#1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Nora Roberts presents classic stories of two unlikely couples who choose…love!
Dual Image
Playing Booth DeWitt's cruel ex-wife in his semiautobiographical film is the chance of a lifetime for actor Ariel Kirkwood. Not only is it a giant boon for her career, but she also gets to work with the screenwriter himself. Since getting to know him, Ariel can't get the aloof, sexy Booth out of her mind. She'd love to be his real leading lady, but with each passing day he becomes more distant. Now Ariel must convince Booth to see her for the woman she is, not the one she was hired to portray….
Untamed
The circus is no place for a lawyer! But that's exactly where Keane Prescott finds himself, as the new owner of his late father's circus. Keane has no interest in the Big Top, until he meets Jovilette Wilder. She had a special bond with his father but has made it clear she wants Keane to leave her and her circus alone! Yet Jo is impossible to resist—at once graceful, fearless, commanding and about as unpredictable as the lions she tames. She just may be the best thing his father left him…but can he tame her wild heart before it's too late?
Balancing a bag of groceries in one arm, Amanda let herself into the house. She radiated happiness. From outside came the sound of birds singing in the spring sunshine. The gold of her wedding ring caught the light. As a newlywed of three months, she was anxious to prepare a special, intimate dinner as a surprise for Cameron. Her demanding hours at the hospital and clinic often made it impossible for her to cook, and as a new bride she found pleasure in it. This afternoon, with two appointments unexpectedly canceled, she intended to fix something fancy, time-consuming and memorable. Something that went well with candlelight and wine.
As she entered the kitchen she was humming, a rare outward show of emotion for she was a reserved woman. With a satisfied smile, she drew a bottle of Cameron's favorite Bordeaux from the bag. As she studied the label, a smile lingered on her face while she remembered the first time they'd shared a bottle. He'd been so romantic, so attentive, so much what she'd needed at that point in her life.
A glance at her watch told her she had four full hours before her husband was expected home. Time enough to prepare an elaborate meal, light the candles and set out the crystal.
First, she decided, she was going upstairs to get out of her practical suit and shoes. There was a silk caftan upstairs, sheer, in misty shades of blue. Tonight, she wouldn't be a psychiatrist, but a woman, a woman very much in love.
The house was scrupulously neat and tastefully decorated. Such things came naturally to Amanda. As she walked toward the stairs, she glanced at a vase of Baccarat crystal and wished fleetingly she'd remembered fresh flowers. Perhaps she'd call the florist and have something extravagant delivered. Her hand trailed lightly over the polished banister as she started up. Her eyes, usually serious or intent, were dreamy. Carelessly, she pushed open the bedroom door.
Her smile froze. Utter shock replaced it. As she stood in the doorway, all color seemed to drain out of her cheeks. Her eyes grew huge before pain filled them. Out of her mouth came one anguished word.
"Cameron."
The couple in bed, locked in a passionate embrace, sprang apart. The man, smoothly handsome, his sleek hair disheveled, stared up in disbelief. The woman—feline, sultry, stunning—smiled very, very slowly. You could almost hear her purr.
"Vikki." Amanda looked at her sister with anguished eyes.
"You're home early." There was a hint, only a suspicion of a laugh in her sister's voice.
Cameron put a few more inches between himself and his sister-in-law. "Amanda, I…"
In one split second, Amanda's face contorted. With her eyes locked on the couple in bed, she reached in her jacket pocket and drew out a small, lethal revolver. The lovers stared at it in astonishment, and in silence. Coolly, she aimed and fired. A puff of confetti burst out.
"Ariel!"
Dr. Amanda Lane Jamison, better known as Ariel Kirkwood, turned to her harassed director as the couple in bed and members of the television crew dissolved into laughter.
"Sorry, Neal, I couldn't help myself. Amanda's always the victim," she said dramatically while her eyes danced. "Just think what it might do for the ratings if she lost her cool just once and murdered someone."
"Look, Ariel—"
"Or even just seriously injured them," she went on rapidly. "And who," she continued, flinging her hand toward the bed, "deserves it more than her spineless husband and scheming sister?"
