It wasn’t easy to be under his grandfather’s thumb, but, in a way, the man’s temperament had taught Philippe to be who he was today—driven, detached, and successful at all costs. Being raised by a demi-god like Laurent meant pressure and high expectations to achieve, something the brothers strived for regularly. Except for Bastien who seemed to be on a quest to break away from the expectations dictated by their grandfather.

  Damn Bastien. The whole disaster was his middle brother’s fault. He was the one who had started the bar fight by flirting with another man’s girlfriend. Sebastien was always the troublemaker, and this time he’d pulled Guillaume and Philippe into the hot seat next to him. Once the fight had started, there was no way that he and Gui would just sit back and let their brother get pummeled—no matter how much he deserved it. And yes, Philippe could admit that the fight had gotten out of hand, but how was he to know that someone had gotten pictures of the whole thing?

  The news story was embarrassing. The subsequent lecture from their grandfather was humiliating. But the punishment—dragging his ass all the way to the godforsaken American Midwest to do a favor for the granddaughter of one of his grandfather’s friends—was beyond the pale.

  The woman was an artist, whose work had been accepted as part of an important juried exhibition. But before she could head to Paris and dive into the media furor surrounding the event, it would seem that she needed an image makeover. And that was where his grandfather had decided Philippe came in. Sure, he was in the business of re-imagining people—it’s what his marketing firm did for corporations and small businesses alike, but an artist? He didn’t have much expertise in this area. But the stakes were too high to screw this up. To hell with his trust fund—how could he ever look Laurent in the eye again if he failed at this task?

  “Putain,” Philippe swore under his breath at the gray-haired woman who cut him off before he could get through the green light. According to his Google Maps app, he was only about three miles from the artist’s home. How much longer could he sit in this traffic?

  Philippe sighed as he pulled up in front of a little blue ranch home with a rocking chair on its front porch. Stepping out of the car, he quickly headed to the front door. The sooner he got out of here and on his way home, the better. He reached out and pushed the doorbell then waited.

  Nothing.

  He rang the bell again, hoping Ms. Shaw hadn’t forgotten their appointment.

  A minute later, he was ready to turn and head back to his car when suddenly the door swung open.

  And there standing in the doorway, covered in brightly colored paint from head to toe, was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry I made you wait!” she said. “I got so caught up in a piece I was working on that I completely forgot to look at the time. And just look at me,” she said and began to rub droplets of paint into smears on her white coveralls.

  Philippe did just as she told him and looked at her. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Willowy and tall with the neck of a swan and hair like copper, she looked like something out of a fairy tale. A Scottish princess or a real live fairy from Ireland. She turned her sky-blue eyes to his, and his breath caught.

  “Come on in, Mr. Durand,” she said then released a tinkling laugh. “I’m assuming that’s who you are, anyway. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” he managed. “Philippe Durand, from Durand Re-Imagination, Paris. I’m here to work with you on your brand...for the art exhibition in Paris.”

  That was who he was, and that was his purpose, he reminded himself. Work, and only work. No matter how attractive this woman was, she would not distract him from completing this project cleanly and concisely.

  “I’m Violet Shaw,” she said in a voice like honey. “Welcome to St. Louis.”

  Violet tossed her mane of wavy red hair to the side and smiled disarmingly at him.

  This was going to be interesting.

  Grab your copy of The Billionaire’s Fake Engagement

  Available February 24th 2022

  Available for pre-order now! www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  Her Billionaire Boss

  BLURB

  Only love lasts forever…

  For most of Laila Diaz’s life, nothing has gone as planned. But now, things are finally looking up. On her last day working for child services, she’s scheduled to deliver an orphaned infant to his new legal guardian… grumpy Scottish billionaire Marcus Barnett,

  It’s immediately clear that while Marcus is capable (and gorgeous), he’s also in need of a nanny, especially with a six-week family retreat on the horizon. Laila’s out of a job, so she offers to step in. The charming billionaire seems almost perfect, and his smoldering looks have her dreaming of hot kisses under the tropical sun. Too bad he’s her boss…

  Marcus has never met a woman as caring, sincere, and sexy as Laila. There's something special about her… The way she looks at him, touches him, laughs with him. He’s falling and falling hard—for both her and their new addition. Even as they enjoy paradise together, the real world still looms over them, ready to burst the happy bubble of their romantic affair.

  When the cruise ends, can Marcus prove to Laila that they can build something new, something that can last forever? Something more than just a fantasy…

  Grab your copy of

  Her Billionaire Boss

  Available 22 December 2021

  Available for pre-order now

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  Gregor Beaumont is in a world of hurt that all the charm in his gorgeous, well-toned body can’t fix. His late grandfather, God rest his soul, wanted to make sure Gregor and his two playboy brothers settle down. He had the brilliant idea of buying up a huge share of the brothers’ engine company and using that as incentive for each brother to find Mrs. Right. Settle down or lose the company to a competitor. Well, that’s just not happening to Gregor, not when life’s so good at the moment. Gregor likes racing fast cars and seducing fast women, and not necessarily in that order. Settle down? Not a chance. Gregor has his own brilliant idea: find some wholesome and desperate girl to pretend to be his girlfriend. No harm. No foul. Unless things start getting a little bit too real.

