray draperies swaged between posts. The burgundy quilt that covered the bed was turned back as if in invitation to crawl between the snow-white sheets. An odd sense of familiarity nudged. Had she been here before?

Hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention. She swung her gaze to the right and sucked in a breath. A man stood in the corner doorway. Intense brown eyes stared back at her just as they had that afternoon when she’d seen him standing in the main entrance of Castle Morrison.

Butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach. Standing this close, she wanted to run her fingers through the tousled dark curls that brushed his shoulders. Low firelight softened the square jaw shadowed by stubble. The green and red checked sash that had draped his shoulders earlier now hung loosely about a kilt held in place by a thick leather belt and buckle. A crisp, white shirt stretched taught across his muscled chest. Margot released a silent breath. Memory hadn’t done him justice. He seemed taller, broader…more dangerous.

His eyes narrowed. “How did ye get here?”

Despite the soft burr that caressed her like a summer breeze heavy with damp heat, she couldn’t miss the recrimination in his voice. She didn't know how she’d gotten here, any more than she knew how he had appeared in the painting of the castle that hung over the fireplace in her room. When she'd arrived at Castle Morrison that afternoon he hadn't been in the picture. But she'd woken from her nap two hours later to see him standing in the main entrance, his expression of anticipation painted in exquisite detail. He’d been waiting for someone. A woman, she realized.

“Did your lady friend show up?”

Surprise flashed in his eyes, but vanished in thin-lipped disapproval. “You will return from whence ye came, if you have any sense about you—” his tone suggested she had no sense, “—and quickly.”

His gaze raked her body, and she glanced down at the gold colored, satin pajamas she’d worn to bed. Her nipples stood at attention. Tit for tat, she figured, and shifted her gaze past the kilt to his bare legs. Her pulse skittered. She’d heard that Scots didn’t wear underwear under kilts. No doubt about it, underwear or no underwear, that outfit would get him arrested in her hometown of Woodville, Mississippi. The entire population, a whopping one thousand, two hundred and fifteen, would show up, Bibles in one hand, rifles in the other, to ensure he dressed as every God fearing person was meant to dress.

“I felt certain you had more sense than the others,” he said, then added in a mutter, “Foolish girl.”

“What others? You know me?”

“If you believe he will let ye escape—”

Awareness zipped up her spine. She glanced sharply behind her through the open door.

“What is amiss?” he demanded.

The faint crash of waves caught her attention and she looked to the curtains at the far side of the room. Memory struck a cord. She had been here before—or in the castle, that is. This was Castle Morrison. She’d arrived that afternoon. Desire ripped through her.

Margot yanked her attention back onto the man. “You wouldn’t be dabbling in bayou magic, would you, sugar?”

She’d never put much stock in the black magic the women back home secretly practiced, but neither had she felt anything mess with her insides like that.

“Magick?” he repeated.

Unease brought the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. “You stay right there,” she ordered, and turned back to the hall.

Margot glanced right, then left, and spotted another door up ahead on the right. Well, damn, another door had magically appeared. An uncomfortable flush warmed her as she took a step toward it. Another wave of longing tightened her belly.

Strong fingers closed around her arm and yanked her back into the room. The door slammed shut with a crash and he shoved her against the hard wood. Margot yanked her gaze onto the stranger’s face. He stared down at her, the dark irises swirling as if a tornado raged in their depths. She sucked in a breath. Bayou magic, if ever she’d seen it.

A prickle dug into her flesh like tiny needles, but she kept her gaze locked with his. “I don’t take kindly to be accosted.” She tried stepping past him.

He shoved her back against the door. “Do no' be a fool.”

“Not many folks call me a fool to my face.”

“If you answer his call, you will be a dead fool.”

She tensed, but said in her cool cop’s voice, “That sounds like a threat.”

“No threat. Fact.”

“I like threats even less than being accosted.”
His eyes darkened. “He shall not have another victim.”