At the hoots and applause of the crew, Ariel took a bow, then reluctantly turned over her weapon to her director when he held out his hand.
"You," he said with a long-suffering sigh, "are a certified loony, and have been since I've known you."
"I appreciate that, Neal."
"This time the tape's going to be running," he warned and tried not to grin. "Let's see if we can shoot this scene before lunch."
Agreeably, Ariel went down to the first floor of the set. She stood patiently while her hair and makeup were touched up. Amanda was always perfection. Organized, meticulous, calm—all the things Ariel herself wasn't. She'd played the character for just over five years on the popular daytime soap opera Our Lives, Our Loves.
In those five years, Amanda had graduated with honors from college, had earned her degree in psychiatric medicine and had gone on to become a respected therapist. Her recent marriage to Cameron Jamison appeared to be made in heaven. But, of course, he was a weak opportunist who'd married her for her money and social position, while lusting after her sister—and half the female population of the fictional town of Trader's Bend.
Amanda was about to be confronted with the truth. The story line had been leading up to this revelation for six weeks, and the letters from viewers had poured in. Both they and Ariel thought it was about time Amanda found out about her louse of a husband.
Ariel liked Amanda, respected her integrity and poise. When the cameras rolled, Ariel was Amanda. While in her personal life she would much prefer a day at an amusement park to an evening at the ballet, she understood all the nuances of the woman she portrayed.
When this scene was aired, viewers would see a neat, slender woman with pale blond hair sleeked back into a sophisticated knot. The face was porcelain, stunning, with an icy kind of beauty that sent out signals of restrained sexuality. Class. Style.
Lake-blue eyes, high curved cheekbones added to the look of polished elegance. A perfectly shaped mouth tended toward serious smiles. Finely arched brows that were shades darker than the delicate blond of her hair accented luxurious lashes. A flawless beauty, perfectly composed—that was Amanda.
Ariel waited for her cue and wondered vaguely if she'd turned off her coffeepot that morning.
They ran through the scene again, from cue to cut, then a second time when it was discovered that Vikki's strapless bathing suit could be seen when she shifted in bed. Then came reaction shots—the camera zoomed in close on Amanda's pale, shocked face and held for several long, dramatic seconds.
"Lunch."
Response was immediate. The lovers bounded out of either side of the bed. In his bathing trunks, J. T. Brown, Ariel's onscreen husband, took her by the shoulders and gave her a long hard kiss. "Look, sweetie," he began, staying in character, "I'll explain about all this later. Trust me. I gotta call my agent."
"Wimp," Ariel called after him with a very un-Amandalike grin before she hooked her arm through that of Stella Powell, her series sister. "Pull something over that suit, Stella. I can't face the commissary food today."
Stella tossed back her tousled mass of auburn hair. "You buying?"
"Always sponging off your sister," Ariel mumbled. "Okay, I'll spring, but hurry up. I'm starving."
On her way to her dressing room, Ariel walked off the set, then through two more—the fifth floor of Doctors Hospital and the living room of the Lanes, Trader Bend's leading family. It was tempting to shed her costume and take down her hair, but it would only mean fooling with wardrobe and makeup after lunch. Instead, she just grabbed her purse, an outsize hobo bag that looked a bit incongruous with Amanda's elegant business suit. She was already thinking about a thick slice of baklava soaked in honey.
"Come on, Stella." Ariel stuck her head in the adjoining dressing room as Stella zipped up a pair of snug jeans. "My stomach's on overtime."
"It always is," her coworker returned as she pulled on a bulky sweatshirt. "Where to?"
"The Greek deli around the corner." More than ready, Ariel started down the hall in her characteristically long, swinging gait while Stella hurried to keep up. It wasn't that Ariel rushed from place to place, but simply that she wanted to see what was next.
"My diet," Stella began.
"Have a salad," Ariel told her without mercy. She turned her head to give Stella a quick up-and-down glance. "You know, if you weren't always wearing those skimpy outfits on camera, you wouldn't have to starve yourself."
