Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Because Life is Better with Happily Ever Afters

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When Stars Collide

Hardcover:

eBook:

Audio:

WHEN STARS COLLIDE
William Morrow
Coming in hardcover, eBook and audiobook
June 29, 2021
ISBN-10: 0062973088
ISBN-13: 978-0062973085
Pre-order your copy today!
 #1 New York Times bestseller Susan Elizabeth Phillips returns to her beloved Chicago Stars series with a romance between a Chicago Stars quarterback and one of the world’s greatest opera singers—and a major diva.

“Re-entering the world of the Chicago Stars is like a beloved friend come to call.” — #1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens, the backup quarterback for the Chicago Stars, is a team player, talented sideline coach, occasional male underwear model, and a man with a low tolerance for Divas.

Olivia Shore, international opera superstar, is a driven diva with a passion for perfection, a craving for justice, too many secrets—and a monumental grudge against the egotistical, lowbrow jock she’s been stuck with.

It’s Mozart meets Monday Night Football as the temperamental soprano and stubborn jock embark on a nationwide tour promoting a luxury watch brand. Along the way, the combatants will engage in soul-searching and trash talk, backstage drama and, for sure, a quarterback pass. But there’ll also face trouble as threatening letters, haunting photographs, and a series of dangerous encounters complicate their lives. Is it the work of an overzealous fan or something more sinister?

This is the emotional journey of a brilliant woman whose career is everything and a talented man who’ll never be happy with second place. Tender and funny, passionate and insightful, this irresistible romantic adventure proves that anything can happen…when two superstars collide.

 

Excerpt

 

EXCERPT from WHEN STARS COLLIDE
THE DIVA AND THE QUARTERBACK….
It’s Mozart meets Monday Night Football when two superstars collide.

Olivia Shore gazed out through the darkened window of the limousine toward the private jet parked on the tarmac. This was what her life had come to. Flying around the country with a brainless, overpaid jock and too many bad memories, all to hawk a luxury watch.

It was going to be the longest four weeks of her life.

***

Thad Walker Bowman Owens wasn’t entirely surprised Marchand Timepieces had come after him to promote their Victory780 watch. They needed a Chicago Stars’ player, and Thad gave good interviews. Also, that old Heisman trophy had garnered him plenty of publicity over the years. Still, anybody with eyeballs knew it wasn’t Thad’s throwing arm or glib rejoinders that had sealed the deal with Marchand. It was his pretty face.

“You’re even better looking than The Boo.” Cooper Graham had tweaked him the first time they’d met, referring to the great Stars quarterback, Dean Robillard.

Thad’s looks were a curse.

One of his favorite ex-girlfriends had told him: “You’ve got Liam Hemsworth’s nose, Michael B. Jordan’s cheekbones, and Zac Efron’s hair. As for those green eyes . . . Taylor Swift for sure. It’s like all the good-looking celebs in the world threw up on your face.”

Over the years, he’d done everything he could to roughen up his appearance. He’d grown a beard a couple of times, but then people started telling him he looked like the dude in Fifty Shades. He’d tried a porn-star mustache only to have women say he looked distinguished. He’d even gone for irony and sported one of those asinine man buns for a while. Unfortunately, it looked good on him.

In high school, everybody got pimples but him. He’d never needed braces or gone through an awkward phase. He hadn’t broken his nose or gotten one of the chin scars every other player in the League had. His hair wasn’t thinning. He didn’t have a paunch.

He blamed his parents.

But the one positive thing about his looks, along with his lean, six-foot-three body, was the extra cash it earned him. And he did like making money. Over the years, he’d lent his face to a men’s cologne, his butt to designer underwear, and his hair to some over-priced grooming products he’d never bothered to use. And now this.

If only he were doing this promotion with a female rock star instead of a stuck-up opera singer. The next four weeks stretched in front of him like an endless road headed exactly nowhere.

***

Olivia set aside her trench coat, along with the scarf and sun- glasses, and advanced toward the reporters who’d gathered in the hotel suite, her stilettos clicking, studiously ignoring him. Her sweep of dark hair coiled in one of those loose bun things, which—along with her royal-blue stilettos—brought her height to someplace in the vicinity of six feet. Her figure was formidable: broad shoulders, long neck, straight spine, and trim waist, all of it accompanied by skyscraper legs. She was neither skinny nor plump. More . . . Thad searched for the right word, but all he could come up with was “daunting.”

Along with her stilettos and black slacks, the open throat of her white blouse showed off a gold rope necklace with a pigeon egg–sized stone that appeared to be a giant ruby. She wore multiple rings, a couple of bracelets, and the Cavatina3 Marchand watch.

He liked his women small and cuddly. This one looked like a tigress who’d raided an Hermès store.

The male reporters rose as she approached. Henri Marchand performed the introductions. The Diva extended her hand and gazed down her long nose at them, her lips curved in a regal smile. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the lifestyle editor with a handshake and gracious smile before she folded herself into a chair across from Thad, her ankles crossed off to the side, a broomstick up her ass.

Thad deliberately slouched into his chair and stretched out his own legs, making himself comfortable.

The classical music critic led off, but instead of addressing The Diva, he turned to Thad. “Are you an opera fan?”

“Haven’t had much exposure,” he said.

The sports writer picked up on that. “What about you, Ms. Shore? Do you ever go to football games?”

“Last year I saw New Madrid play Manchester United.”

Thad could barely disguise a snort. The sports writer exchanged an amused look with him before turning back to her. “Those are European soccer teams, Ms. Shore, not American football.”

She adopted a girls will be girls look that Thad didn’t buy for a second. “Of course. How silly of me.”

There wasn’t anything silly about this woman, from the throaty resonance of her voice to her figure, and something told him she knew damn well they were soccer teams. Or maybe not. For the first time, she’d spiked his curiosity.

“So you’ve never seen Thad Owens play?”

“No.” She gazed directly at Thad for the first time, eyes as cold as a January night. “Have you ever heard me sing?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said with his best drawl. “But my thirty-seventh is coming up and I’d sure welcome a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ to mark the occasion.”

The lifestyle editor laughed, but The Diva didn’t crack a smile. “Duly noted.”

When the reporters had finally disappeared, Henri Marchand announced that Olivia’s and Thad’s luggage had been delivered to the bedrooms that adjoined opposite sides of the spacious suite. Henri gestured around the living area and dining areas, along with the small kitchen. “As you can see, this is quite convenient for interviews and tomorrow’s photo shoot. The chef will be making tonight’s clients’ dinner in the private kitchen.”

The Diva’s head shot up, and her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Henri, may I speak with you.

“But, of course.” The two of them moved toward the door into the hallway.

Thad was pissed. The Diva obviously didn’t like the idea of them sharing the suite. Fine. She could move to another room. He wasn’t going anywhere.

WHEN STARS COLLIDE

The funny, irresistible romantic adventure of a brilliant woman whose career is everything and a talented man who’ll never be happy with second place.

 

Cover: When Stars Collide
William Morrow Hardcover
Coming June 29, 2021
Pre-Order Now!

WHEN STARS COLLIDE
William Morrow Hardcover
ISBN-10: 0062973088
ISBN-13: 978-0062973085

William Morrow Hardcover
Coming June 29, 2021
Pre-Order Now!

WHEN STARS COLLIDE
Hardcover and eBook
Coming June 29, 2021
Pre-Order Now!

Hardcover:

eBook:

Order your copy today.

 

#1 New York Times bestseller Susan Elizabeth Phillips returns to her beloved Chicago Stars series with a romance between a Chicago Stars quarterback and one of the world’s greatest opera singers—and a major diva.

“Re-entering the world of the Chicago Stars is like a beloved friend come to call.” — #1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens, the backup quarterback for the Chicago Stars, is a team player, talented sideline coach, occasional male underwear model, and a man with a low tolerance for Divas.

Olivia Shore, international opera superstar, is a driven diva with a passion for perfection, a craving for justice, too many secrets—and a monumental grudge against the egotistical, lowbrow jock she’s been stuck with.

It’s Mozart meets Monday Night Football as the temperamental soprano and stubborn jock embark on a nationwide tour promoting a luxury watch brand. Along the way, the combatants will engage in soul-searching and trash talk, backstage drama and, for sure, a quarterback pass. But there’ll also face trouble as threatening letters, haunting photographs, and a series of dangerous encounters complicate their lives. Is it the work of an overzealous fan or something more sinister?

This is the emotional journey of a brilliant woman whose career is everything and a talented man who’ll never be happy with second place. Tender and funny, passionate and insightful, this irresistible romantic adventure proves that anything can happen…when two superstars collide.

Dance Away With Me

Mass Market Paperback:

Hardcover:

eBook:

Audio:

Avon Books/January 26, 2021
Mass Market Paperback
ISBN-10: 006297307X
ISBN-13: 9780062973078
William Morrow/June 9, 2020
Hardcover
ISBN-10: 0062973053
ISBN-13: 978-0062973054
Order Now!

