Muse: A Dark Romance

Book 1: The Muse Series

by Julia Gabriel

Genres: Billionaires Romance; Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; New Adult Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Readers are saying, “Holy hotness!” ... “the sexiest thing I have ever read” ... “5 stars are not enough!”

One wealthy heir.
One new college grad.
A roommate who can best be described as sex on a stick.
A job that entails researching Regency era brothels and, um, “acting.”
What could possibly go wrong?
(Damn near everything.)

My name is Sim. This book is about Alaric White—my best friend, college roommate, partner in literary crime. Alaric writes kissing books. And by “kissing,” I mean ... well, you know what I mean.

He writes each book with a muse. (If the IRS asks, tell them she's a “research assistant.”) Yeah, I've told him this reflects a certain lack of imagination on his part. But I help out with his books so far be it from me to complain too much.

Usually it doesn't take him long to find a “research assistant” for a new book. Women send him their “resumes.” Call. Email. Turn up at every stop on his book tours. (I know, it's a rough life but someone has to live it.)

But his current work-in-progress? Well, it's different. So he needs a different muse. Someone innocent and untouched ... but also brave enough to embark on a journey into her deepest, darkest desires.

After a year, he's still searching. His agent is getting antsy. (Okay, she's on the verge of full-blown panic that he won't finish the book on time.)

Then he sees her, looking like an angel just arisen from a leisurely afternoon of amour. (His exact words.) She's sitting in a suburban coffee shop ... and being threatened by a goon with a pistol in his waistband.

(Dear reader, he rescues her.)

Then a plot twist no one saw coming.

He knows he should let her go. But he's a selfish bastard. (I am too, but that's a different story.) He just needs to keep her long enough to finish the book ...

Muse is a melt-your-clothes-off scorching hot standalone billionaire (well, Alaric's not technically a billionaire but he acts like one half the time) boss romance with a sweet happy ever after. (If I might say so myself.) Find out why readers are saying, “Holy hotness!” ... “the sexiest thing I have ever read” ... “5 stars are not enough!” (Well, I'm one of the reasons why they say that.) Of course, everyone wants my story now, too. We'll see. My story makes Alaric's look like a damn fairy tale. A twisted sort of fairy tale, but ... well, just read it. (Trust me, it's worth it.)

Release date: September 30, 2015

Publisher: Serif Books

Print pages: 296

Sample

Alaric White was killing a few hours before his book signing and he was killing them in a suburban coffee shop outside Washington, DC. He had been looking for the usual chain, the familiar logo, the comforting but not really comfortable decor. Instead, the coffee shop he found was a local one-off, with a darker, lusher edge than its more famous cousin. The tables had more sinuous curves. The chairs were upholstered in deep purple and burgundy velveteen. Yes, Alaric realized he was one of six or seven men alive who knew the difference between velvet and velveteen. It was an occupational hazard of being a novelist, one could say. He often found himself online looking up details no one else really cared about.

Alaric cared though. He cared deeply that the details in his books were accurate, that the feelings were true, the scenes vivid and real. That’s why people read his books. He took the trouble to know what the hell he was writing about. Or so he told himself, anyway.

Maybe he’d put this coffee shop into his current work-in-progress. Or, as his agent liked to say, his under-contract-book. Yeah, he was a little behind on that one. He hadn’t found his muse yet, unfortunately, and until he did he couldn’t write the book. With the earlier books, it hadn’t been that hard. But the main character in this one, Erica, was different. Special. Not the kind of woman who would agree to become a famous writer’s muse for six months. Especially not a famous erotic writer. 

He tried to imagine Erica in the coffee shop. Instead of world music or an inoffensive folk singer crooning in the background, deep house throbbed beneath the hiss of the espresso machines and the urgent buzz of conversations. The walls sported dark grey wallpaper that, at the right angle, produced a moire effect that could be disturbing—or at least distracting—if one were drunk or hopped up on too much caffeine. There was no local art for sale or vintage posters or black and white photography on the walls. No community bulletin board by the restrooms with flyers for car washes or assorted miscellanea for sale. 

It looked like someone had opened a sex club, and then franchised it. Alaric pulled out his phone and tapped that idea into his notes app. Franchised sex clubs. He wondered if those already existed. Maybe Sim could look into that for him; that was right up Sim's rain-darkened, trash-strewn alley. 

This coffee shop would make Erica uncomfortable. She was young, guileless, trusting. Innocent. None of his characters had ever been innocent before, which made it all the more important that he get a muse who was absolutely exactly Erica.

