By: Kate Meader
Releasing
August 14, 2017
Pocket Star
Tour Host: Tasty Book Tours
Three estranged sisters inherit their late father’s failing hockey franchise
and are forced to confront a man’s world, their family’s demons,
and the battle-hardened ice warriors skating into their hearts.
Hot
in Chicago series author Kate
Meader returns with her all new, scorching Chicago Rebels hockey series, featuring her signature “steamy sex
scenes, colorful characters, and riveting dialogue” (Romantic Times).
Three estranged sisters inherit their late father’s failing hockey franchise
and are forced to confront a man’s world, their family’s demons, and the
battle-hardened ice warriors skating into their hearts.
Harper Chase has just become the most powerful woman in the NHL after the death
of her father Clifford Chase, maverick owner of the Chicago Rebels. But the
team is a hot mess—underfunded, overweight, and close to tapping out of the
league. Hell-bent on turning the luckless franchise around, Harper won’t let
anything stand in her way. Not her gender, not her sisters, and especially not
a veteran player with an attitude problem and a smoldering gaze designed to
melt her ice-compacted defenses.
Veteran center Remy “Jinx” DuPre is on the downside of a career that’s seen him
win big sponsorships, fans’ hearts, and more than a few notches on his stick.
Only one goal has eluded him: the Stanley Cup. Sure, he’s been labeled as the
unluckiest guy in the league, but with his recent streak of good play, he knows
this is his year. So why the hell is he being shunted off to a failing hockey
franchise run by a ball-buster in heels? And is she seriously expecting him to
lead her band of misfit losers to a coveted spot in the playoffs?
He’d have a better chance of leading Harper on a merry skate to his bed…
**Special release week price of just $1.99 **
Excerpt from Irresistible You
© Kate Meader
He looked uncomfortable standing
there, balancing on his skates, ready to spring for the door. But she knew he
wouldn’t sit while she stood because his mother had raised him to respect
women. Something fluttered in her chest at that notion. DuPre might be a lot of
things—ladies’ man, good ol’ boy, thorn in her side—but she suspected he would
never hurt someone weaker than himself.
“You’ve got three minutes, Harper.”
“Do you remember what I told you in
Boston, DuPre?”
“Somethin’ about needin’ me to
instill leadership and help these boys get to the playoffs.” Warm honey flowed
through her veins at the timbre of his voice. She could have sworn her panties
slipped an inch.
“I did say that. I meant it. And I
thought you understood.”
He rubbed his chin, the scrape
against stubble delicious to her ears. All he was missing was a Stetson, a
blade of grass, and some flighty piece in a cropped tank and Daisy Dukes. “I
understood the words because you’d put them together in a highly entertainin’
way, and to certain ears, they might make sense. Then I told you what needed to
happen to ensure my cooperation.”
This nonsense stopped here. “Is that
why you’re playing like you can barely walk, much less skate? What’s wrong, old
man? Feeling a touch of arthritis in your joints?”
For a brief moment, she thought she
might have found his weakness: vanity. But no. He merely threaded his arms over
his chest—over the Rebels logo of a big C with a hockey stick and a cutlass
crossed behind it—and cocked his head.
“You’re gonna have to use a little
more finesse, Harper.”
More surprising than the fact Remy
had used the word finesse correctly
in a sentence was that he didn’t seem annoyed with her. He seemed . . . amused.
As if she were a toy he could happily bat around like a kitten would a
semiconscious mouse.
Applause sounded, signifying the
beginning of the final period. Neither of them moved, hands metaphorically
hovering at their hips like Old West gunfighters.
“The trade deadline,” she said,
feeling livid and helpless. “Give me that.”
“The all-star game.”
Three months. The all-star game,
held in late January, was traditionally viewed as the halfway point of the
season. On the cusp of the busy trade period, it led into a month of bartering
and haggling as everyone lined up their teams for the big push to the playoffs.
At her hesitation, he leaned in,
those cobalt blues flashing. It wasn’t enough to unholster her gun; she should
have already taken her shot, and that delay was her undoing.
“Would you rather three months of my
full effort or a whole season of my skatin’ like I’m playin’ squirt hockey?”
“You can’t seriously be reducing
this to a game of ‘would you rather’?”
His voice dropped to an intimate
tone, her panties another inch with it. “If you shake on it now, I’ll begin
that full effort tonight.”
The siren blared in the distance, followed
by the home crowd’s roar. Five zip. Harper
didn’t enjoy being blackmailed, but she enjoyed losing even less.
She thrust her hand forward
impatiently. He took it in his firm grasp. That electricity setting her skin
aflame was her body telling her she’d made the right decision. Nothing else.
“You have a game to finish.”
He held on, and now he inclined his
head so close she could count each and every one of those pretty-boy eyelashes.
Her pulse rate spiked, and she was certain he could sense it. Sense her heart
thumping rabbit kicks, her vein pulsing in her throat.
“We’ve shaken on it now, minou, so
don’t you dare think about welshing. I might sound like I spend my spare time
spitballin’ from the rockin’ chair on my porch, but don’t let my accent fool
you none. I’m not the kind of man you want for an enemy. We clear?”
She might have rolled her eyes if
she wasn’t just a wee bit impressed by his chutzpah. Still, he needed to be
informed that while he might have won this battle, the war was far from over.
“Try not to trip on your way to the
rink, DuPre.”
He laughed, deep and robust, clearly
delighted with himself. Idiot. His thumb pressed against her inner wrist, and a
crackle of energy leeched from him into her body.
“You feel that, Harper?”
She snatched back her hand. “If you
mean my goodwill evaporating with every second you’re standing here, then,
yeah, I feel it.”
“I think we’re havin’ a thing.”
They were. Oh, God, they were. “Why
are you still here again?”
His mouth curved. “Lady, I got the
distinct feelin’ these next few months are gonna be fun.”
He picked up his stick and, with
more grace than a six-foot-two brute wearing skates on dry land should possess,
he left the locker room.
Originally
from Ireland, USA Today bestselling author Kate Meader cut her
romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some
Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners,
oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron or a fire hose, and she’s
there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha
heroes and strong heroines who can match their men quip for quip.