DANCE AWAY WITH ME
 At long last, the legendary New York Times bestselling author returns with a heartfelt novel of womanhood, a wild heart, and the healing power of love.

Run, run, as fast as you can!

When life throws her one setback too many, midwife and young widow Tess Hartsong takes off for Runaway Mountain. In this small town high in the Tennessee mountains, surrounded by nature, she hopes to outrun her heartbreak and find the solace she needs to heal.

But instead of peace and quiet, she encounters an enigmatic artist with a craving for solitude, a fairy-tale sprite with too many secrets, a helpless infant, a passel of curious teens, and a town suspicious of outsiders, especially one as headstrong as Tess. Just as headstrong is Ian North, a difficult, gifted man with a tortured soul—a man who makes Tess question everything.

In running away to this new life, Tess wonders— Has she lost herself . . . or has she found her future?

Originally published June 2020 in hardcover and eBook.

 

Excerpt

 

Ian Hamilton North, IV, was having a bad day. A particularly bad day in what had been a series of bad days. Bad weeks. Who the hell was he kidding? Nothing had been right for months.

He’d bought a place in Tempest, Tennessee, because of its isolation.

The town was too small to disturb the region’s natural beauty: the hills and mountains that looked as though they’d been drizzled in watercolors, the wispy morning mists, extravagant sunsets, and clean air. Unfortunately, there were also people. Some came from families that had lived here for generations, but retirees, artisans, homesteaders, and survivalists had also settled in the mountains. He intended to have minimal contact with all of them, and he’d only come into town on the slim chance that the Dollar General might have the English muffins Bianca craved. The muffins had been missing from the order he paid a fortune to have delivered every week from the closest decent grocery store twenty miles away. But English muffins were too exotic for the Dollar General, and he was in no mood to make the drive to get them.

As he reached his car, he stopped.

The Dancing Dervish.

She was gazing into the window of the Broken Chimney, the town’s so-called coffee shop, a place that also sold ice cream, books, cigarettes, and who knew what else? It was odd. Despite how furious he’d been, he’d noticed the complete absence of joy in Tess Hartsong’s dancing. Her fierce, percussive movements had been tribal, more combat than art. But now she stood still, suspended in a dapple of sunlight, and that quickly, he wanted to paint her.

He could see it. An explosion of color in every brush stroke, every press of the nozzle. Cobalt blue in that fierce gypsy hair, with a touch of viridian green near the temples. Cadmium red brushing her olive skin at the cheekbones, a dab of chrome yellow at their highest point. A streak of ochre shadowing that long nose. Everything in a full palette of colors. And her eyes. The color of ripe August plums. How could he capture the darkness there?

How could he capture anything these days? He was trapped. Imprisoned in his youthful reputation as surely as if he’d been fossilized in amber. He had to get rid of her. And quickly. Before she caught Bianca’s attention more than she already had.

He set off toward the coffee house.

***

Tess knew he was close even before she saw him. It was a stir in the air. A scent. A vibration. And then the surly growl she remembered. “Bianca told me I was incredibly rude this morning.”

“She had to tell you this?”

Tess had been studying the sign in the window of the Broken Chimney when he approached. Close up, he was even more formidable—the opposite of the whippet-thin, garret-living, stereotype of an artist sporting a scraggly goatee, nicotine-stained fingers, and deep-socketed eyes. His shoulders were broad, his jaw rock solid. A long scar ran down the side of his neck, and the small holes in his ear lobes suggested they’d once held earrings. Probably a skull and crossbones. He was an outlaw, the grownup version of the teenage punk who’d holstered a spray paint can instead of a handgun—the young thug who’d spent years in and out of jail for trespassing and felony vandalism. Despite worn jeans and a flannel shirt, this was a man at the top of his game and accustomed to everyone kowtowing to him. Yes, she was intimidated, both by the man himself and by his fame. No, she wouldn’t let him see that.

 “I tend to be self-absorbed…” he said, stating the obvious. “…except as it affects Bianca.” His words had slowed so that each one carried extra weight.

“Really?” This was so none of her business, but from the moment he’d stormed into her yard, he’d raised her hackles. Or maybe she was simply enjoying the freedom of someone glaring at her instead of regarding her with pity. “Dragging a pregnant woman away from her home to a town that doesn’t even have a doctor?”

His ego was too big to be put on the defensive, and he brushed that aside. “She’s not due for another two months, and she’ll have the best care. What she needs most right now is rest and quiet.” His eyes, the unfriendly gray of a winter sky just before a snowstorm, met hers. “I know she invited you to the house, but I’m withdrawing the invitation.”

 Instead of backing away as any normal person would, she pressed. “Why is that?”

“I told you. She needs rest.”

“These days healthy pregnant women are advised to stay active. Isn’t that what her doctor recommended?”

His slight hesitation might have been imperceptible to someone who hadn’t been trained to observe, but not to her. “Bianca’s doctor wants the best for her, and I’m making sure she gets it.” With a curt nod, he walked away, his strong musculature and purposeful stride giving him the look of a man who’d been designed by God to weld girders or pump petroleum instead of creating some of the twenty-first century’s most memorable street art.

Bianca had said he was “overprotective,” but this seemed more like smothering. Something felt wrong between these two.

A muddy pickup sped past blowing exhaust. Tess had come to town for doughnuts, not to become enmeshed in other peoples’ lives, and she returned her attention to the sign in the window.

Help Wanted

She was a midwife. Any day now, her anger, her despair, would fade into resignation. It had to. And as soon as that happened, she’d be ready to look for work in her field. She’d find a job that would let her recapture the satisfaction of helping vulnerable mothers give birth.

Help wanted.

She didn’t need to go back to work yet, so why was she staring at the sign as if her whole messy world had been reduced to this backwater coffee shop?

Because she was scared. The solitude on Runaway Mountain that she’d thought would give her new life wasn’t working out. It had become too tempting to stay in bed. To eat doughnuts and dance in the rain. Last week, she’d gone four days before she’d remembered to take a shower.

The bitter swell of self-disgust ballooning inside her forced her through the door. She could either ask about the job, or—a better idea—she could buy a doughnut and leave.

But Tess Hartsong doesn’t leave.  Instead, she takes her first step into a challenging new life. A life that will force her to deal with a fairy-tale sprite who has too many secrets, a helpless infant, a passel of curious teens, a family of survivalists, and a town suspicious of outsiders, especially one as headstrong as Tess.  Then there’s the biggest challenge of all, Ian Hamilton North, IV.  Like Tess, he’s come to Runaway Mountain to escape.

 Good luck with that.

 

Cover: DANCE AWAY WITH ME
William Morrow
Hardcover
Available Now!
Cover: DANCE AWAY WITH ME
Avon Books
Mass Market Paperback
Available Now!

DANCE AWAY WITH ME
William Morrow Hardcover
ISBN-10: 0062973053
ISBN-13: 978-0062973054

William Morrow Hardcover
Available Now!

DANCE AWAY WITH ME
Hardcover and eBook
Coming June 9, 2020
Pre-Order Now!

Hardcover:

eBook:

Audio:

Order your copy today.

 

At long last, the legendary New York Times bestselling author returns with a heartfelt novel of womanhood, a wild heart, and the healing power of love.

Run, run, as fast as you can!

When life throws her one setback too many, midwife and young widow Tess Hartsong takes off for Runaway Mountain. In this small town high in the Tennessee mountains, surrounded by nature, she hopes to outrun her heartbreak and find the solace she needs to heal.

But instead of peace and quiet, she encounters an enigmatic artist with a craving for solitude, a fairy-tale sprite with too many secrets, a helpless infant, a passel of curious teens, and a town suspicious of outsiders, especially one as headstrong as Tess. Just as headstrong, is Ian North, a difficult, gifted man with a tortured soul—a man who makes Tess question everything.

In running away to this new life, Tess wonders— Has she lost herself . . . or has she found her future?

 

Excerpt

 

Ian Hamilton North, IV, was having a bad day. A particularly bad day in what had been a series of bad days. Bad weeks. Who the hell was he kidding? Nothing had been right for months.

He’d bought a place in Tempest, Tennessee, because of its isolation.

The town was too small to disturb the region’s natural beauty: the hills and mountains that looked as though they’d been drizzled in watercolors, the wispy morning mists, extravagant sunsets, and clean air. Unfortunately, there were also people. Some came from families that had lived here for generations, but retirees, artisans, homesteaders, and survivalists had also settled in the mountains. He intended to have minimal contact with all of them, and he’d only come into town on the slim chance that the Dollar General might have the English muffins Bianca craved. The muffins had been missing from the order he paid a fortune to have delivered every week from the closest decent grocery store twenty miles away. But English muffins were too exotic for the Dollar General, and he was in no mood to make the drive to get them.