He yanked her to him. His belt buckle dug into her stomach, but the pressure of his erection against her belly caught her attention. The need to impale herself on him halted the fist she had ready to punch his belly. Sweet Christ, it had been some time since she'd had a man, but had it been so long that the first hard cock to come along was enough to induce her to fuck a stranger?

He unbuttoned two buttons of her pajama top and pushed the sleeves down her arms. Cool air puckered her nipples even tighter. His gaze dropped to her breasts. It hadn’t been so long she'd forgotten the meaning of his sharp intake of breath. Desire pooled between her legs. Hell, it seemed that needing to be fucked was enough after all.

Wouldn’t the boys back home love that? Miss I’d-as-soon-shoot-your-ass-as-fuck-you was hot to trot. Being runner up for Miss Mississippi hadn’t helped when she became deputy sheriff. It seemed all of Wilkinson County’s male population thought beauty queen turned cop was a ready-made recipe for cock and pussy.

Firelight glinted off his eyes in the instant before his head dipped. Moist lips closed around a nipple. Margot arched into his mouth. He emitted a low growl. He slipped warm fingers beneath her top and around her waist to the small of her back, then pulled her against him. The soft fabric of his shirt tickled the tiny hairs on her skin.

Margot ground her taut belly against the steel of his abdomen. Her heated flesh cooled, then warmed again in sync with his warmer body. Teeth gently tugged at her nipple. She gasped. He sucked, flicked his tongue against the sensitive bud, and sucked again. She wrapped her hands around his ass. Muscle tightened as he sucked harder. Margot rolled her sensitive nub against his rod. He growled.

“That’s it, sugar,” she coaxed.

His hand covered the other breast as he released her nipple and kissed her mouth. He flicked his tongue against her lips. Margot opened and his tongue swept inside. Damn, he tasted like brandy. Just like the movies. What fantasy had she conjured him from? She slid her hands around his waist and flattened her palms on his chest. His heart raced like a thoroughbred. Margot shifted her hands upward and her shirt bunched. He grabbed her lapel and yanked the remaining buttons free of their holes. Two buttons pinged off the wall and bounced noiselessly to the carpet.

Margot glanced at the shirt, then lifted her gaze to his face. “You ruined my best pair of pajamas.”

The awareness that had grabbed her attention a moment ago sliced into her thoughts. She twisted in an effort to see the door she was still pressed against. “What the hell’s out there?”

He scooped her off the floor and pressed her tightly against his broad chest.

“Whoa!” Margot threw her arms around his neck.

He strode to the bed, tossed her onto the mattress and came down on top of her.

She lifted a brow. “Ready to step things up a notch?”

He stared for a long moment, then laid a palm on her stomach. Her flesh quivered as his warm fingers glided downward.

He slipped his hand beneath her waistband. Margot yanked his kilt up, wrapped a leg around his naked hip, and arched into the fingers sliding through her curls. He grazed her clit with a fingertip and she pulsed against the long digit. The finger dipped between her folds and into her wet channel.

His head dropped to her neck. “Faigh muin,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Margot gave a low laugh. “I don’t know what you said, but I like the way you said it.”

Warm breath bathed her neck. He slid the finger in, then out, starting a rhythm. Feather light kisses moved along her neck to the hollow in her throat. Soft hair tickled the underside of her jaw. She startled when his thumb brushed her swollen sex. His in-and-out rhythm didn’t miss a beat.

What the hell was she doing? She’d never before waltzed into a stranger’s room and let him fuck her. Pressure mounted in her core. Familiarity edged to the surface. What was it—

Sweet Christ, I’m dreaming

Pleasure shot through her. Well, damn, how long before she woke up? Margot shoved a hand under his kilt and grasped his steel-hard cock. His intake of breath hissed in her ear. Satisfaction shot through her when his rhythm faltered then started again with renewed vigor. She rubbed the mushroom shaped tip and a trickle of thick, sticky cum coated her fingertip. He groaned. Her nipples tightened and throbbed in sync with the ache building in her core. He gently flicked her pleasure point. She gasped.