  Kara Alerby knows she’s a sucker for blues eyes and a great smile, so when Gregor comes into her theater wanting to hire her to act the part of his adoring girlfriend, she’s already got her defenses on high alert. But Kara’s a practical girl, and Gregor’s offering a boatload of money that would go a long way toward making her dream of creating a fine arts school for gifted kids a reality. She can ignore his smiles, his charisma, and his kiss-me mouth if it means she’ll get her school. All she has to do is remind herself, every second of every day they’re together, that it’s all make believe—even when it doesn’t always feel that way.

  When Greg’s love of racing puts his life in jeopardy, Kara isn’t ready to watch another person die in front of her like her father did. And Greg isn’t about to stop doing the one thing that makes life worth living. The two are on a collision course, one that could break them apart forever if they don’t change directions…

  Grab your copy of The Billionaire’s Sham Girlfriend (The Beaumont Brothers

  Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter 1

  Kara lurked in the back row of the grand old theater as students filed in. It was the first afternoon of a new session of summer improv, but inside, shadows clung to the corners and wings, casting the nearly one-hundred-year-old theater in a somber, reverent mood.

  As more students filed in, filling the first three rows sporadically, Kara checked her email for what she promised herself would be the last time that afternoon.

  She’d been waiting for news for what felt like an eternity, but really it had only been a semester. In the middle of last school year, she found out that her beloved community theater would be put up for sale—and the owner was motivated to sell. Too motivated for Kara’s tastes, since her long-held dream was to buy this space and open her own school for the arts. Maybe she’d held the dream too close to her heart, because the past six months had been a crush of grant applications and community pleading. Foster the Arts and Save Our Theater had been practically the only words on her lips since January.

  And this week the grant decision was due to arrive.

  The little circle spun in the middle of her screen as the app checked for new mail for the billionth time that day. Her belly clenched as her inbox refreshed. No new emails. Christ on a stick. She pocketed her phone with a sigh. The email should have arrived Monday, and now it was Wednesday. Every minute she had to wait for this decision was another minute when someone else might buy the theater and ruin her dream.

  Because this was it. This was all she had. Acting, directing, teaching. She was born only to do this.

  “Just keep filling in the seats.” Kara’s assistant Lexie waved people in as they hesitated near the door or got lost in conversation. “We’ll be starting in about five minutes.”

  Kara watched the filling rows without really seeing them. What would she do if she didn’t get the grant? There was no way she could afford this theater on her meager high school drama teacher paycheck. Hell, these improv classes were the only way she could really live comfortably, afford the occasional night out. And only because she’d worked so hard to grow them and really make the improv classes popular in their Seattle suburb.

  She blinked hard, trying to get a head count from her distant vantage point. She liked to keep her distance at the start of a new class, have a chance to observe without being observed, like an actor peering from the wings on the opening night of a new play. It gave her perspective. A chance to let her persona settle into place before she burst onto the stage, the bright and bubbly Ms. Alerby the community had come to expect.

  Her hand gravitated toward the phone in the back pocket of her denim shorts. Before she realized it, she was checking her email again.

  This time, the circle spun for a bit longer than before. Or maybe she just stared more intently at it, forcing time to slow. Her phone buzzed with a new email.

  “RE: SEEKING GRANT FOR COMMUNITY THEATER”

  Her breath caught in her throat, the conversation and chatter of the theater dulling to a whisper as she stared at the new arrival. It was here. Finally. She paused before swiping it open, mind circling back to revisit every doubt and worry she’d nursed for the past six months. They’ve got to approve it. You’ve got it. I know I got this.

  She bit her lip and opened it, rereading the opening line almost five times before digesting anything.

  And then she read it again. Just to be sure that she had understood it correctly.

  “Dear Ms. Alerby, we regret to inform you that your grant was not selected for…”

  Her mouth parted, her gaze drifting away while the email shone up at her. It couldn’t be right. She checked the text again—“While carefully crafted, your proposal was not the strongest that reached our table…”—and the truth shuddered through her, leaving a sick, hot wake behind it.

  Her ears rang, and she stuffed the phone in her back pocket. Class would start in just a few minutes. She had to shake this off. She’d pore over the email later, beat herself up for losing this opportunity, and begin the mourning process.

  Lexie was looking at her from the front of the auditorium, worry knit into her brow. Maybe she’d seen her staring aghast at her phone. And then Kara noticed Mr. Hofstadt, the theater manager, beside her, squeezing her shoulder, sending a smile her way before excusing himself from the side doors. Kara’s stomach wrenched again. Why had he stopped by? Could this possibly be more bad news? Maybe he’d come to tell her that her improv classes would be cancelled immediately, due to the theater selling to someone else.

  Lexie strode up the middle aisle, her clipboard clutched to her chest. Her dark tresses looked shiny, pulled back into a smooth ponytail, as she walked toward Kara at the back of the theater.