As he reached his car, he stopped.

The Dancing Dervish.

She was gazing into the window of the Broken Chimney, the town’s so-called coffee shop, a place that also sold ice cream, books, cigarettes, and who knew what else? It was odd. Despite how furious he’d been, he’d noticed the complete absence of joy in Tess Hartsong’s dancing. Her fierce, percussive movements had been tribal, more combat than art. But now she stood still, suspended in a dapple of sunlight, and that quickly, he wanted to paint her.

He could see it. An explosion of color in every brush stroke, every press of the nozzle. Cobalt blue in that fierce gypsy hair, with a touch of viridian green near the temples. Cadmium red brushing her olive skin at the cheekbones, a dab of chrome yellow at their highest point. A streak of ochre shadowing that long nose. Everything in a full palette of colors. And her eyes. The color of ripe August plums. How could he capture the darkness there?

How could he capture anything these days? He was trapped. Imprisoned in his youthful reputation as surely as if he’d been fossilized in amber. He had to get rid of her. And quickly. Before she caught Bianca’s attention more than she already had.

He set off toward the coffee house.

***

Tess knew he was close even before she saw him. It was a stir in the air. A scent. A vibration. And then the surly growl she remembered. “Bianca told me I was incredibly rude this morning.”

“She had to tell you this?”

Tess had been studying the sign in the window of the Broken Chimney when he approached. Close up, he was even more formidable—the opposite of the whippet-thin, garret-living, stereotype of an artist sporting a scraggly goatee, nicotine-stained fingers, and deep-socketed eyes. His shoulders were broad, his jaw rock solid. A long scar ran down the side of his neck, and the small holes in his ear lobes suggested they’d once held earrings. Probably a skull and crossbones. He was an outlaw, the grownup version of the teenage punk who’d holstered a spray paint can instead of a handgun—the young thug who’d spent years in and out of jail for trespassing and felony vandalism. Despite worn jeans and a flannel shirt, this was a man at the top of his game and accustomed to everyone kowtowing to him. Yes, she was intimidated, both by the man himself and by his fame. No, she wouldn’t let him see that.

 “I tend to be self-absorbed…” he said, stating the obvious. “…except as it affects Bianca.” His words had slowed so that each one carried extra weight.

“Really?” This was so none of her business, but from the moment he’d stormed into her yard, he’d raised her hackles. Or maybe she was simply enjoying the freedom of someone glaring at her instead of regarding her with pity. “Dragging a pregnant woman away from her home to a town that doesn’t even have a doctor?”

His ego was too big to be put on the defensive, and he brushed that aside. “She’s not due for another two months, and she’ll have the best care. What she needs most right now is rest and quiet.” His eyes, the unfriendly gray of a winter sky just before a snowstorm, met hers. “I know she invited you to the house, but I’m withdrawing the invitation.”

 Instead of backing away as any normal person would, she pressed. “Why is that?”

“I told you. She needs rest.”

“These days healthy pregnant women are advised to stay active. Isn’t that what her doctor recommended?”

His slight hesitation might have been imperceptible to someone who hadn’t been trained to observe, but not to her. “Bianca’s doctor wants the best for her, and I’m making sure she gets it.” With a curt nod, he walked away, his strong musculature and purposeful stride giving him the look of a man who’d been designed by God to weld girders or pump petroleum instead of creating some of the twenty-first century’s most memorable street art.

Bianca had said he was “overprotective,” but this seemed more like smothering. Something felt wrong between these two.

A muddy pickup sped past blowing exhaust. Tess had come to town for doughnuts, not to become enmeshed in other peoples’ lives, and she returned her attention to the sign in the window.

Help Wanted

She was a midwife. Any day now, her anger, her despair, would fade into resignation. It had to. And as soon as that happened, she’d be ready to look for work in her field. She’d find a job that would let her recapture the satisfaction of helping vulnerable mothers give birth.

Help wanted.

She didn’t need to go back to work yet, so why was she staring at the sign as if her whole messy world had been reduced to this backwater coffee shop?

Because she was scared. The solitude on Runaway Mountain that she’d thought would give her new life wasn’t working out. It had become too tempting to stay in bed. To eat doughnuts and dance in the rain. Last week, she’d gone four days before she’d remembered to take a shower.

The bitter swell of self-disgust ballooning inside her forced her through the door. She could either ask about the job, or—a better idea—she could buy a doughnut and leave.

But Tess Hartsong doesn’t leave.  Instead, she takes her first step into a challenging new life. A life that will force her to deal with a fairy-tale sprite who has too many secrets, a helpless infant, a passel of curious teens, a family of survivalists, and a town suspicious of outsiders, especially one as headstrong as Tess.  Then there’s the biggest challenge of all, Ian Hamilton North, IV.  Like Tess, he’s come to Runaway Mountain to escape.

 Good luck with that.

First Star I See Tonight

Mass Market Paperback

Hardcover:

eBook:

Audio:

FIRST STAR I SEE TONIGHT
Chicago Stars Book #8
Now Available in Mass Market Paperback

A no-nonsense sports hero and a feisty female detective go head-to-head in this funny, fresh, seductive novel from the award winning NYT bestselling author known for her unforgettable characters, heartfelt emotion, and laugh out loud humor.
He’s the former quarterback of the Chicago Stars football team.
She’s trying to make a success of her very own detective agency.
Her first job? Follow him.
Let’s just say it’s not going well.
Not well at all….
Piper Dove is a woman with a dream—to become the best detective in the city of Chicago. First job? Trail former Chicago Stars quarterback, Cooper Graham. The problem? Graham’s spotted her, and he’s not happy. Which is why a great detective needs a first rate imagination. “The fact is . . . I’m your stalker. Not full-out barmy. Just . . . mildly unhinged.” Piper soon finds herself working for Graham himself, although not as the bodyguard he refuses to admit he so desperately needs. Instead, he’s hired her to keep an eye on the employees at his exclusive new nightclub. But Coop’s life might be in danger, and Piper’s determined to protect him, whether he wants it or not. (Hint: Not!) If only she weren’t also dealing with a bevy of Middle Eastern princesses, a Pakistani servant girl yearning for freedom, a teenager who just wants to fit in, and an elderly neighbor demanding that Piper find her very dead husband. And then there’s Cooper Graham, a legendary sports hero who always gets what he wants—even if what he wants just might be an intrepid detective hell bent on proving she’s as tough as he is. From the bustling streets of Chicago to a windswept lighthouse on Lake Superior to the glistening waters of Biscayne Bay, two people who can’t stand to lose will test themselves and each other to discover what matters most.

The Reviews Are Coming In!

An Amazon Best Romance of 2016
Bookpage: One of the 10 Best Romances of 2016
Booklist: A Top 10 Romance of 2016
iBooks Australia: Romance of the Year
Kirkus Reviews: A Best Book 2016
Kobo: A Best of the Year in Romance
RT Book Reviews: Winner, Contemporary Love and Laughter
#1 New York Times Bestseller eBook


Avon Mass Market Paperback
Now Available

Avon Mass Market Paperback
Now Available
FIRST STAR I SEE TONIGHT
Chicago Stars Book #8
Available in hardcover August 23, 2016.


Pre-order your copy today.

 

 

A no-nonsense sports hero and a feisty female detective go head-to-head in this funny, fresh, seductive novel from the award winning NYT bestselling author known for her unforgettable characters, heartfelt emotion, and laugh out loud humor.
He’s the former quarterback of the Chicago Stars football team.
She’s trying to make a success of her very own detective agency.
Her first job? Follow him.
Let’s just say it’s not going well.
Not well at all….
Piper Dove is a woman with a dream—to become the best detective in the city of Chicago. First job? Trail former Chicago Stars quarterback, Cooper Graham. The problem? Graham’s spotted her, and he’s not happy.Which is why a great detective needs a first rate imagination. “The fact is . . . I’m your stalker. Not full-out barmy. Just . . . mildly unhinged.”Piper soon finds herself working for Graham himself, although not as the bodyguard he refuses to admit he so desperately needs. Instead, he’s hired her to keep an eye on the employees at his exclusive new nightclub. But Coop’s life might be in danger, and Piper’s determined to protect him, whether he wants it or not. (Hint: Not!) If only she weren’t also dealing with a bevy of Middle Eastern princesses, a Pakistani servant girl yearning for freedom, a teenager who just wants to fit in, and an elderly neighbor demanding that Piper find her very dead husband.And then there’s Cooper Graham, a legendary sports hero who always gets what he wants—even if what he wants just might be an intrepid detective hell bent on proving she’s as tough as he is.From the bustling streets of Chicago to a windswept lighthouse on Lake Superior to the glistening waters of Biscayne Bay, two people who can’t stand to lose will test themselves and each other to discover what matters most.

