Exposed

Book 0: Men of Rogues Hollow

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Donna Kauffman comes a sassy, sexy tale that proves attraction can heat up even the coldest winter . . .
 
It's Christmas Eve and Delilah Hudson is on a train stranded by a blizzard. At least she can take a few photos to capture the experience—if she's not too distracted by the inescapable presence of a ridiculously good-looking fellow passenger—one who's surprisingly interested in what she's  up to . . .
 
As a professional photographer, Austin Morgan has his choice of gorgeous women. But something about Delilah has caught his well-trained eye and has him hungry for more—and eager to share his expertise. And once they're alone, Austin can't wait to see what develops . . .
 
Praise for Donna Kauffman
 
“Readers will appreciate the wonderful sense of place, the well-rounded secondary characters and the deep emotion.”  
—Bookpage, TOP PICK
 
“Kauffman's stories show that the bravery to reach for a connection is all we need to discover joy; she excels at expressing the struggles and joys of giving in to love.”
—Publishers Weekly
 
“Sassy, witty, and sexy.” 
—Library Journal 
 
  

 

Release date: September 29, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 96

Sample

Austin Morgan got paid to shoot beautiful women. And he was very good at his job.

Had been, in fact, since he’d caught Cindy Harper in only her bikini bottoms, sunning herself on a raft out in old man Ramsay’s pond when they were both seventeen. He’d never forget that hot August day. He’d staked out his spot in the woods for hours, hoping to get a shot of the great blue heron who’d made a habit of coming in every afternoon, usually just as the sun started its descent.

Instead he’d zoomed in on Cindy Harper. Her soft breasts, plumping out along the side of her body as she floated, facedown, on her bright orange raft. He remembered as if it were yesterday, how he’d skimmed his lens along the tight curve of her very sweet ass, feeling it as deeply as if he were stroking her for real. He remembered admiring the way her hamstrings flexed those perfect cheeks of hers when she flip-kicked her way back from the center of the lake. Girls Volleyball State Champ two years running. And the payoff was a body boys drooled over. And made his fingers twitch on the trigger.

He remembered thinking he couldn’t figure out which had excited him more . . . the idea of wading out in that water and flipping her off the raft . . . and wrapping those strong legs of hers around his waist. Or capturing for posterity the exact element of her that had him rock hard in his shorts. Considering Cindy was dating his older brother Tag at the time, he’d opted for posterity.

Austin closed his eyes, shut out the sounds of people shuffling up and down the narrow aisle outside his private rail car, ignoring the stream of anxious chatter that filled the air that was growing more still and stifled the longer the train sat motionless on the snow-covered tracks. Instead, his thoughts continued to drift back through the years, as they had since he’d boarded the damn train in Florida, twelve interminable hours ago. This time to that day on Ramsay’s pond. To that one snap in time that had changed his whole life.

The endless hours spent dreaming of a future spent traveling to exotic locales, photographing wildlife, capturing them in their native element, examining their power, how they fit in on the playing field of life . . . all forgotten the instant that shutter had clicked. The hunger to capture the primal glory of an entirely different kind of wildlife sprang to life inside him that hot afternoon, making him feel alive in a way he never had before. A hunger that, with a great deal of perseverance, and support from everyone back home in Rogues Hollow—except his father, of course—had led to a very lucrative career, traveling to all those exotic locales he’d dreamed of and many more he hadn’t. Still focusing on the primal beauty of nature . . . only now it came wrapped in a string bikini.

The corners of his mouth kicked up just a little. And he owed it all to Cindy Harper’s sweet ass. Now, a dozen years and a hundred magazine covers later, he was heading back home to Rogues Hollow. And any urge he had to smile vanished.

Home. He could be in Milan right now, shooting that bathing suit layout for Elle. Instead, he was stuck on a train, plunging headlong into a howling winter storm. Heading to a house, to a past, that—Cindy Harper’s ass notwithstanding—held memories he’d traveled the world to forget. But what the hell, it was that time of year, right? Peace on earth, goodwill toward men?

