Jefferson Blythe, Esquire

  By Josh Lanyon

  In this fast, fun and dead-sexy male/male new-adult caper from multi-award-winning author Josh Lanyon, twentysomething Jefferson Blythe gets lost, gets found, falls in love and comes out…all in the span of one wild summer

  After his first relationship goes disastrously awry, Jeff Blythe uses his savings to tour Europe—the old-fashioned way. Armed with his grandfather’s 1960 copy of Esquire’s Europe in Style, Jeff sets off looking for adventure but finds much, much more than he bargained for…

  In London, dodging questions from shady criminals about a mysterious package he most certainly does not have is simple. Losing the gunmen who are convinced he’s someone else is not. And when George, an old friend, offers him help—and a place to stay, and perhaps something more—things become complicated.

  Is George really who he seems? And is Jeff finally ready to act on his attraction?

  From Paris to Rome and back again, Jeff and George fall for each other, hard, while quite literally running for their lives. But trusting George at his word may leave Jeff vulnerable—in more ways than one.

  65,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  Here in North America, we’re swinging back around to cozy days spent inside reading, while some of you (picture me waving at you, Australia) are headed into summer beach days. Whatever weather you’re enjoying—or not enjoying, as the case may be—a good book is always in order, and I have a few that may be just what you’re looking for.

  This month, we’ve got a particular emphasis on the mystery and romantic suspense genres. We also have the first in several new series and are introducing four new-to-Carina authors!

  Barreling onto the scene with a new series, new genre and a new pen name, Piper J. Drake offers explosive (at times literally) action and an endearing romance in the first book in her new romantic suspense Safeguard series, Hidden Impact. Meet military-veteran-turned-mercenary Gabriel Diaz. Betrayed, injured and building a new mercenary team, the last thing he expects to do is sweep Maylin Cheng off her feet—and out of the path of the car that tries to kill her. But now that he’s fallen for her, he’s all in to protect her at all costs, while helping find her kidnapped sister.

  The always incredible Josh Lanyon joins Piper in the romantic suspense category, with a charming and loveable male/male romance, Jefferson Blythe, Esquire. With only an outdated copy of Esquire’s Europe in Style to guide him, Jefferson Blythe sets out to see the world and runs straight into death, danger…and the boy next door.

  And making her debut, Mia Kay brings us her romantic suspense Soft Target. Wounded FBI agent Gray Harper will honor his dead partner by returning to work—as soon as the Bureau shrink clears him for duty. In the meantime, a long vacation in his best friend’s hometown sounds like the perfect distraction. But Nate Mathis has another plan. His twin sister, Maggie, has a stalker, and Gray’s the only one Nate trusts to catch the bastard.

  In a contemporary romance that unexpectedly hooked the entire Carina Press acquisitions team from the first page, Lucy Parker brings everything we love about romance and our heroines to the page—and the stage—in her debut book, Act Like It. Enter our heroine stage right: she’s the darling of the London press. Enter the hero stage left: he’s public enemy number one. They barely tolerate each other—and they’re about to become the most mismatched couple on the West End stage.

  Two new authors join Carina Press with new mystery series. Debut author Lisa Q. Mathews is first on the scene with The Ladies Smythe & Westin series. In Cardiac Arrest, Summer Smythe, a twentysomething party girl making a fresh start in a ritzy Florida retirement community, teams up with her neighbor, feisty senior Dorothy Westin, to clear her name in the murder of her popular—but heartless—cardiologist boss.

  Jonathan Watkins debuts with Carina with his previously self-published and newly reedited and revised Bright & Fletcher Mysteries. As soon as criminal defense lawyer Issabella Bright’s long-lost father blows into the Motor City, kidnapping, ransom and murder follow him and threaten to tear asunder the work-and-romance partnership she’s built with the man who will go to any length to keep her safe. And that man, Darren Fletcher, soon learns that shielding Issabella from danger could swiftly end with his Dying in Detroit.

  Weather (ha, get it?) you’re under a blanket keeping warm on your couch or enjoying the sun of your summer, these books will keep you company for a few hours and provide some take-you-away entertainment.

  Coming in December: Hitting both physical and digital shelves just in time for Thanksgiving here in the States is book two of Shannon Stacey’s combustible Boston Fire series, Controlled Burn. Also in December: Caitlyn McFarland ties up her dragon-shifter romance trilogy, male/male author Annabeth Albert joins the Carina team and Kate Willoughby is back with a terrific new hockey romance.

  Until next time, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  Dedication

  To the kidlings: Sean, Faith, Emily and William. However far, however wide, know there will always be safe harbor here.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Excerpt from Stranger on the Shore by Josh Lanyon

  It’s here again. All the fun and excitement of getting ready for a trip to Europe. There’s special excitement, of course, because this is going to be a special kind of trip, but then every trip abroad is special.