  “What was that about?” Kara whispered, even though she didn’t have to.

  “Why are you whispering?” Lexie whispered back.

  Sometimes, it felt like speaking in a regular volume would make something real. And this news was not something she wanted to be real. “Because I feel like it. What did he say?”

  Lexie nibbled on her bottom lip. “Mr. Hofstadt said that he spoke with the property owner.”

  Kara stilled, immediately reaching out for Lexie’s wrist. She’d almost forgotten, in the whirlwind of waiting for the overdue grant response, that she’d been expecting a reply from the property owner about her request to postpone the sale.

  “Tell me he’s going to throw me a bone,” Kara whispered.

  Lexie shook her head, and Kara’s stomach clattered to the ground. “Mr. Hofstadt can’t get a word out of him. Mr. Walton won’t share any information about the theater, and every time Mr. Hofstadt tries, he gets shut down. The owner just doesn’t want to negotiate anything that isn’t an immediate sale.”

  Kara clenched Lexie’s wrist a bit tighter before letting go, shifting her gaze to the few rows of heads looking toward the stage. Despair circled inside her, but class needed to start, and this wasn’t the time to lament. No, that would come later, with a bottle of wine and lots of screaming into her pillow.

  Your dream is about to be flushed down the toilet.

  She cleared her throat, sending a pointed look to Lexie. In a normal voice, she said, “We should start the class. Go close the door, and I’ll start introductions.” This could be the last class you ever teach inside this place.

  Lexie nodded, still nibbling nervously at her lip. “Also, I wanted to tell you that we had a walk-in.”

  “That’s fine.” Kara waved her hand dismissively.

  “He paid for the whole class, even though he said he’ll just be able to attend today.”

  Kara creased her brow. “Weird. But I’ll take his money if he insists.”

  Lexie scanned the front of the house, then pointed toward someone on the left side of the theater. “There he is. See him?”

  Kara struggled to follow Lexie’s finger, but couldn’t discern which head his might be.

  “He’s mega-gorgeous,” Lexie added, dropping her hand. “You won’t miss him.”

  Kara nodded tersely. Probably another early-twenties Hollywood hopeful who was too attractive for his own good. She got enough of them as it was. But she knew better than to fall for their fawn-over-me charm. “Grab the doors.”

  Lexie ran toward the side doors, and Kara counted to ten before beginning a slow walk down the center aisle. She absorbed the clamor of voices, the echoes off the elaborately arched and decorated walls. As she reached the first row of students, her voice cut through the chatter.

  “Hello, students!” The forced brightness of her greeting rang false to her, but she knew it carried perfectly. No one would suspect the dark clouds inside her right now. “Welcome to the first day of summer improv.”

  Her students turned, almost thirty faces in various shades of curiosity, anxiety, or excitement. Improv classes attracted as many introverts as they did extroverts, and while everyone who signed up always did so of their own free will, nerves usually abounded. Especially once the welcome games began.

  Kara introduced herself and Lexie and then got down to business. “We’ll be here for six weeks, two days a week, with ample homework and plenty of comfort zone–destroying games ahead of us.” The class tittered nervously. She swept her gaze across the students as she spoke, trying to get familiar with the new faces.

  “If you’ve ever wanted to get more comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, ace your next audition for a play, or just generally learn how to respond quickly to basically anything that anyone could ever throw your way, you’ve come to the right place.” Kara offered a reassuring smile, her skin prickling when she noticed someone in the farthest seat, close to the door, with their head down. Probably buried in their phone already.

  She headed that way as she made a slow stroll in front of the stage, glancing discreetly at the offending student. It wasn’t often she got disrespectful students in the summer classes. High school was another story. Her exasperated-teacher hackles had already risen.

  “To begin, let’s do introductions.” Kara watched the student, clearly a grown man, his tousled, dark-blond hair shrouding his face as he bent over his phone. He cut a boxy profile, strong square shoulders under an expensive-looking button-down shirt. “This is both practical and a memory test.” She grinned devilishly as she explained the game in which every student introduced themselves by alliterating their name with a descriptive word, making a gesture, and repeating the introduction of the person that came before them.

  “I’ll go first. I’m Kooky Kara.” She tipped an imaginary hat, then pointed to the farthest student on the opposite side. “Now you.”

  The students went one by one, some announcing themselves quietly, others with laughter. Slowly, the mood in the theater relaxed. When the introductions reached the inattentive student nearest the door, he was still buried in his phone. His turn to introduce himself was met with silence.

  Kara cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

  The man snapped his head up, sky blue eyes searing through her. He had the face of a Gucci model, pure angles and square jaw. This had to be Mr. Gorgeous Lexie had pointed out. Confusion clung to his face as he looked around as though he’d just noticed he was here. “Yes?”

  “Have you been paying attention?” Her annoyance was through the roof now. This was not a good way to start off the session for him. But Lexie had said this was his one and only class. Kara could only hope.

  “Excuse me. I had a bit of an emergency back home.” A soft British accent shone through his baritone, softening the edge of Kara’s annoyance.