The Dimple of Doom
Samantha Lytton is either going to end up in jail or famous. Maybe both.
Samantha, a semi-enthusiastic secretary, is getting along just fine. So what if her big Los Angeles acting career peaked at a pickle commercial, her love life is a grislier remake of Titanic, and dinner every night features Pizza Rolls. Life is great and fabulous and not terrible at all, okay?
Things start to look up when a hot accountant with the cutest dimple in the world maneuvers her into her boss’s office for a little hanky-panky. Except his version of hanky-panky is stealing a priceless Picasso and some light kidnapping. Samantha gets away, kidnaps him back—thank you very much—and finally figures out this guy isn’t an accountant, or an F.B.I. agent like he said. His name is Nick—or Sam, maybe—and he’s a freaking international art thief. And she’s one dead wannabe-actress if they can’t get the bad guys to stop shooting at them.
Samantha should hate Nick/Sam, but he’s sexy, funny, and can square dance better than anyone ought to in such tight pants. How can any self-respecting woman fall for a man whose name she doesn’t know? Easy. He opens his not-so-wicked heart and ruins her life in the best way possible.
Between dodging criminals, Samantha learns that finding happily ever after with yourself is the first step to real contentment. A cute dimple is just the second.
The Dimple Strikes Back
If you can't beat them, join them… and then beat them.
Samantha Lytton, foiler of evildoers and roller-skate enthusiast, is back! What has she been up to since the events of THE DIMPLE OF DOOM? No big whoop—just being a movie star.
Samantha has just arrived in London to film her first leading role. Sam, would-be Picasso thief and lover, joins her to rev up her engine in the bad-boy way only he can. Life is full of sexy good times, money, and prestige galore! What could go wrong?
Ha ha—everything.
After a kidnapping attempt, Sam nobly dumps Samantha for her own good, the jerk. No matter, for Samantha is a successful woman of the world now and (after only spending one day lying on the floor and sobbing on her cheeseburgers) she jumps back into actress-mode with her sexy co-star Daniel Zhang. Hot movie star = best rebound ever. She barely even thinks about what's-his-name—until his evil ex-girlfriend shows up and gives Samantha an ultimatum she just can't refuse: steal a priceless artefact from the museum or die.
Is Sam in cahoots with the wicked ex? Can Samantha rob a museum and film a movie simultaneously? And why isn't a lady allowed to marry both a gorgeous Oscar-winner and an equally alluring criminal?
The Wrath of Dimple
Unforgettable. That’s what she’s not.
Life is perfect for Samantha Lytton, big-screen superheroine. Her acting career flourishes, the bad guys from her past are in prison, and she’s married her true love, be-dimpled ex-thief Sam. Everything is so rosy and idyllic, it’s like a freaking princess movie. Well, an R-rated one. Nothing could mar Sam and Samantha’s fairy-tale romance!
Except the moment in the emergency room when Sam, his head cracked open, turns to his beloved wife and asks, “Who the hell are you?”
He’s suffering from…Samnesia! (At least he still laughs at Samantha’s stupid puns.) How on earth did that happen? If Samantha is going to live her very own soap opera, she’d choose an evil twin over amnesia any day.
With no idea who has attacked Sam or why, Samantha is left in the depths of despair with a hunk who doesn’t remember her, a creepy film director who’s getting more threatening by the minute, and, oh yeah, the people who continue to try to murder Sam. How do you solve a mystery wrapped in a head bandage inside an empty skull? Nothing a little Norwegian fish porn and a lot of cleavage can’t fix. Hopefully.
Samantha needs every ounce of her courage to win her husband back before their enemies catch up to finish them both off. She thought their love was written in the stars, but it might just be scribbled on an Etch-A-Sketch.
General Release Date: 18th February 2020
It’s a Not-So-Wonderful Life
Accountants should not be so sexy.
It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.
My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.
I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.
"Potato ball?" he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.
I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.
What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.
Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.
"I love balls." Oh, damn. "And potatoes!" Did I just tell him I loved to eat balls? "I mean I love to eat food! In ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch."
Stop.
Talking.
"Okay." Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.
Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.
"I like food in stick or chip form myself," he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.
I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. "Chips are good." Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.
I hated the office Christmas party.
Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, "So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party."
"Yes. I fell down the steps." My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. "You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation."
"That’s gross." He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.
And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.
My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.
I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. "So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?" I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.
The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. "Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off."
Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. "How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!" Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.
"I could say that, but I won’t."
"No, you really shouldn’t."
The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.
He noticed now. "You have a blob of—"
Then he grabbed my boob.
"Jesus, I’m sorry!" His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. "There’s a bunch of potato on your...sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink."
My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they had switched the carpeting from taupe to tan.
Sam stood there while I applied a paper towel to my tit. Actually, he didn’t merely stand there—he stared, turned away, blinked and stared again. I couldn’t blame the guy. The girls were rather ravishing—perky from the cold water, encased in a formidable push-up bra, eager for more inappropriate fondling.
"I’m sorry about…that." He slumped and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"It’s okay. It happens." I smiled, brimming with reassurance.
The tension finally broke when he snickered. "It does? How often does it happen? You should avoid potato balls."
"And accountants."
We laughed at each other. For once I wasn’t laughing by myself.
Lucy Woodhull has always loved le steamy romance. And laughing. And both things at the same time, although that can get awkward. Her motto is "Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you'll short-circuit your Kindle."
That's why she writes funny books, because goodness knows we all need to escape the real world once in a while.
She believes in red lipstick, equality, and the interrobang. Lucy daydreams in Los Angeles with her husband and a very fat cat who doesn't like you.
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