  —Esquire’s Europe in Style, 1960

  Chapter One

  “That is a brilliant disguise.”

  I glanced down and met the bright blue gaze of a girl. She was about my age, or maybe a little older. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? Masses of curly platinum hair, a fierce nose that was too big for her thin face, a wide mouth painted tangerine.

  I smiled. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but something about her reminded me of Amy, if Amy hadn’t been... Amy.

  No, that wasn’t fair because Amy was pretty and this girl really wasn’t, although she definitely had something. She looked at me with bright expectation, and that was confusing because girls like her did not expect much from boys—men—like me.

  That’s not a complaint, by the way.

  Anyway, we were standing in the middle of Heathrow Airport, and I was trying to figure out where I was. I mean, I was in London, obviously. England. But it was like I’d stepped off the plane into a different world. Onto a different planet. A very busy, very noisy planet. Where the natives did not speak my language. That’s because people in England do not speak English. Or at least, not the same English that you and I speak.

  Of course, in fairness, no one can ever understand anything being said over airport loudspeakers.

  “A bowtie would have been even better,” the girl offered. Her smile was sly, knowing. “A bowtie would suit you.”

  Okay, so now I knew she was making fun of me. I smiled again, to show I could take a joke, tugged down the brim of my hat—which I was already feeling a little self-conscious about; I’m not really the kind of guy who wears hats—and started walking. She walked with me.

  People passed us, coming and going, lugging guitars and backpacks or wheeling luggage and children. Heathrow is one of the busiest airports in the world.

  “Where are we going?” the blonde girl asked.

  “I’m improvising.”

  As a matter of fact, I did have a list. A partial list which included, in no particular order:

  The British Museum

  Soho

  The Victoria and Albert Museum

  Ministry of Sound

  Claridge’s

  The Savoy

  The London Eye

  The Tower of London

  The Globe Theatre

  Since I only had four days in England, there was no way I was going to get to everything. But that was okay. The idea was to explore, investigate, broaden my horizons. Or at least get the hell out of Dodge for a while.

  She put a hand on my arm. “I think we should go somewhere quiet. Don’t you?”

  I paused. Looked at her in alarm.

  Surely not? Her makeup was kind of dramatic, and her lacy black top was pretty sheer, but no. No, she was not professional. Just persistent.

  “Actually, I’m meeting some people,” I said apologetically, though I’m not sure what I was apologizing for.

  She laughed outright. “I should think so!”

  This was getting strange. Er. Stranger. I said, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  Her brows drew together. “What are you...”

  I missed the rest
of it as, overhead, a blurred female voice delivered some vital piece of information that no one could make out. There was no mistaking my new friend’s expression though. She looked alarmed and then increasingly angry.

  “...suitcase, you’ve got the hat,” she said as the voice above us cut off. “If you’re planning to...” Another overhead announcement. This time the voice was male, but the message remained garbled.

  I thought it might be a good idea to bounce, and I smiled, nodded, and turned away. Tightly clutching my suitcase, I hurriedly resumed my search for the Underground.

  According to the Heathrow website, the Piccadilly Line provided the most cost-effective rail route between Heathrow Airport and the capital. The capital being... Central London? The trip was supposed to be less than an hour, with trains showing up every ten minutes or so even off-season. And July was not off-season. According to legend—and the website—there were three London Underground stations, but it took me a while to find even one because I kept looking over my shoulder for the girl who sort of looked like, but was definitely not, Amy.

  Once or twice I thought I spotted her a few yards behind me, hair like cumulonimbus and a look of fierce concentration on her pale face. Each time she was lost to view.

  Assuming she was there at all and not busily accosting some other international traveler.

  Finally I found a station, boarded the Tube seconds before the doors whooshed shut, and staggered to a seat. I sighed and wiped my forehead, knocking off the hat that had drawn so much unwanted attention. I looked around uneasily, but there was no sign of pursuit. People had out maps and brochures and electronic devices and snacks. No one was paying me any attention.

  I picked up my hat, brushed it off and set it on the seat beside me.

  It was just an ordinary hat. Your basic Peter Grimm paper fedora. The kind of thing a lot of guys wore. Not guys like me, maybe. Or not like the old me. But I wanted to be the kind of guy who wore a hat if he felt like wearing a hat. And where better to test the look than on another continent where you wouldn’t have to face anyone again if it didn’t work out?

  And then there was that half-heard reference to my suitcase. What was that about? I looked over at my suitcase. It was old, it was battered. That was kind of what I liked about it. It had belonged to my grandfather. Like The Book, that striped tweed suitcase had traveled with him to Europe in the 1960s. It was starting to show its age, sure, and more so after the trip across the Atlantic and down a couple of conveyor belts...so, come to think of it, maybe it hadn’t been the wisest choice.

  Especially if it was going to trigger outbursts from crazy English girls.

  I looked cautiously around once more.