The Reviews Are Coming In!

An Amazon Best Romance of 2016
Bookpage: One of the 10 Best Romances of 2016
Booklist: A Top 10 Romance of 2016
iBooks Australia: Romance of the Year
Kirkus Reviews: A Best Book 2016
Kobo: A Best of the Year in Romance
RT Book Reviews: Winner, Contemporary Love and Laughter
#1 New York Times Bestseller eBook

Breathing Room Test

Cover: Breathing Room

  • Buy Now!
  • Reviews
  • Author’s Notes
Buy Now!

Mass Market Paperback:
e-Book:

Reviews

“…witty, moving, passionate and tender.” —Publishers Weekly

“In a word, fabulous. This is, without a doubt, Susan Elizabeth Phillips’s best book to date…. Known for her warmth and humor, Ms. Phillips has become one of the most cherished authors of our time.” —Romantic Times

“Phillips delivers her trademark dead-on characterizations and delicious humor…” —Dallas Morning News

“…whatever Phillips writes is a treasure, but perhaps her greatest gift is that…she gives us hope…. I dare you not to feel good after you’ve read one of her books.” —Oakland Press

“…splendid entertainment…. Flavored with Phillips’ clever humor and quick wit, this is a pure joy to read.” —Booklist

 

Author’s Notes

HOW I CAME TO WRITE BREATHING ROOM

“Do you really know how to cook,” Isabel asked, “or are you faking it?”
“I’m Italian,” Ren replied. “Of course I know how to cook.”
“You’re only half Italian,” she pointed out. “The rest of you is a rich movie star who grew up in the States surrounded by servants.”
“And a grandmother from Lucca with no granddaughter she could pass the old ways on to.”
Isabel was surprised. “Your grandmother taught you to cook?”
“She wanted to keep me busy so I wouldn’t impregnate the maids.”
“You’re not nearly as rotten as you want me to believe.”
He gave her his bone-melting smile. “Baby, all you’ve seen is my good side.”

I traveled to Italy not to get inspired. I know, a dumb idea. But for years, I’d dreamed of taking a walking trip through Tuscany, and in September 2000, my dream came true. For eight days, my husband Bill and I walked through one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world with sixteen other friendly travelers, two charming Italian guides, and helpful people to take care of luggage, since hauling a backpack wasn’t part of my fantasy. We stayed in quaint hotels overlooking tidy village piazzas as well as a lovely country villa set in a beautiful garden.

Each day, we walked ten to twelve miles, wandering through olive groves and vineyards or strolling along country lanes. For lunch, we usually stopped at a rustic trattoria. One memorable afternoon we had a picnic at an old stone farmhouse. At night, over leisurely dinners, we sipped local wines and chatted about our adventures during the day.

From the beginning, I’d been determined not to think about writing while I was on vacation. I’d just finished THIS HEART OF MINE, and I desperately wanted a creative break. The trip would provide much-needed time to refill my creative well. Except…this was Tuscany, the land that had inspired DiVinci and Michaelangelo, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. What could I have been thinking?

It happened on the third day. We were walking along one of the most beautiful stretches of road I’ve ever seen, not far from Volterra, Italy. There, with the Tuscan sun shining down on me and the scent of wild sage lingering in the air, the idea for BREATHING ROOM leaped into my head.

I knew immediately that I wanted to put my uniquely American characters in Italy, and by the end of that day’s walk, I had a pretty good idea who they were. My heroine would be Isabel Favor, America’s Diva of Self Help. Life is going well for Isabel until, within a matter of weeks, the empire she’s built comes crashing down. Broke, heartsick, and soul-weary, Isabel heads for Italy in search of a little breathing room.

And whom should she meet but Lorenzo Gage, Hollywood’s favorite villain? Ren is a viciously handsome man whose career was born when the public developed a taste for a bad guy with a face to die for. Needless to say, his intentions toward Isabel aren’t honorable.

What happens when a woman who only wants good for the world is stuck with a man who makes his living killing people on the silver screen? If you’d like a Sneak Peek, click here.

Happy reading, everyone!




Cover: Breathing Room

Avon Mass Market Paperback
SBN-10: 0061032093
ISBN-13: 978-0061032097

      She’s Dr. Isabel Favor, America’s diva of self-help.

 

      He’s Ren Gage, Hollywood’s favorite villain.

 

    Sometimes you just know that God has a sense of humor.

Dr. Isabel Favor, author of Four Cornerstones for a Favorable Life, has sacrificed everything to build her self-help empire. Then, in a matter of weeks, it all comes crashing down. She loses her money to an unscrupulous accountant, her fiancé to a frumpy older woman, and her reputation to headlines denouncing her as a fraud. America’s diva of self-help soon discovers she can fix everyone’s life but her own. Broke, heartsick, and soul-weary, she heads for Italy in search of a little breathing room.

Lorenzo Gage makes his living killing people… on the silver screen, that is. He’s viciously handsome and sublimely talented. But as he begins his vacation in Italy, he’s also vaguely dissatisfied. Being a villain with a face to die for has its rewards, but he hates the feeling that everything he’s neglected in life is catching up with him. Then he spots Isabel sipping a glass of wine in a sidewalk café. A good guy wouldn’t think of seducing such a tidy-looking woman… but he’d never seen the fun in playing the hero.

It doesn’t take long for Isabel to realize she’s escaped one kind of chaos only to be plunged into another. Even the shelter of a simple stone farmhouse nestled in a Tuscan olive grove can’t provide her with the refuge she needs—not when the townspeople are scheming to drive her away, and her plan to restore her reputation has come up empty. And especially not when the man who deceived her refuses to leave her in peace.

Breathing Room is a book for any woman who’s dreamed of wandering through a vineyard, of lazing under the Tuscan sky, or of reforming a deliciously wicked man. This is a story of hope and renewal, of love and redemption when it’s needed the most. Sometimes it takes a special place… a special love… a little breathing room… for life to deliver all its glorious promise.

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Reviews
The Reviews Are In!
KIRKUS REVIEWS: A Best Fiction Book of 2014 *A Best Romance of 2014* “…heart wrenching and uplifting…” (starred review)
LIBRARY JOURNAL: A Best Romance: 2014 *“An unforgettable, deliciously spicy romance…” (starred review)
BOOKLIST: Top Ten Romance Fiction 2014 *“…another romance to treasure from one of the genre’s superstars….” (starred review)
RT REVIEWS: A Best Contemporary Romance 2014 *”…A Phillips classic…. Awesome!” (starred review)
NPR BOOKS: GREAT READ 2014
AARP: Best Books of 2014

Susan Elizabeth Phillips’ upcoming Heroes Are My Weakness received a second *starred* review, this time from Publishers Weekly

“In her latest, Phillips takes all the iconic elements of those classic gothic novels of the 1960s and ’70s and deftly combines them with her own signature literary calling cards of realistically quirky yet all too relatable characters, polished writing, tart humor, and an abundance of potent sexual chemistry.” —John Charles, Booklist, starred review

“Heart-wrenching and uplifting, with witty dialogue, emotional depth, and details that give substance and texture to an already entertaining, engrossing story.” —Starred Review” Kirkus Reviews

“Poignant, yet filled with humor and a dash of danger, this is a perfect romantic read. Awesome!” “Top Pick Gold!!!” —Jill M. Smith, RT Book Reviews

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Annie didn’t usually talk to her suitcase, but she wasn’t exactly herself these days. The high beams of her headlights could barely penetrate the dark, swirling chaos of the winter blizzard, and the windshield wipers on her ancient Kia were no match for the wrath of the storm that had hit the island. “It’s only a little snow,” she told the oversized red suitcase wedged into the passenger seat. “Just because it feels like the end of the world doesn’t mean it is.”

You know I hate the cold, her suitcase replied, in the annoying whine of a child who preferred making a point by stamping her foot. How could you bring me to this awful place?

Because Annie had run out of options.

An icy blast rocked the car, and the branches of the old fir trees hovering over the unpaved road whipped like witches’ hair. Annie decided that anybody who believed in hell as a fiery furnace had it all wrong. Hell was this bleak, hostile winter island.

You’ve never heard of Miami Beach? Crumpet, the spoiled princess in the suitcase retorted. Instead you had to haul us off to a deserted island in the middle of the North Atlantic where we’ll probably get eaten by polar bears!

The gears ground as the Kia struggled up the narrow, slippery island road. Annie’s head ached, her ribs hurt from coughing, and the simple act of craning her neck to peer through a clear spot on the windshield made her dizzy. She was alone in the world with only the imaginary voices of her ventriloquist’s dummies anchoring her to reality. As sick as she was, she didn’t miss the irony.

She conjured up the more calming voice of Crumpet’s counterpart, the practical Dilly, who was tucked away in the matching red suitcase in the back seat. We’re not the middle of the Atlantic, sensible Dilly said. We’re on an island ten miles off the New England coast, and the last I heard, Maine doesn’t have polar bears. Besides, Peregrine Island isn’t deserted.