Stella grinned as they came to the street door. "Jealous."
"Yeah. I'm always elegant and always proper. You have all the fun." Stepping outside, Ariel took a deep breath of New York. She loved it—had always loved it in a way usually reserved for tourists. Ariel had lived on the long thin island of Manhattan all of her life, and yet it remained an adventure to her. The sights, the smells, the sounds.
It was brisk for mid-April, and threatening to rain. The air was damp and smelled of exhaust. The streets and sidewalks were clogged with lunchtime traffic—everyone hurrying, everyone with important business to attend to. A pedestrian swore and banged a fist on the hood of a cab that had clipped too close to the curb. A woman with spiked orange hair hustled by in black leather boots. Somone had written something uncomplimentary on a poster for a hot Broadway play. But Ariel saw a street vendor selling daffodils.
She bought two bunches and handed one to Stella.
"You can never pass up anything, can you?" Stella mumbled, but buried her face in the yellow blooms.
"Think of all I'd miss," Ariel countered. "Besides, it's spring."
Stella shivered and looked up at the leaden sky. "Sure."
"Eat." Ariel grabbed her arm and pulled her along. "You always get cranky when you miss meals."
The deli was packed with people and aromas. Spices and honey. Beer and oil. Always a creature of the senses, Ariel drew in the mingled scents before she worked her way to the counter. She had an uncanny way of getting where she was going through a throng without using her elbows or stepping on toes. While she moved, she watched and listened. She wouldn't want to miss a scent, or the texture of a voice, or the c...
As "Amanda Jamison", Ariel Kirkwood suffered stoically through the daily traumas of a popular soap opera. She was adored by her loyal fans, as well as the real people in her life. Booth De Witt had written his greatest script: from the pain of a bitter marriage came a bitingly brilliant story. Ariel knew she wanted to play the scheming wife -- a complete change from her sweet daytime heroine. But Ariel the actress awakened the ghosts of Booth's past with her eerily perfect portrayal of his ex-wife . . . and Ariel the woman broke through his hardened cynicism, tempting him to love again.
Description:
#1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Nora Roberts presents classic stories of two unlikely couples who choose…love!
Dual Image
Playing Booth DeWitt's cruel ex-wife in his semiautobiographical film is the chance of a lifetime for actor Ariel Kirkwood. Not only is it a giant boon for her career, but she also gets to work with the screenwriter himself. Since getting to know him, Ariel can't get the aloof, sexy Booth out of her mind. She'd love to be his real leading lady, but with each passing day he becomes more distant. Now Ariel must convince Booth to see her for the woman she is, not the one she was hired to portray….
Untamed
The circus is no place for a lawyer! But that's exactly where Keane Prescott finds himself, as the new owner of his late father's circus. Keane has no interest in the Big Top, until he meets Jovilette Wilder. She had a special bond with his father but has made it clear she wants Keane to leave her and her circus alone! Yet Jo is impossible to resist—at once graceful, fearless, commanding and about as unpredictable as the lions she tames. She just may be the best thing his father left him…but can he tame her wild heart before it's too late?
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Balancing a bag of groceries in one arm, Amanda let herself into the house. She radiated happiness. From outside came the sound of birds singing in the spring sunshine. The gold of her wedding ring caught the light. As a newlywed of three months, she was anxious to prepare a special, intimate dinner as a surprise for Cameron. Her demanding hours at the hospital and clinic often made it impossible for her to cook, and as a new bride she found pleasure in it. This afternoon, with two appointments unexpectedly canceled, she intended to fix something fancy, time-consuming and memorable. Something that went well with candlelight and wine.
As she entered the kitchen she was humming, a rare outward show of emotion for she was a reserved woman. With a satisfied smile, she drew a bottle of Cameron's favorite Bordeaux from the bag. As she studied the label, a smile lingered on her face while she remembered the first time they'd shared a bottle. He'd been so romantic, so attentive, so much what she'd needed at that point in her life.
A glance at her watch told her she had four full hours before her husband was expected home. Time enough to prepare an elaborate meal, light the candles and set out the crystal.