  All clear.

  Relax. It hadn’t been the greatest start to my trip, but it was already in the past.

  Speaking of the past...

  I fumbled around in my backpack, considered pulling out my camera but rejected it as looking too touristy, and finally took shelter behind Esquire’s Europe in Style.

  My grandfather had regarded this book as a kind of talisman when he’d made his grand tour fifty years ago. It had been his idea—after the thing with Amy—that I should go abroad for a couple of weeks. He claimed his trip had been a turning point in his life, and there was no question that I was at a crossroads.

  I studied the battered cover, decorated with cheeky orange and purple cartoons. I opened to my bookmark.

  To be able really to dig Britain, you must be the sort of person who prefers the quiet and subdued to the noisy and strident, and who’s more comfortable with old leather, varnished wood and polished brass than with chrome and plastic. It helps to have a slight allergy to bright colors, loud talk and high-pressure operations in general...

  The plan was I would stay at my Aunt Pat and Uncle Mike’s place in Maida Vale. Uncle Mike was English and in the import-export business. Which I used to think was family shorthand for espionage—or worse—but, in fairness, my aunt and uncle did collect an ungodly amount of Third World textiles and ceramics.

  They were in the States right now, so I would have the house all to myself. Which seemed like a dream come true. And that was not even taking into account the indoor swimming pool, weight room and fully equipped game room.

  Less dreamy was getting there though. It took over an hour, and there were three connections—well, four if I counted getting on the wrong train—but finally I stood on the front steps of a red-brick mansion on a wide, shady street. The house, the whole street, looked like something out of Mary Poppins. The doors and window frames were painted glossy white. There wasn’t a front yard, but the house was surrounded by cobblestones and pale yellow roses. Purple vines grew artistically around the front door with its etched panes of beveled glass.

  It was perfect. Really perfect. It was like something right out of Esquire’s Europe in Style. Finally I was starting to feel like I was on vacation and not doing nine days of prayer, penance and pilgrimage.

  The only jarring note was the sound of music playing loudly from the second story. “Of All the Gin Joints in All the World.” Fall Out Boy was a long way from home.

  Maybe the butler was enjoying a few moments of peace and not-so-quiet? Did Aunt Pat and Uncle Mike have a butler?

  I decided it would be better not to use my key. Instead, I rang the doorbell.

  It took a few rings and another song from Fall Out Boy. In fact, I had to lean on the buzzer before a pale shadow appeared behind the door panes.

  The door swung open to frame a muscular guy in gray sweats and nothing else. He was a little older than me. We stared at each other.

  Green eyes, shaved head, a couple of earrings and a new tattoo—this one of a cross-eyed mermaid. My cousin Robbie.

  My cousin Robbie who was supposed to be...anywhere but here in England.

  Great. There went the neighborhood. “Hey!” I said, trying to sound like I was delighted to see him.

  Robbie’s face changed from irritation to alarm as he, in turn, recognized me.

  “No,” he said. “No, no, no. You can’t be here.”

  “What? I am here.”

  “You have to go.”

  “I’m staying here. Your pare—”

  Robbie leaned forward and hissed, “I don’t care what my parents said, you have to get out of here. Now.”

  I began to splutter. “But I’m staying here. It’s all set up.”

  “Serena is here,” he replied, like that should settle it.

  “Well, great,” I said. Which one was Serena? As far as I could tell, his infinite playlist was stuck on shuffle.

  “We’re getting back together. I think. So you can’t be here, Jeff. Go away. Now.” Robbie began to shut the door.

  After a disbelieving instant, I put my hand out to try to stop that slow, inexorable swing of the door. “Wait. Robbie, wait a sec. When can I come back?”

  “I don’t know!” There was a murmur of inquiry from inside the flat, and Robbie scowled ferociously and pushed harder on the door. I pushed harder too. In fact, I put my shoulder against the gleaming surface, but both I and the door slid back a few inches. Robbie used to play rugby for George Washington University. I did track and field for Georgetown. Runners don’t move mountains; we go around them.

  He whispered, “Not today. Not tonight. I’ll let you know.”

  “But where am I supposed to go in the meantime?”

  “Go wherever you want. Go to a hotel. Just go.” Robbie gave one final, mighty shove, and the door sank into its frame with heavy finality. I could see my sweaty palm print on the glass.

  I stood on the cobblestones, staring in disbelief at the red-brick house.

  WTF?

  Now what? Where was I supposed to go from here?

  I started to pull my phone out to call Aunt Pat, but stopped. That would be one step from yelling, “Mom!”

  Come to think of it, maybe I could have Mom call Aunt Pa—no. I was twenty-two, not twelve.

  I looked around the wide, shady street. If this Serena had any brains, she’d be gone by teatime. Maybe I could just wait. Find a quiet spot beneath one of these trees and check my email for an hour or two. Upload some pics to Instagram?