Return to Briarwood # 1
By: Elisabeth Barrett
NOW AVAILABLE
Loveswept
ABOUT THE BOOK~
For readers of Shannon Stacey and Susan Mallery, the
heartfelt new Briarwood series begins with a tale of forbidden love, broken
promises, and second chances.
Growing up in Eastbridge,
Connecticut, Carolyn Rivington was a young debutante who did whatever her
parents asked. So when her father demanded that she break things off with the
boy from the wrong side of the tracks or else, she did. Now Carolyn’s family is
deep in debt. She’s no longer a member of the Briarwood Golf and Yacht Club,
she’s an employee. And the tanned, tattooed, dangerously handsome stranger who
saunters into her lobby isn’t just her new boss . . . he’s also her first love.
The last time he saw Carolyn, Jake
Gaffney was in the back of a police cruiser, handcuffed and humiliated. But
seeing her again stirs other memories: a blanket on the beach, the moon above
their heads, and the most expensive bottle of wine he could afford. Now the
tables have turned. As a real-estate magnate and Briarwood’s new owner, Jake
doesn’t have to answer to anyone. But now that he’s back home, he’s finding it
hard to live down his old reputation.
Before they can move forward, Jake
and Carolyn must face their pasts. But it’ll take more than sizzling chemistry
for them to heal old wounds and return to the love they once shared.
LINKS~
BUY ME AT~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR~
Elisabeth Barrett lives in the San Francisco Bay Area
and spends her days teaching, editing, writing sexy contemporary romance, and
enjoying time with her sometimes-bearded husband and three spirited children.
She is constantly perfecting her home-work-writing juggling act, but in her
free time she loves to hike open-space preserves, grow orchids, bake sweet
things her husband won’t eat, and sing in grand choruses. For more about
Elisabeth, please visit her website.
AUTHOR LINKS~
EXCERPT~
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” Carolyn Rivington kept her voice low and
polite as she gracefully slid up next to the stranger standing in the
entranceway of the Briarwood Golf and Yacht Club. “May I help you?”
The big, dark-haired man with the mirrored sunglasses didn’t even
bother to glance in her direction.
Just growled “no,” and gave her a flash of
hard-set jaw as he turned away.
Kicking out unwanted guests from the club was so not in
her job description, but she was damned good at it, and the more ways she could
make herself useful at Briarwood, the less chance she had of losing her job.
Plus, Tammi had begged.
Carolyn shot a look to the front desk. Sure enough, Tammi Porter was
there, eyes wide, desperation written all over her face. See? Tammi
seemed to be saying. Yes, she saw all right—the guy who just wouldn’t take the
hint to get lost. Well, she was about to make him.
Carolyn shifted her weight in her cream-colored pumps and took a
long, practiced look at her quarry—well, what she could see of him, anyway. He
wasn’t from around here; that much was certain.
Eastbridge, Connecticut, in the heart of Fairfield County, was a
pretty conservative place, and this guy was . . . not. He wore his thick black
hair slicked back, and his bronzed skin fairly glowed against the club’s
whitewashed wicker-and-chintz seating. Dark jeans emphasized every inch of his
long, muscular legs. He sported two full sleeves of tattoos, a wall of color
from the edge of his tight, black T-shirt all the way down to his wrists, and
his don’t-mess-with-me attitude emanated from every pore in his body.
No. Definitely not on the membership list.
It was also unlikely that he was here for legitimate reasons. If he
were a contractor, he would have made the appropriate appointment, and club
employees would come in through the staff entrance. He didn’t have a wedding
ring—not proof positive, but a likely indication he didn’t have a family—and
youngish, single men typically didn’t join clubs like this one.
The man was at the window now, still with his back to her, and while
she watched, he lifted a section of one long, taupe drape and rubbed it between
his fingers, as if testing its weight. Augustus Richardson, one of Briarwood’s
oldest members, pried his attention away from his Wall Street Journal,
glanced at the man, shook his head, and then went back to his paper.
Mr. Tan-and-Tatted clearly didn’t care what kind of a scene he was
causing, because he then
Satisfied that she was ready for a second approach, Carolyn smoothed
the front of her suit jacket down, pasted on her most generous smile, and
followed him over. After she was through, he’d never know what hit him.
“Sir,” she repeated. Insisted.
The man stopped pawing the entryway furniture and paused for one
terrible moment. Then he turned, showing her all his dangerous beauty. A
generous five o’clock shadow emphasized his sharp cheekbones and well-defined
mouth. She followed the line of his neck down to the hollow of his throat,
unable to help but notice the prominent lines of his collarbones before they
disappeared under that tight tee that hugged his torso, emphasizing every plane
and valley in his chest.
He shifted, and she dragged her gaze from his pectoral muscles back
to his face. She couldn’t place him, although he looked vaguely familiar, in
that way handsome men always did. And then the corners of his lips turned up in
a . . . sneer?
No matter. Tattoos weren’t her thing, anyway.
“Sir, may I help you?” she asked, her voice firmer this time.
“No.”
He began to turn away again, but she immediately stepped back into
his line of sight.
“This is a private club,” she said quickly. “If you’re interested in
joining, I would suggest reviewing our website first to familiarize yourself
with the membership criteria. We welcome all applicants, but we do require two
sponsors and a personal interview with the Board of Trustees once you have
filled out the initial paperwork. Here,” she said, handing him her card. “I’m
happy to answer any questions, so please email or call if you decide you’d like
to apply.” She wasn’t in charge of membership, but she needed to do something
to get this guy out of the clubhouse.
After a too-long pause, he took the card, and then just stood there,
staring at it. In his huge hand, the paper looked minuscule.
“Carolyn Rivington, Director of Events,” he read, his tone gruff.
“Yes,” she said. “As I said, please call. I’m happy to talk
anytime.” His cue to leave.
But he didn’t. Just stood there, still staring at the card, while a
muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Sir?” she prompted, praying she wasn’t losing her touch.
A familiar face appeared to her right—Richard Handel, Briarwood’s
general manager and her direct boss. “I have this, Carolyn,” Richard said,
under his breath.
Carolyn nodded. Even though he looked like a professor with his
salt-and-pepper hair, tweed blazer, and small, round glasses, Richard was more
than capable of handling their unwanted visitor.
“I’ll see you at the meeting in a few minutes,” she told him. Then
she gave a polite nod to Tattoo Guy. “A pleasure,” she lied. His only response
was to frown.
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