First, she decided, she was going upstairs to get out of her practical suit and shoes. There was a silk caftan upstairs, sheer, in misty shades of blue. Tonight, she wouldn't be a psychiatrist, but a woman, a woman very much in love.
The house was scrupulously neat and tastefully decorated. Such things came naturally to Amanda. As she walked toward the stairs, she glanced at a vase of Baccarat crystal and wished fleetingly she'd remembered fresh flowers. Perhaps she'd call the florist and have something extravagant delivered. Her hand trailed lightly over the polished banister as she started up. Her eyes, usually serious or intent, were dreamy. Carelessly, she pushed open the bedroom door.
Her smile froze. Utter shock replaced it. As she stood in the doorway, all color seemed to drain out of her cheeks. Her eyes grew huge before pain filled them. Out of her mouth came one anguished word.
"Cameron."
The couple in bed, locked in a passionate embrace, sprang apart. The man, smoothly handsome, his sleek hair disheveled, stared up in disbelief. The woman—feline, sultry, stunning—smiled very, very slowly. You could almost hear her purr.
"Vikki." Amanda looked at her sister with anguished eyes.
"You're home early." There was a hint, only a suspicion of a laugh in her sister's voice.
Cameron put a few more inches between himself and his sister-in-law. "Amanda, I…"
In one split second, Amanda's face contorted. With her eyes locked on the couple in bed, she reached in her jacket pocket and drew out a small, lethal revolver. The lovers stared at it in astonishment, and in silence. Coolly, she aimed and fired. A puff of confetti burst out.
"Ariel!"
Dr. Amanda Lane Jamison, better known as Ariel Kirkwood, turned to her harassed director as the couple in bed and members of the television crew dissolved into laughter.
"Sorry, Neal, I couldn't help myself. Amanda's always the victim," she said dramatically while her eyes danced. "Just think what it might do for the ratings if she lost her cool just once and murdered someone."
"Look, Ariel—"
"Or even just seriously injured them," she went on rapidly. "And who," she continued, flinging her hand toward the bed, "deserves it more than her spineless husband and scheming sister?"
At the hoots and applause of the crew, Ariel took a bow, then reluctantly turned over her weapon to her director when he held out his hand.
"You," he said with a long-suffering sigh, "are a certified loony, and have been since I've known you."
"I appreciate that, Neal."
"This time the tape's going to be running," he warned and tried not to grin. "Let's see if we can shoot this scene before lunch."
Agreeably, Ariel went down to the first floor of the set. She stood patiently while her hair and makeup were touched up. Amanda was always perfection. Organized, meticulous, calm—all the things Ariel herself wasn't. She'd played the character for just over five years on the popular daytime soap opera Our Lives, Our Loves.
In those five years, Amanda had graduated with honors from college, had earned her degree in psychiatric medicine and had gone on to become a respected therapist. Her recent marriage to Cameron Jamison appeared to be made in heaven. But, of course, he was a weak opportunist who'd married her for her money and social position, while lusting after her sister—and half the female population of the fictional town of Trader's Bend.
Amanda was about to be confronted with the truth. The story line had been leading up to this revelation for six weeks, and the letters from viewers had poured in. Both they and Ariel thought it was about time Amanda found out about her louse of a husband.
Ariel liked Amanda, respected her integrity and poise. When the cameras rolled, Ariel was Amanda. While in her personal life she would much prefer a day at an amusement park to an evening at the ballet, she understood all the nuances of the woman she portrayed.
When this scene was aired, viewers would see a neat, slender woman with pale blond hair sleeked back into a sophisticated knot. The face was porcelain, stunning, with an icy kind of beauty that sent out signals of restrained sexuality. Class. Style.
Lake-blue eyes, high curved cheekbones added to the look of polished elegance. A perfectly shaped mouth tended toward serious smiles. Finely arched brows that were shades darker than the delicate blond of her hair accented luxurious lashes. A flawless beauty, perfectly composed—that was Amanda.
Ariel waited for her cue and wondered vaguely if she'd turned off her coffeepot that morning.
