ROMANCING THE UNDERCOVER MILLIONAIRE
Released today, available at Dreamspinner Press in all formats:
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BLURB: Can poverty and privilege find a loving compromise?
Alexandre Bonfils, a rich and spoiled second son, is tired of being ignored and decides to help when the family’s exclusive wine business is in trouble. Going undercover in the warehouse, he loves the adventure—and the chance to be close to the sassy and sexy manager, Tate Somerton.
Tate is hardworking and financially struggling, bringing up his siblings on his own. A suspected saboteur at work is his latest challenge, but now he also has a clueless, though very attractive, new intern. There’s an immediate spark between the ill-matched couple, until a shocking accident cuts short Alex’s amateur sleuthing.
While recovering in the generous care of Tate and his family, will Alex realize what belonging really means? Passion and pride come together to fight for the company they’re both committed to preserving, but can a personal bond remain when the dust settles?
Tate scrabbled awake with a shock, realizing he’d dropped off to sleep on the sofa. Beside him, Gran snored, her mouth wide open and her apron skewed around her waist. Freddie was slumped on her lap, also snoring. The last Tate remembered was finishing Amy’s bath, then sending the twins to their rooms to revise for the next day’s geography test at school. He vaguely recalled offering to watch Supreme Sausage Suppers with Gran, or something similar. The TV was now showing a gritty Scandinavian crime drama with a dismembered torso being dragged up out of a frozen river, so something had definitely slipped in the space time continuum.
My God, he must have needed the rest. But what about Alex? Is he still here?
Groaning a little, Tate eased gently off the sofa and padded upstairs in his socked feet, picking up a small handful of laundry that had been left at the foot of the stairs. On the top landing he paused, listening to the gentle bickering from Hugo’s room where the H’s were currently based. From the occasional word he caught clearly—like “volcano”—it sounded like they were successfully getting on with their homework.
Alex was just coming out of Amy’s room. He smiled as Tate approached; Tate felt rather oddly vulnerable in front of him. Had Alex seen him fall asleep?
“How did it go?” Tate said softly. He peeked into Amy’s room to find her warmly wrapped up in her Frozen quilt and fast asleep. He closed the door as quietly as he could. “She can be a little madam, if you know what I mean. At heart she’s just a little kid, but she’s so very bright for her age, you need all your wits about you.”
“Well, I couldn’t read this to her, I’m afraid.” Alex said in a similarly lowered voice, holding up the luridly covered book that Amy had presumably chosen. “The story didn’t make any sense, and the language was bizarre. Plus none of the characters are anatomically correct. Don’t they have curriculum-based reading matter nowadays?”
Tate chuckled. “I’m sure they do, but that doesn’t always appeal to Amy. But she still fell asleep okay?”
“Of course. After I recited some Keats.”
“You…?” Tate was startled. It was becoming his default response to Alex Goodson. “As in John Keats, the poet?”
Alex shrugged easily. “She seemed to like it. I find ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ has a cadence that lends itself to sleep. I certainly drowsed through most of my English lessons at school. That’s one of the few poems where I can remember all the verses.”
Tate really, really wanted to let loose a proper laugh. “Dammit, Alex. You’re….”
Alex seemed to lean in more closely. “I’m what? Handsome? Irresistible? Just the kind of man you’ve been looking for to take you out and show you some fun?”
Alex’s scrutiny made Tate feel hot, which was very odd, standing on his own home landing on the rather worn carpet, hoping against hope that wasn’t a boner he was springing. “Astonishing. That’s all I’m prepared to say.” He pressed the pile of clothes into Alex’s arms and took a step away before he admitted something he regretted. “I must look in on the twins. If you’re okay to help out some more, perhaps you can dump this laundry in the basket in the bathroom on your way back downstairs?”