He sat back in his plush chair and let the hot, black coffee trickle down the back of his throat, pretending not to notice the fortysomething woman in the velour tracksuit trying to make eye contact. Normally, he might be interested. Alaric had fucked a lot of women in the name of research. But not today. He had other things to worry about, namely whether Annabeth was going to show for the book signing tonight. She had missed both signings last week. Not that Alaric particularly minded. By the time a book hit the shelves, he was usually sick of the muse and happy enough to never lay eyes on her again. But his readers expected to meet each book’s muse at signings. They wanted her autograph on the title page just as much as they wanted his. There was usually even a small contingent of men who came to signings just to meet the muse and press their phone numbers into her hand. 

It was a fictional character, idiots. It took all his willpower not to say that to them. Alaric’s characters often did things the muses would never do in real life. Except Annabeth. God, she’d been a handful. Until her, he could honestly say he’d never met a real honest-to-god nymphomaniac. Would have said they didn’t even exist. Annabeth had set him straight on that. Good thing he had Sim around or he’d never have gotten that book done. 

Alaric didn’t mind if Annabeth skipped out on every single signing but readers complained when she did—and then one-starred his books online. Just because the fucking muse didn’t show up! 

He was scrolling through emails on his phone, hoping for some confirmation one way or the other from her, when he became aware of a commotion at the front of the coffee shop. He looked up to see a large man towering over a table by the front window. A woman's slight arm and shoulder were visible behind the man's unkempt and ill-dressed girth. 

"I said, 'Sweetheart, what's your number?'" the man growled.

Other patrons watched nervously, all conversations now ceased. If it hadn't been for the insistent rhythm of the house music, you could have heard a pin drop. Alaric watched, disbelieving, as the man leaned in toward the woman and gripped the sides of the table with his hands.

"Cat got your tongue now, babe?"

Alaric heard a whispered "please." It reanimated his inner Neanderthal from its frozen, dormant state. He pushed his chair back, letting it scrape the wood floor noisily, and walked over to the man. He laid his hand firmly on the man's arm.

"Hey buddy. I'm getting the impression she's not interested."

The man turned his head to look at Alaric. "Who are you? Her knight in shining armor?"

"If you wish." God, he had an ugly mug, Alaric thought. Someone needs to give the guy shaving lessons. No wonder he didn't have any luck with the ladies.

The man straightened up and glanced down at himself. Alaric followed his gaze, to where the man's long canvas jacket was now being held open to one side. The grip of a pistol stuck out of the man's waistband. Shit. He'd forgotten about Virginia's open carry laws. 

The damsel in distress gasped, and Alaric looked at her for the first time. Fuck me. Erica. Fuck fuck fuck fuck me! He'd been desperately searching for Erica and now here she was. Threatened by this goon. 

He looked the man right in the eye and sighed. "So shoot me already."

The man's arm twitched and, for a split second, Alaric thought he was reaching for the gun. Great. I find Erica and then I get killed. Just my luck. But the man just shoved Alaric aside and stalked out of the coffee shop, the glass in the door rattling as he left.

Alaric looked down at the woman, who was now a paler shade of white and trembling slightly.

"Are you okay?"

She shook her head mutely. Alaric took in her features. She was Erica. She was absolutely, exactly Erica. Clear porcelain skin, the blonde hair that fell in loose waves about her shoulders and those deep, hooded green eyes. She looked like an angel just arisen from a leisurely afternoon of amour.

"Do you need another coffee? Some water?" he asked. He needed to hear her speak—and soon, before the rest of his brain short-circuited and he turned into a blubbering idiot.

She flapped her hand in front of her chest, her eyes wide and wild. 

"You can't speak?" He touched his ear, as if to ask whether she was deaf.

"Please." It came as a whisper again, soft and breathy. "I just need to ..." Alaric couldn't take his eyes off her lips. Her soft, rosy lips that probably matched the color of her ….  

"Please," she whispered again, then cast her eyes down at the table.

Alaric retreated to his own table. He was shaken to the core. He needed to talk to her. But how? She was in no state for additional male company at the moment. He watched her, discreetly. She was trying to compose herself, that was obvious. She closed her eyes. Her breasts lifted as she drew in a long breath. Her shaking hand lifted her paper coffee cup to her lips. She took barely a sip before setting it back down.  

Alaric didn’t normally fall in love with his characters. But he was head over heels for Erica and he’d barely written a thousand words of the book. Now here she was, right before him and he was powerless to do anything about it. Utterly impotent. 

The asshole half of his personality screamed at him to just walk over, sit down and press his suit. But he hadn’t been raised by wolves. The latent gentleman in him saw that she was completely unsettled by the idiot with the gun. He couldn’t blame her. He’d been a little unsettled himself for a moment, when he was certain he was about to take a bullet in the gut. 

He tried not to stare at her, but he couldn’t help himself. If this was the only time he would see her, he wanted to drink his fill. He watched her for ten minutes until she stood up, dropped her empty paper cup in the trash and walked out the door—right out of his life.