They ran through the scene again, from cue to cut, then a second time when it was discovered that Vikki's strapless bathing suit could be seen when she shifted in bed. Then came reaction shots—the camera zoomed in close on Amanda's pale, shocked face and held for several long, dramatic seconds.
"Lunch."
Response was immediate. The lovers bounded out of either side of the bed. In his bathing trunks, J. T. Brown, Ariel's onscreen husband, took her by the shoulders and gave her a long hard kiss. "Look, sweetie," he began, staying in character, "I'll explain about all this later. Trust me. I gotta call my agent."
"Wimp," Ariel called after him with a very un-Amandalike grin before she hooked her arm through that of Stella Powell, her series sister. "Pull something over that suit, Stella. I can't face the commissary food today."
Stella tossed back her tousled mass of auburn hair. "You buying?"
"Always sponging off your sister," Ariel mumbled. "Okay, I'll spring, but hurry up. I'm starving."
On her way to her dressing room, Ariel walked off the set, then through two more—the fifth floor of Doctors Hospital and the living room of the Lanes, Trader Bend's leading family. It was tempting to shed her costume and take down her hair, but it would only mean fooling with wardrobe and makeup after lunch. Instead, she just grabbed her purse, an outsize hobo bag that looked a bit incongruous with Amanda's elegant business suit. She was already thinking about a thick slice of baklava soaked in honey.
"Come on, Stella." Ariel stuck her head in the adjoining dressing room as Stella zipped up a pair of snug jeans. "My stomach's on overtime."
"It always is," her coworker returned as she pulled on a bulky sweatshirt. "Where to?"
"The Greek deli around the corner." More than ready, Ariel started down the hall in her characteristically long, swinging gait while Stella hurried to keep up. It wasn't that Ariel rushed from place to place, but simply that she wanted to see what was next.
"My diet," Stella began.
"Have a salad," Ariel told her without mercy. She turned her head to give Stella a quick up-and-down glance. "You know, if you weren't always wearing those skimpy outfits on camera, you wouldn't have to starve yourself."
Stella grinned as they came to the street door. "Jealous."
"Yeah. I'm always elegant and always proper. You have all the fun." Stepping outside, Ariel took a deep breath of New York. She loved it—had always loved it in a way usually reserved for tourists. Ariel had lived on the long thin island of Manhattan all of her life, and yet it remained an adventure to her. The sights, the smells, the sounds.
It was brisk for mid-April, and threatening to rain. The air was damp and smelled of exhaust. The streets and sidewalks were clogged with lunchtime traffic—everyone hurrying, everyone with important business to attend to. A pedestrian swore and banged a fist on the hood of a cab that had clipped too close to the curb. A woman with spiked orange hair hustled by in black leather boots. Somone had written something uncomplimentary on a poster for a hot Broadway play. But Ariel saw a street vendor selling daffodils.
She bought two bunches and handed one to Stella.
"You can never pass up anything, can you?" Stella mumbled, but buried her face in the yellow blooms.
"Think of all I'd miss," Ariel countered. "Besides, it's spring."
Stella shivered and looked up at the leaden sky. "Sure."
"Eat." Ariel grabbed her arm and pulled her along. "You always get cranky when you miss meals."
The deli was packed with people and aromas. Spices and honey. Beer and oil. Always a creature of the senses, Ariel drew in the mingled scents before she worked her way to the counter. She had an uncanny way of getting where she was going through a throng without using her elbows or stepping on toes. While she moved, she watched and listened. She wouldn't want to miss a scent, or the texture of a voice, or the c...
As "Amanda Jamison", Ariel Kirkwood suffered stoically through the daily traumas of a popular soap opera. She was adored by her loyal fans, as well as the real people in her life. Booth De Witt had written his greatest script: from the pain of a bitter marriage came a bitingly brilliant story. Ariel knew she wanted to play the scheming wife -- a complete change from her sweet daytime heroine. But Ariel the actress awakened the ghosts of Booth's past with her eerily perfect portrayal of his ex-wife . . . and Ariel the woman broke through his hardened cynicism, tempting him to love again.