It might as well be. If Crumpet had been on Annie’s arm, she would have shot her small nose up in the air. People barely survive here in the middle of the summer let alone winter. I bet they eat their dead for food.

The car fishtailed ever so slightly. Annie corrected the skid, gripping the wheel more tightly through her gloves. The heater barely worked, but she’d begun to perspire under her jacket.

You mustn’t keep complaining, Crumpet. Dilly admonished her peevish counterpart. Peregrine Island is a popular summer resort.

It’s not summer! Crumpet countered. It’s the first week of February, we just drove off a car ferry that made me seasick, and there can’t be more than fifty people left here. Fifty stupid people!

You know Annie had no choice but to come here, Dilly said.

Because she’s a big failure, an unpleasant male voice sneered.

Leo had a bad habit of uttering Annie’s deepest fears, and it was inevitable that he’d intrude into her thoughts. He was her least favorite puppet, but every story needed a villain.

Very unkind, Leo, Dilly said. Even if it is true.

The petulant Crumpet continued to complain. You’re the heroine, Dilly, so everything always turns out fine for you. But not for the rest of us. Not ever. We’re doomed! Doomed, I say! We’re forever—

Annie’s cough cut off the internal histrionics of her puppet. Sooner or later her body would heal from the lingering aftereffects of pneumonia—at least she hoped so—but what about the rest of her? She’d lost faith in herself, lost the sense that, at thirty-three, her best days still lay ahead. She was physically weak, emotionally empty, and more than a little terrified, hardly the best state for someone forced to spend the next two months on an isolated Maine island.

That’s only sixty days, Dilly attempted to point out. Besides, Annie, you don’t have anywhere else to go.

And there it was. The ugly truth. Annie had nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do but search for the legacy her mother might or might not have left her.

The Kia hit a snow-packed rut, and the seat belt seized up. The pressure on Annie’s chest made her cough again. If only she could have stayed in the village for the night, but the Island Inn was closed until May. Not that she could have afforded it anyway.

The car barely crested the hill. She had years of practice transporting her puppets through every kind of weather to perform all over, but even a decent snow driver had limited control on a road like this, especially in a Kia. There was a reason the residents of Peregrine Island drove pickups.

Take it slow, another male voice advised from the suitcase in the back. Slow and steady wins the race. Peter, her hero puppet—her knight in shining armor—was a voice of encouragement, unlike her former actor boyfriend-slash-lover who’d only encouraged himself.

Annie brought the car to a full stop then started her slow descent. Halfway down, it happened.

The apparition came from nowhere.

A man clad in black flew across the bottom of the road on a midnight horse. She’d always had a vivid imagination—witness her internal conversations with her puppets—and she thought she was imagining this. But the vision was real. Horse and rider racing through the snow, the man crouched low, the horse’s mane streaming. They were demon creatures, a nightmare horse and lunatic man galloping into the storm’s fury.

They disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared, but her foot automatically hit the brake, and the car began to slide. It skidded across the road, and with a sickening lurch, came to a stop in the snow-filled ditch.

You’re such a loser, Leo the villain sneered.

Tears of exhaustion filled her eyes. Her hands shook. Were the man and horse indeed real or if she’d conjured them? She needed to focus. She put the car into reverse and attempted to rock it out, but the tires only spun deeper. Her head fell against the back of the seat. If she stayed here long enough, someone would find her. But when? Only the cottage and the main house lay at the end of this road.

She tried to think. Her single contact on the island was the man who took care of the main house and the cottage, but she’d only had an email address to let him know she was arriving and ask him to turn on the cottage’s utilities. Even if she had his phone number—Will Shaw—that was his name—she doubted she could get cell reception out here.

Loser. Leo never spoke in an ordinary voice. He only sneered.

Annie grabbed a tissue from a crumpled pack, but instead of thinking about her dilemma, she thought about the horse and rider. What kind of a crazy took an animal out in this weather? She squeezed her eyes shut and fought a wave of nausea. If only she could curl up and go to sleep. Would it be so terrible to admit that life had gotten the best of her?

Stop it right now, sensible Dilly said.

Annie’s head pounded. She had to find Shaw and get him to pull out the car.

Never mind Shaw, Peter the hero declared. I’ll do it myself.

But Peter—like her ex-boyfriend—was only good in a fictional crisis.

The cottage was about a mile away, an easy distance for a healthy person in decent weather. But the weather was horrible, and nothing about her was healthy.

Give up, Leo sneered. You know you want to.

Stop being such a douche, Leo. This voice came from Scamp, Dilly’s best friend, and Annie’s alter ego. Even though Scamp was responsible for many of the scrapes the puppets got into—scrapes heroine Dilly and hero Peter had to sort out—Annie loved her courage and big heart.

Pull yourself together, Scamp ordered. Get out of the car.

Annie wanted to tell her to go to hell, but what was the point? She pushed her flyaway hair inside the collar of her quilted jacket and zipped it. Her knit gloves had a hole in the thumb, and the door handle was icy against her exposed skin. She made herself open it.

The cold slapped her in the face and stole her breath. She had to force her legs out. Her beat-up brown suede city boots sank into the snow, and her jeans were no match for the weather. Ducking her head into the wind, she made her way to the rear of the car to get her heavy coat, only to see that the trunk was wedged so tightly into the hillside that she couldn’t open it. Why should she be surprised? Nothing had gone her way in so long that she’d forgotten what good fortune felt like.

She returned to the driver’s side. Her puppets should be safe in the car overnight, but what if they weren’t? She needed them. They were all she had left, and if she lost them, she might disappear altogether.

Pathetic, Leo sneered.

She wanted to rip him apart.

Babe… You need me more than I need you, he reminded her. Without me, you don’t have a show.

She shut him out. Breathing hard, she pulled the suitcases from the car, retrieved her keys, snapped off the headlights, and closed the door.

She was immediately plunged into thick, swirling darkness. Panic clawed at her chest.

I will rescue you! Peter declared.

Annie gripped the suitcase handles tighter, trying not to let her panic paralyze her.

I can’t see anything! Crumpet squealed. I hate the dark!

Annie had no handy flashlight app on her ancient cell phone, but she did have… She set a suitcase in the snow and dug in her pocket for her car keys and the small, LED light attached to the ring. She hadn’t tried to use the light in months, and she didn’t know if it still worked. With her heart in her throat, she turned it on.

A sliver of bright blue light cut a tiny path through the snow, a path so narrow she could easily wander off the road.

Get a grip, Scamp ordered.

Give up, Leo sneered.

Annie took her first steps into the snow. The wind cut through her thin jacket and tore at her hair, whipping the curly strands in her face. Snow slapped the back of her neck, and she started to cough. Pain compressed her ribs, and the suitcases banged against her legs. Much too soon, she had to set them down to rest her arms.

She hunched into her jacket collar, trying to protect her lungs from the icy air. Her fingers burned from the cold, and as she moved forward again, she called on her puppets’ imaginary voices to keep her company.

Crumpet: If you drop me and ruin my sparkly lavender dress, I’ll sue.

Peter: I’m the bravest! The strongest! I’ll help you.

Leo: (sneering) Do you know how to do anything right?

Dilly: Don’t listen to Leo. Keep moving. We’ll get there.

And Scamp, her useless alter ego: A woman carrying a suitcase walks into a bar…

Icy tears weighed down her eyelashes, blurring what vision she had. Wind caught the suitcases, threatening to snatch them away. They were too big, too heavy. Pulling her arms from their sockets. Stupid to have brought them with her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But she couldn’t leave her puppets.

Each step felt like a mile, and she’d never been so cold. Here she’d thought her luck had begun to change, all because she’d been able to catch the car ferry over from the mainland. It only ran sporadically, unlike the converted lobster boat that provided the island with weekly service. But the farther the ferry traveled from the Maine coastline, the worse the storm had become.

She trudged on, dragging one foot through the snow after the other, arms screaming, lungs burning as she tried not to succumb to another coughing fit. Why hadn’t she put her warm down coat in the car instead of locking it in the trunk? Why hadn’t she done so many things? Find a stable occupation. Be more circumspect with her money. Date decent men.

It was over ten years since she’d been on the island. The road used to stop at the turnoff that led to the cottage and to Harp House. But what if she missed it? Who knew what might have changed since then?

She stumbled and fell to her knees. The keys slipped from her hand and the light went out. She grabbed one of the suitcases for support. She was frozen. Burning up. She gasped for air and frantically felt around in the snow. If she lost her light…

Her fingers were so numb she nearly missed it. When she finally had the flashlight back in her grasp, she turned it on and saw the stand of trees that had always marked the road’s end. She moved the beam to the right where it fell on the big granite boulder at the turnoff. She hoisted herself back to her feet, lifted the suitcases, and stumbled through the drifts.