He thrust into her hand. She tightened her grip around him, until the edge of her hand met pubic bone, then he lifted and slowly thrust again. His thumb slowed on her nub, teasing, keeping her release in sight, but just out of reach.

He rose up on one elbow, his eyes meeting hers as he pulled his finger from inside her and began rubbing her clit in quick strokes. She squeezed his cock, sliding her hand up its length, while pulsing her hips against his finger. Pleasure rose on a hard wave, building for a mind numbing orgasm. She released him and covered the hand massaging her. Margot jammed her eyes shut and bucked against him. Light burst behind her lids.

Don’t stop.” She bucked harder.

A ripping sound filled the space around her. The hand moved faster. Pleasure tore through her. A finger dipped inside her channel as another stoked again, then again, and one last time while the orgasm tightened her channel and locked her insides in spasm. She arched into his hand and pleasure exploded between her legs.

Chapter Three

Margot snapped open her eyes and gasped at the orgasm that tightened her body. She drew in even breaths in an effort to slow the hammering of her heart. Vague images of a dimly lit hall, soft light, and a tall dark figure flitted through memory. Her room at last came into focus and she registered the beginnings of gray morning light seeping through the curtains of the French doors leading to the balcony. Margot lifted her head off the pillow and ran her gaze down her arm.

Her hand disappeared inside her pajama bottoms. Bare breasts, open shirt, and missing buttons? Well, damn.

She allowed her head to drop back onto the pillow. The best fuck she’d had in over a year—maybe the best finger fuck she’d had in her life—and she’d administered it herself. She eyed the shirt. How had she managed to ruin her favorite set of pajamas in the process? She withdrew her hand from the pajamas and a chill rolled across her arms. Margot glanced at the fireplace on the opposite wall. Red embers glowed beneath the ash. Apparently, even early summer in a Scottish castle was damp and chilly.

She rolled over, dragging the quilt over her arms, and looked at the travel alarm clock on the nightstand. That and the Blackberry lying beside it were the only pieces of modern equipment in the room. The digital numbers read 6:39. Margot grimaced. The time in Mississippi was just past midnight. She should go back to sleep. Instead, she looked past the foot of the bed at the painting that hung over the mantle.

Soft light from the coals bathed the painting in a glow that didn't stop the same prickle of gooseflesh up her arms she had experienced yesterday when she’d first seen the painting. Even the twenty feet that separated her from the painting didn’t
diminish the castle’s detail. Cat must have gone to a lot of expense to have the picture restored. Why put it in the room that was the last to be renovated?

Margot slid her gaze past the castle to the North Atlantic that stretched into infinity beyond the steep cliff where the castle sat. The distant crash of the waves beyond her room filtered into her consciousness. Had the artist sat on her balcony while painting the pale blue water? Margot glanced at the doors leading to the balcony.

After Cat’s warning yesterday afternoon, Margot had examined the balcony. Cat hadn’t exaggerated. The wrought iron railing teetered on the verge of crumbling away from its stone anchors. Margot burrowed deeper beneath the thick quilt.

She’s really stepped into the looking glass this time.

Four years ago, the coroner ruled the death of Donald Bowers, son of Wilkinson County’s richest land owner, accidental, but Margot knew better…had seen what no one else had seen. Chief Hicks ordered her to forget the case. Even a champion swimmer could drown, he said. But she couldn’t forget the gawky blond boy she’d grown up with, or the way he’d mooned over Cat throughout high school. She would never forget his body when she arrived on the scene at the lake. But most of all, she couldn’t forget the lack of pain in Cat’s eyes when Margot broke the news that her husband had been found floating face down in the lake.

The day after Margot got Cat’s call, she asked Hicks for a leave of absence. He told her she could take as much time as she needed—as long as she wasn't planning a trip to Scotland. Margot had laid her deputy sheriff's badge and service automatic on his desk and walked out.