Yeah, he thought as he stared out at the heavy white swirl beyond the fogged passenger window. Merry fucking Christmas.

Delilah Hudson loved Christmas.

But not for all the traditional reasons most people cherished and lovingly tended to every year. In fact, she loved it for all the reasons that had nothing to do with tradition or sentiment. Christmas was a season when everyone packed up, bundled up, and trundled home to friends and family, leaving work, the hassle of day to day living behind, to embrace the warmth of that impossible-to-duplicate familial cocoon.

Del hadn’t come from a cocoon, familial or otherwise. She liked to think she’d emerged from the chrysalis fully formed and totally independent. She allowed herself a little smile, her first in hours, and a dry one at that, thinking the nuns who ran the orphanage she’d been raised in would agree on that last part. Her knuckles, however, still bore the scars of their opinions on the former.

Unlike the people presently milling past her, up and down the aisleway, she had no desire to revisit any of the places or people who had been a part of that time. She’d rather embrace a city empty of expectations and demands. For two glorious weeks, from the days just before Christmas, through the New Year, everyone hustled and bustled around town, thoughts focused on gift giving and partygoing . . . not on work, not on deadlines. And not on Del.

For two glorious weeks she felt like she had the whole place to herself, a place out of time, where she could wander as she pleased. Just her, and her camera. Only the pictures she took during that time weren’t for the print ads that dominated her working hours. They were for herself. A reflection of who she was, what she saw in the city that had given her a life she loved. Museums were empty, the park cold and windswept, the harbor barren of sails. For those two weeks, New York City was hers.

Or it would be, if I could get the hell back to it, she thought grimly. Instead she was snowed in on a goddamn train . . . and snowed out of getting home anytime soon.

She drew her attention away from the grumbling of her fellow passengers and back to the fogged window. When she’d boarded the train in Atlanta early this morning, she’d seen expectant faces and chubby-cheeked smiles. People happily leaving work and home behind, heading off to spend the holiday with family or friends. Now those same faces were weary, frustrated, the littlest ones tear-stained. She could hardly blame them. It was Christmas Eve and they’d just been informed their train was temporarily stalled on the tracks.

Another train coming the other direction had partly derailed due to icing. The conductor had informed them that there had been thankfully few injuries, but that with the storm still ongoing, and the wind picking up, causing heavy drifting and near whiteout conditions, rescue and repair efforts were being severely hampered. They’d been forced to stop a dozen miles away from the next station. Which was still hours short of Penn Station in New York City, so what difference did it make?

At least she didn’t have anyone waiting for her: no relatives tipsy from too much eggnog, no family worrying about her safety, no significant other hoping he’d found just the right gift to surprise her with. “No me, wondering breathlessly if this is going to be the night he finally proposes,” she said, lips twisting into a wry smirk.

Only, somehow, the acerbic internal monologue didn’t quite give her the perspective she’d been hoping for. She’d always prided herself for not falling into that trap. The trap of expectations that others inevitably placed on those they loved. She took pride, and a significant amount of pleasure, in the fact that the only expectations she had to live up to were her own.

How often had she watched her friends and coworkers succumb to the lure of letting someone else define their happiness? Infatuation was great, lust even better; she was a firm believer in enjoying both. But only up to the point where you forgot it was just for fun. Once you started to rely on it, depend on it . . . Big mistake letting it progress beyond that point.

So, it was ridiculous to feel even the tiniest twinge of... what, loneliness? After all, she’d set the boundaries, right? What to others might appear a too solitary life, was, to her, a life filled with the sweet intoxication of complete freedom. She’d spent the first eighteen years of her life totally dependent on others to define her existence. The day she’d been emancipated from the orphanage, the day she’d first faced the actual reality of being completely in charge of her own fate, awash with the twin sensations of terror and exhilaration at the very prospect, had been every bit the defining moment in her life she’d always assumed it w. . .