Her temporary relief at having found the turnoff faded. Centuries of harsh Maine weather had stripped this terrain of all but the hardiest of spruce, and without a windbreak, the blasts roaring in from the ocean caught the suitcases like spinnakers. She managed to turn her back to the wind’s force without losing either one. She sank one foot and then another, struggling through the tall snowdrifts, dragging the suitcases, and fighting the urge to lie down and let the cold do what it wanted with her.

She’d bowed so far into the wind that she nearly missed it. Only as the corner of a suitcase bumped against a snow-shrouded stone fence did she realize that she’d reached Moonraker Cottage.

The small, gray-shingled house was nothing more than an amorphous shape beneath the snow. No shoveled pathway, no welcoming lights. The last time she’d been here, the door had been painted cranberry red, but now it was a cold, periwinkle blue. An unnatural mound of snow under the front window covered a pair of old wooden lobster traps, a nod to the house’s origins as a fisherman’s cottage. She hauled herself through the drifts to the door and set the suitcases down. She fumbled with the key in the lock only to remember that island people seldom locked up.

The door blew open. She dragged the suitcases inside and, with the last of her strength, wrestled it shut again. The air wheezed in her lungs. She collapsed on the closest suitcase, her gasps for breath more like sobs.

Eventually, she grew conscious of the musty smell of the icy room. Pressing her nose to her sleeve, she fumbled for the light switch. Nothing happened. Either the caretaker hadn’t gotten her email asking him to have the generator working and the small furnace fired up or he’d ignored it. Every frozen part of her throbbed. She dropped her snow-crusted gloves on the small canvas rug that lay just inside the door but didn’t bother to shake the snow from the wild tangle of her hair. Her jeans were frozen to her legs, but she’d have to pull off her boots to remove them, and she was too cold to do that.

No matter how miserable she was, she had to get her puppets out of their snow-caked suitcases. She located one of the assorted flashlights her mother always kept near the door. Before school and library budgets were slashed, her puppets had provided a steadier livelihood than her failed acting career or her part time jobs walking dogs and serving drinks at Coffee, Coffee.

Shaking with cold, she cursed the caretaker who apparently had no qualms about riding a horse through a storm but couldn’t summon the effort to do his real job. It had to have been Shaw riding the horse. No one else lived at this end of the island during the winter. She unzipped the suitcases and pulled out the five dummies. Leaving them in their protective plastic bags, she stowed them temporarily on the sofa, then, flashlight in hand, stumbled across the frigid wood floor.

The interior of Moonraker Cottage bore no resemblance to anyone’s idea of a traditional New England fishing cottage. Instead, her mother’s eccentric stamp was everywhere—from a creepy bowl of small animal skulls to a silver-gilded Louis XIV chest bearing the words “Pile Driver” that Mariah had spray-painted across it in black graffiti. Annie preferred a cozier space, but during Mariah’s glory days when she’d inspired fashion designers and a generation of young artists, both this cottage and her mother’s Manhattan apartment had been featured in upscale decorating magazines.

Those days had ended years ago when Mariah had fallen out of favor in Manhattan’s increasingly younger artistic circles. Wealthy New Yorkers had begun asking others for help compiling their private art collections, and Mariah had been forced to sell off her valuables to support her lifestyle. By the time she’d gotten sick, everything was gone. Everything except something in this cottage—something that was supposed to be Annie’s mysterious “legacy.”

“It’s at the cottage. You’ll have… Plenty of money…” Mariah had said those words in the final hours before she’d died, a period in which she’d been barely lucid.

There isn’t any legacy, Leo sneered. Your mother exaggerated everything.

Maybe if Annie had spent more time on the island she’d know whether Mariah had been telling the truth, but she’d hated it here and hadn’t been back since her twenty-second birthday, eleven years ago.

She shone the flashlight around her mother’s bedroom. A life-sized mounted photograph of an elaborately carved Italian wooden headboard served as the actual headboard for the double bed. A pair of wall hangings made of boiled wool and what looked like remnants from a hardware store hung next to the closet door. The closet still smelled of her mother’s signature fragrance, a little-known Japanese men’s cologne that had cost a fortune to import. As Annie breathed in the scent, she wished she could feel the grief a daughter should experience following the loss of a parent only five weeks earlier, but she merely felt depleted.

She located Mariah’s old scarlet woolen cloak and a pair of heavy socks then got rid of her own clothes. After she’d piled every blanket she could find on her mother’s bed, she climbed under the musty sheets, turned out the flashlight, and went to sleep.

***

Annie hadn’t thought she’d ever be warm again, but she was sweating when a coughing fit awakened her sometime around two in the morning. Her ribs felt as if they’d been crushed, her head pounded, and her throat was raw. She also had to pee, another setback in a house with no water. When the coughing finally eased, she struggled out from under the blankets. Wrapped in the scarlet cloak, she turned on the flashlight and, grabbing the wall to support herself, made her way to the bathroom.

She kept the flashlight pointed down so she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror that hung over the old-fashioned sink. She knew what she’d see. A long, pale face shadowed by illness; a sharply-pointed chin; big, hazel eyes; and a runaway mane of light brown hair that kinked and curled wherever it wanted. She had a face children liked, but that most men found quirky instead of seductive. Her hair and face came from her unknown father—A married man. He wanted nothing to do with you. Dead now, thank God. Her shape came from Mariah: tall, thin, with knobby wrists and elbows, big feet, and long-fingered hands.

“To be a successful actress, you need to be either exceptionally beautiful or exceptionally talented,” Mariah had said. “You’re pretty enough, Antoinette, and you’re a talented mimic, but we have to be realistic…”

Your mother wasn’t exactly your cheerleader. Dilly stated the obvious.

I’ll be your cheerleader, Peter proclaimed. I’ll take care of you and love you forever.

Peter’s heroic proclamations usually made Annie smile, but tonight she could think only of the emotional chasm between the men she’d chosen to give her heart to and the fictional heroes she loved. And the other chasm—the one between the life she’d imagined for herself and the one she was living.

Despite Mariah’s objections, Annie had gotten her degree in theater arts and spent the next ten years plodding to auditions. She’d done showcases, community theater, and even landed a few character roles in off-off Broadway plays. Too few. Over the past summer, she’d finally faced the truth that Mariah was right. Annie was a better ventriloquist than she’d ever be an actress. Which left her absolutely nowhere.

She found a bottle of ginseng-flavored water that had somehow escaped freezing. It hurt to swallow even a sip. Taking the water with her, she made her way back into the living room.

Mariah hadn’t been to the cottage since summer, just before her cancer diagnosis, but Annie didn’t see a lot of dust. The caretaker must have done at least part of his job. If only he’d done the rest.

Her dummies lay on the hot pink Victorian sofa. The puppets and her car were all she had left.

Not quite all, Dilly said.

Right. There was the staggering load of debt Annie had no way of repaying, the debt she’d picked up in the last six months of her mother’s life by trying to satisfy Mariah’s every need.

And finally get Mummy’s approval, Leo sneered.

Pulling the scarlet cloak tighter around her, she wandered to the front bay window. The storm had eased and moonlight shown through the panes. She looked out at the bleak winter landscape—the inky shadows of spruce, the desolate sheet of marsh. Then she lifted her gaze.

Harp House loomed above her in the distance, sitting at the very top of a barren cliff. The murky light of a half moon outlined its angular roofs and dramatic turret. Except for a faint yellow light visible from a room high in the turret, the house was dark. The scene reminded her of the covers on the old paperback gothic novels she could still sometimes find in used bookstores. It didn’t take much imagination for her to envision a barefoot heroine fleeing that ghostly house in nothing more than a filmy negligee, the menacing turret light glowing behind her. Those books were quaint compared to today’s erotically charged vampires, werewolves, and shape-shifters, but she’d always loved them. They’d nourished her daydreams.

Above the jagged roofline of Harp House, storm clouds raced across the moon, their journey as wild as the flight of the horse and rider who’d charged across the road. Her skin turned to gooseflesh, not from the cold but from her own imagination. She turned away from the window and glanced over at Leo.

Heavy lidded eyes… Thin-lipped sneer… The perfect villain. She could have avoided so much pain if she hadn’t romanticized those brooding real-life men she’d fallen in love with, imagining them as fantasy heroes instead of realizing one was a cheater and the other a narcissist. Leo, however, was a different story. She’d created him herself out of cloth and yarn. She controlled him.

That’s what you think, he whispered.