Sadness tugged at her. Despite long periods of boredom, heat, and humidity, she had thrived on being one of four police officers who patrolled six hundred and eighty-eight square miles of woods and swamp that hid moon-shiners, alligator poachers, and backwater gambling. She would never find another wild ride like the last twelve years. But losing her job was a small price to pay to give Donny peace.

A soft chime drew Margot’s attention to the Blackberry. She reached for the phone and pulled it close, and tapped the lit email icon. A message from her father loaded.

How you doing, baby girl? I did some fishing this afternoon. Caught me some perch and catfish. You'll be sorry you're missing this meal. I bet they don't have nothing like this in Scotland. Anyway, let me know you're all right. I still say you should come on home and leave things be. Ain't no use fussing with a witch.

Your father.

Margot couldn't help a smile. Her father figured that any woman who could kill a man and not leave a trace of how she did it had to be a witch. He wasn't completely wrong. He also wasn't a modern man, and didn't have any real understanding of modern forensics. His use of a computer to email her only illustrated his determination to stay in touch with her. But he understood people, and he believed in her. When Hicks asked him to talk some sense into Margot, he'd told Hicks that she was the best damn cop on the force, and if she said Cat was a killer, then she damn well was. Of course, when Hicks left, her father told her the same thing his email said, ain't no use fussing with a witch.

She typed a reply that she was fine, and she would stay in touch. Margot hit send, then set the Blackberry back on the night table and buried deeper beneath the covers. She had just begun to drift off when the creak of the door brought her to attention. Who was visiting her room so early? The door creaked again and she tugged the edge of the quilt from her eyes. Margot stilled. Cat had entered and was clicking the door shut. Cat turned and stared at the fireplace. Not the fireplace, Margot realized, the picture.

“Gets to you, doesn’t it?”

Cat whirled, green eyes wide. “What—you’re still here?”

“You expected me to be up? What kind of vacation would that be?”

Margot propped up on an elbow. The quilt fell forward. Cat’s gaze dropped to Margot’s chest. Margot glanced down at her exposed breasts.

“Oops.” She pulled the pajama top closed.

“What happened?”

Something in Cat’s demand gave Margot pause, but she grinned as if talking to the old Cat. Cat understood what it meant to have a good time, even when flying solo. That fact hadn't changed for her even after Eric Olsen was killed while drag racing their senior year in high school.

“A wild and wet dream,” Margot said. At least, what she could remember of it. Damn, why were the good dreams always the hardest to recall?

Cat crossed to the bed. “You had a wild time on your own last night?”

Margot waggled an edge of her pajama top. “Looks that way.”

Cat looked from the shirt to Margot. “That’s a stretch, even for you.”

Margot grinned again. “I know. Guess I’m starting my vacation off with a bang.” She flopped back onto the mattress. “What do you have planned for us today?”

“Us?” She shook her head. “I’m working all day. The contractors are starting the second phase. I’ve got to be available for consultation.”

“No problem. I’ll just bum around today, see what this place is all about.”

“We can have dinner tonight. Eight o’clock,” Cat said.

“Perfect. Gives me loads of time to get into trouble.”

Cat nodded and Margot couldn’t help thinking Cat had lost her sense of humor. Murder did that to a woman.

“You’ll have to keep clear of this wing until after five when the crew clears out,” Cat said. “They pretty much take over the hallways. They don’t want anyone traipsing through the work area. Insurance concerns. You know the drill.”

“I’ll clear out for the day. What time do they arrive?”

“Nine. They’re not early birds. See you later,” she said, and left.

Margot glanced at the clock. 7:01. Construction didn’t start for another two hours. Plenty of time to take care of unfinished business. She threw back the covers, sloughed out of her shirt and pajama bottoms, and studied her naked body. She reached between her legs, then stopped. Cat hadn't said why she’d come to Margot's room so early.

This book is 155 pages long and is erotic romance.

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ISBN (Print):
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Genre: Erotic Romance
Date Published: 10/24/2012
Publisher: Broken Arm Publishing

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