She shivered and retreated to the bedroom. But even as she slipped back under the covers, she couldn’t shake off the dark vision of the house on the cliff.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderly again…

***

 

She wasn’t hungry when she awakened the next morning, but she made herself eat a handful of stale granola. The cottage was frigid, the day gloomy, her car was stuck in the snow, and all she wanted to do was go back to bed. But she couldn’t live in the cottage without heat or running water, and the more she thought about her absent caretaker, the angrier she grew. She dug out the only phone number she had, one for the island’s combination town hall, post office, and library, but although her phone was charged, she couldn’t get a signal. She sank down on the pink velvet couch and dropped her head in her hands. She’d have to go after Will Shaw herself, and that meant making the climb to Harp House. Back to the place she’d sworn she’d never again go near.

She pulled on as many layers of warm clothes as she could find, then wrapped herself in her mother’s red cloak and knotted an ancient Hermes scarf under her chin. Summoning all her energy and willpower, she set out. The day was as gray as her future, the salt air frigid, and the distance between the cottage and the house at the top of the cliff insurmountable.

I’ll carry you every step of the way, Peter announced.

Scamp blew him a raspberry.

It was low tide, but the icy rocks along the shoreline were too hazardous to walk along at this time of year, so she had to take the longer route around the saltwater marsh. But it wasn’t just the distance that filled her with dread.

Dilly tried to give her courage. It’s been eighteen years since you made the climb to Harp House. The ghosts and goblins are long gone.

Annie pressed the edge of the cloak over her nose and mouth.

Don’t worry, Peter said. I’ll watch out for you.

Peter and Dilly were doing their jobs. They were the ones responsible for untangling Scamps’ scrapes and stepping in when Leo bullied. They were the ones who delivered anti-drug messages, reminded kids to eat their vegetables, take care of their teeth, and not let anyone touch their private parts.

But it’ll feel so good, Leo sneered, then snickered.

Sometimes she wished she’d never created him, but he was such a perfect villain. He was the bully, the drug-pusher, the junk food king, and the stranger who tried to lure children away from playgrounds.

Come with me, little kiddies, and I’ll give you all the candy you want.

Stop it, Annie, Dilly said. No one in the Harp family ever comes to the island until summer. Only the caretaker lives there.

Leo refused to leave Annie alone. I have Skittles, M&Ms, Twizzlers…and reminders of all your failures. How’s that precious acting career working out?

She hunched into her shoulders. She needed to start meditating or practicing yoga, doing something that would teach her to discipline her mind instead of letting it wander wherever it wanted—or didn’t want—to go. So what if her acting dreams hadn’t worked out the way she’d wanted. Kids loved her puppet shows

Her boots crunched in the show. Dead cattails and hollowed reeds poked their battered heads through the frozen crust of the sleeping marsh. In summer, the marsh teemed with life, but now all was bleak, gray, and as quiet as her hopes.

She stopped to rest once again as she neared the bottom of the freshly plowed gravel drive that led up the cliff to Harp House. If Shaw could plow, he could get her car out. She dragged herself on. Before the pneumonia, she could have charged uphill, but by the time she finally reached the top, her lungs were on fire and she’d started to wheeze. Far below, the cottage looked like a neglected toy left to fend for itself against the pounding sea and rugged Maine cliffs. Dragging more fire into her lungs, she made herself lift her head.

Harp House rose before her, silhouetted against the pewter sky. Rooted in granite, exposed to summer squalls and winter gales, it dared the elements to take it down. The island’s other summer homes had been built on the more protected eastern side of the island, but Harp House scorned the easy way. Instead, it grew from the rocky western headlands far above the sea, a shingle-sided, forbidding brown wooden fortress with an unwelcoming turret at one end.

Everything was sharp angles: the peaked roofs, shadowed eaves, and foreboding gables. How she’d loved this gothic gloom when she’d come to live here the summer her mother had married Elliott Harp. She’d imagined herself clad in a mousy gray dress and clutching a portmanteau—gently born, but penniless and desperate, forced to take the humble position of governess. Chin up and shoulders back, she’d confront the brutish (but exceptionally handsome) master of the house with so much courage that he would eventually fall hopelessly in love with her. They’d marry, and then she’d redecorate.

It hadn’t taken long before the romantic dreams of a homely fifteen-year-old who read too much and experienced too little had met a harsher reality.

The backyard with its gaping maw of an empty swimming pool was eerie enough, but the simple sets of wooden stairs that led to the back and side entrances had been replaced with stone steps guarded by gargoyles.

She passed the stable and followed a roughly shoveled path to the back door. Shaw had better be here instead of galloping off on one of Elliott Harp’s horses. She pressed the bell but couldn’t hear it ring inside. The house was too big. She waited, then rang again, but no one answered. The doormat looked as though it had been recently used to stamp off snow. She rapped hard.

The door creaked open.

She was so cold that she stepped into the mudroom. Miscellaneous pieces of outerwear, along with assorted mops and brooms, hung from a set of hooks. She rounded the corner that opened into the main kitchen and stopped.

Everything was different. The kitchen no longer held the walnut cabinets and stainless steel appliances she remembered from eighteen years ago. Instead, the place looked as though it had been squeezed back through a time warp to the nineteenth century.

The wall between the kitchen and what had once been a breakfast room was gone, leaving the space twice as large as it had once been. High, horizontal windows let in light, but since the windows were now set at least six feet from the floor, only the tallest person could see through them. Rough plaster covered the top half of the walls, while the bottom was faced with four-inch square once-white tiles, some chipped at the corners, others cracked with age. The floor was old stone, the fireplace a sooty cavern large enough to roast a wild boar…or a man unwise enough to have been caught poaching on his master’s land.

Instead of kitchen cabinets, rough shelves held stoneware bowls and crocks. Tall, freestanding dark wood cupboards rose on each side of a dull black industrial-size Aga stove. A stone farmhouse sink held a messy stack of dirty dishes. Copper stock pots and saucepans—not shiny and polished, but dented and worn—hung above a long, scarred wooden prep table designed to chop off chicken heads, butcher mutton chops, or whip up a syllabub for his lordship’s dinner.

The kitchen had to be a renovation, but what kind of renovation regressed two centuries. And why?

Run! Crumpet shrieked. Something’s very wrong here!

Whenever Crumpet got hysterical, Annie counted on Dilly’s no-nonsense manner to provide perspective, but Dilly remained silent, and not even Scamp could come up with a wisecrack.

“Mr. Shaw?” Annie’s voice lacked its normal powers of projection.

When there was no reply, she moved deeper into the kitchen, leaving wet tracks on the stone floor. But no way was she taking off her boots. If she had to run, she wasn’t doing it in socks. “Will?”

Not a sound.

She passed the pantry, crossed a narrow back hallway, detoured around the dining room, and stepped through the arched entry into the foyer. Only the dimmest gray light penetrated the six square panes above the front door. The heavy mahogany staircase still led to a landing with a murky stained-glass window, but the staircase carpet was now a depressing maroon instead of the multi-colored floral from the past. The furniture bore a dusty film, and a cobweb hung in the corner. The walls had been paneled over in heavy, dark wood, and the seascape paintings had been replaced with gloomy oil portraits of prosperous men and women in nineteenth century dress, none of whom could possibly have been Elliott Harp’s Irish peasant ancestors. All that was missing to make the entryway even more depressing was a suit of armor and a stuffed raven.

She heard footsteps above her and moved closer to the staircase. “Mr. Shaw? It’s Annie Hewitt. The door was open, so I let myself in.” She looked up. “I’m going to need—” The words died on her tongue.

The master of the house stood at the top of the stairs.

***

He descended slowly. A gothic hero come to life in a pearl gray waistcoat, snowy white cravat, and dark trousers tucked into calf-hugging black leather riding boots. Hanging languidly at his side was a steel-barreled dueling pistol.

An icy finger slithered down her spine. She briefly considered the possibility that her fever had come back—or her imagination had finally shoved her over the cliff of reality. But he wasn’t a hallucination. He was all too real.

Only slowly did she tear her gaze away from the pistol, the boots, and the waistcoat to see the man himself.

In the dim gray light, his hair was raven black; his eyes a pale, imperial blue; his face chiseled and unsmiling—everything about him the embodiment of nineteenth century haughtiness. She wanted to curtsy. To run. To tell him she didn’t really need that governess job after all.

He came to the bottom of the stairs, and that was when she saw it. The pale white scar at the corner of his eyebrow. The scar she’d given him.



HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS, Mass Market Paperback
Avon Mass Market Paperback
Available July 28, 2015
Pre-order your copy todayHEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS, Hardcover
William Morrow Hardcover
On Sale Now

HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS
Library Journal: Best Books 2014: Romance
Booklist: Top 10 Romance 2014
The dead of winter.
An isolated island off the coast of Maine.
A man.
A woman.
A sinister house looming over the sea . . .

He’s a reclusive writer whose macabre imagination creates chilling horror novels. She’s a down-on-her-luck actress reduced to staging kids’ puppet shows. He knows a dozen ways to kill with his bare hands. She knows a dozen ways to kill with laughs.

But she’s not laughing now. When she was a teenager, he terrified her. Now they’re trapped together on a snowy island off the coast of Maine. Is he the villain she remembers or has he changed? Her head says no. Her heart says yes.

It’s going to be a long, hot winter.

Quote from Susan:
“Finding the right cover for HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS has been a challenge. Do we put a gorgeous man on it? Most readers prefer to use their imagination. I know I do. What about a sultry, drop dead sexy heroine? Nope. Annie Hewitt is more like you and me. An ordinary woman trying to keep her head above water under difficult circumstances. She’s funny, feisty, and a little sarcastic. She’s also very much afraid of the villain in our story, the mysterious and totally terrifying Theo Harp. Not that she’d let him know that. Except? Is Theo really the villain, or is he the hero? So confusing to everyone, especially to Annie. The final cover for HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS feels exactly right. It reflects the cold, wintry setting of an isolated island off the coast of Maine and the feisty spirit of a heroine who refuses to give up, even when the odds are stacked against her.”

*Read a SNEAK PEEK!

Heroes Are My Weakness

HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS, Mass Market Paperback
Avon Books
Now Available in Mass Market Paperback
Order your copy today
Mass Market Paperback:

Hardcover:

eBook:

Audio:

HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS
Library Journal: Best Books 2014: Romance
Booklist: Top 10 Romance 2014
 

HEROES ARE MY WEAKNESS, Hardcover
William Morrow Hardcover
On Sale Now

The dead of winter.
An isolated island off the coast of Maine.
A man.
A woman.
A sinister house looming over the sea . . .

He’s a reclusive writer whose macabre imagination creates chilling horror novels. She’s a down-on-her-luck actress reduced to staging kids’ puppet shows. He knows a dozen ways to kill with his bare hands. She knows a dozen ways to kill with laughs.

But she’s not laughing now. When she was a teenager, he terrified her. Now they’re trapped together on a snowy island off the coast of Maine. Is he the villain she remembers or has he changed? Her head says no. Her heart says yes.

It’s going to be a long, hot winter.

*Read a SNEAK PEEK!

The Reviews Are In!

KIRKUS REVIEWS: A Best Fiction Book of 2014 *A Best Romance of 2014* “…heart wrenching and uplifting…” (starred review)
LIBRARY JOURNAL: A Best Romance: 2014 *“An unforgettable, deliciously spicy romance…” (starred review)
BOOKLIST: Top Ten Romance Fiction 2014 *“…another romance to treasure from one of the genre’s superstars….” (starred review)
RT REVIEWS: A Best Contemporary Romance 2014 *”…A Phillips classic…. Awesome!” (starred review)
NPR BOOKS: GREAT READ 2014
AARP: Best Books of 2014

Susan Elizabeth Phillips’ upcoming Heroes Are My Weakness received a second *starred* review, this time from Publishers Weekly

“In her latest, Phillips takes all the iconic elements of those classic gothic novels of the 1960s and ’70s and deftly combines them with her own signature literary calling cards of realistically quirky yet all too relatable characters, polished writing, tart humor, and an abundance of potent sexual chemistry.” —John Charles, Booklist, starred review

“Heart-wrenching and uplifting, with witty dialogue, emotional depth, and details that give substance and texture to an already entertaining, engrossing story.” —Starred Review” Kirkus Reviews

“Poignant, yet filled with humor and a dash of danger, this is a perfect romantic read. Awesome!” “Top Pick Gold!!!” —Jill M. Smith, RT Book Reviews

He came to the bottom of the stairs, and that was when she saw it. The pale white scar at the corner of his eyebrow. The scar she’d given him.

International Book Covers


MATCH ME IF YOU CAN – Tour the Sites

On August 11, I went with my sister Lydia—She’s known as Lil Sis on the SEP Bulletin Board—to see some of the sights that appear in MATCH ME IF YOU CAN. We took pictures so we could share with you. (No spoilers.)

Annabelle shows off Chicago’s fabulous Millennium Park to an out-of-town visitor. Here are some of the spots mentioned: Everyone in Chicago calls it “The Bean,” but its official name is Cloud Gate. It reflects Chicago’s amazing architecture. I love it.

If you’d like to see better pictures of Millennium Park, check out the official web site at http://www.millenniumpark.org.

BOBBY TOM DENTON’S BLACK BEAN AND SWEET POTATO BURRITOS


More from HEAVEN, TEXAS
BOBBY TOM DENTON’S BLACK BEAN AND
SWEET POTATO BURRITOS

Here’s a recipe that suits Bobby Tom Denton, from HEAVEN, TEXAS, just fine. I adapted it for the former Chicago Stars wide-receiver from Moosewood Restaurant Low Fat Favorites. I don’t measure things too well, so I hope you can deal with approximations!

  • 2 large or three medium-sized sweet potatoes peeled and cubed
  • 3+ cups chopped onion
  • 3 or more large cloves of garlic, chopped
  • 1 T+ minced fresh green chili (I used serranos. For less kick, try jalapenos)
  • 4 t ground cumin
  • 4 t ground coriander
  • 3 cans (15 ounce each) black beans (pinto beans also an option)
  • 2/3 cup lightly packed cilantro leaves (I bought some of the mild flat Italian parsley by mistake and used it anyway. Great for people who aren’t crazy about cilantro.)
  • 2-3 T fresh lemon juice
  • 8 large flour tortillas (I buy the fat free ones)
  • Your favorite salsa.

1.  Place the diced, peeled sweet potatoes in a medium saucepan, cover with water, bring to a boil. Simmer for 10 minutes. Drain and set aside.
2.  While sweet potatoes are cooking, sauté onions, garlic, chili in a skillet generously sprayed with Pam or olive oil. Cook until tender, about 7 minutes. Add cumin and coriander. Cook for another 2-3 minutes, stirring frequently so it doesn’t stick.
3.  In food processor, combine beans, cilantro, lemon juice. Process. Add sweet potatoes and process again. (Alternative: Mash with potato masher for rougher texture.)
4.  Stir in onion mixture, salt to taste, and heat to desired temperature in microwave.
5.  Warm tortillas in microwave. Fill each tortilla with about ¾ cup of mixture and serve with salsa.

This recipe provides a different slant on the more common black bean burritos. I like to serve with a salad or a simple plate of raw vegetables. The richness of the sweet potatoes eliminates the need for cheese, but you can certainly top with some Monterey Jack or cheddar if you’d like.

GRACIE AND JILL’S LAZY DAY VEGETARIAN LASAGNA

From HEAVEN, TEXAS
GRACIE AND JILL’S LAZY DAY VEGETARIAN LASAGNA
(Reduced fat)

This recipe should be attractive to busy cooks since you don’t have to precook the lasagna noodles. The last time we checked, Gracie Snow Denton, from HEAVEN, TEXAS, was doing triple duty as a wife, mother, and the mayor of Telarosa, Texas. My Vegetarian Lazy Day Lasagna is right up her alley. I also made it for that wonderful historical romance author Jill Barnett when she came to visit, and she enjoyed it so much she’s been making it for friends. So, let’s have Gracie and Jill share this recipe. (I’ve also made lots of adjustments to reduce fat.)

This recipe is simple to assemble, but cooking plus resting time takes at least an hour and a half, so get started early.

  • Vegetables of choice. (See below)
  • 1 48 oz jar prepared spaghetti sauce of your choice (Try to find one without too much crap/sugar in it)
  • 1 lb. low fat cottage cheese
  • 8 oz. low fat tofu
  • Uncooked lasagna noodles (How many you use depends on size of pan. You don’t need an entire package)
  • About 2 C shredded Mozzarella
  • About 1/2 C grated Parmesan cheese
  • 1 C water

1.  Using large skillet, sauté vegetables of choice in Pam. (*I use about 1 lb. mushrooms, 1 green pepper, and a box of thawed chopped spinach drained. Sometimes I use a diced eggplant. Jill adds extra onion.)
2.  Add spaghetti sauce to vegetables
3.  With potato masher, mash tofu and cottage cheese together in medium bowl. Set aside.
4.  Spoon about 1 1/2 C vegetable mixture in bottom of lasagna pan.
5.  Cover with layer of noodles.
6.  Top with 1/2 of cottage cheese/tofu mixture
7.  Add 1/3 of vegetable sauce
8.  Layer of noodles
9.  Rest of cottage cheese/tofu mixture
10.  1/2 of mozzarella
11.  1/3 of vegetable sauce
12.  Layer of noodles
13.  Rest of vegetable sauce.

Pour 1 C of water around sides of pan. Cover tightly with foil. Bake in preheated 350 degree oven for 1 hour. Uncover. Top with rest of Mozzarella and Parmesan. Bake 20 minutes more uncovered until bubbly. Let stand 15-20 minutes. Serve.

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WHEN STARS COLLIDE
Available June 29th!
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