“You’re observant …”

      “I like watching you.” Trevor brushed a strand of hair off Shelby’s forehead in a surprising, quick and intimate gesture that made her mouth go dry. “You stand out in a crowd.”

      “You, too,” she managed to whisper.

      His penetrating stare unnerved her nearly as much as his proximity.

      He was related to her enemy.

      He shouldn’t fascinate her. She wasn’t one of those women who went after bad boys, hoping to change them. She wasn’t intrigued by danger or darkness.

      And more turmoil she certainly didn’t need.

      But she didn’t step back. If anything, this endeavor of justice was about standing her ground, standing up for her parents, who couldn’t endure alone.

      She wasn’t about to retreat now …

      Dear Reader,

      Much as the South is my home, my culture—really, my world—I LOVE New York City. At the first step on the pavement, I was astounded by the lights, crowds, sounds and smells. After a few visits, I began to appreciate the mix of cultures, the organised bustle, the glory of the back alley restaurant, and the utter, complete realisation that this is where everything happened.

      So what better a place to explore the illusive concept of justice.

      The romantic notion of Robin Hood has been a mythical dream of a variety of cultures for several hundred years. The idea of the oppressed and powerless being triumphant over the establishment—no matter how corrupt—is an idea with Blaze-worthy sexiness.

      So, here we are.

      Shelby and Trevor will introduce you to my little Manhattan gang trying to mix romance and justice. Shelby wants to bring the man who swindled her parents out of their retirement savings to justice, and her best buds are eager to help her. Unfortunately, her enemy is her new lover’s brother. Is getting revenge worth risking the love of her life?

      I hope you’ll join me for the entire FLIRTING WITH JUSTICE trilogy. Be sure to look for Victoria’s story, Breathless at the Beach.

      Happy reading!

       Wendy Etherington

      About the Author

      WENDY ETHERINGTON was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of nearly thirty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic Shih Tzu named Cody. She can be reached via her website, www.wendyetherington.com. Or follow her on Twitter @wendyeth.

      Sizzle

       in the City

      Wendy Etherington

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      1

       “There is no such thing as justice—in or out of court.”

       —Clarence Darrow, 1936

       The New York Tattletale

       April 12

      Financial Finagling? by Peeps Galloway, Gossipmonger (And proud of it!)

      Hello, fellow Manhattanites! As tax day approaches, all the corporate yuk-yuks are frantically lining up numbers in neat little columns. Yawn. You and I know what really matters in this town—power and popularity. And it seems tycoon wannabe Maxwell Banfield finally has it clutched tightly in his overly tanned hands.

      He’s now the proud owner of The Crown Jewel, a popular luxury hotel on West 42nd Street in Midtown. Presumably, he’ll offer the usual glamorous offerings in the hotel’s restaurant, Golden.

      But the real jewel in the Crown isn’t the four-star eatery, it’s the thirtieth-floor lounge, where it’s rumored ‘50s movie star Teresa Lawrence once tossed her drink (a very stiff martini) into legendary singer Paul Castono’s face, bringing an end to their tumultuous two-year marriage. In a fit of nostalgia (or perhaps the convenience of the notorious private elevator), the high-flyers of stage and screen still occasionally flock to the joint.

      Let’s hope Mr. Big Talker Banfield can keep his lucrative clientele happy this time.

      After all, there were some rumors a few years back about a bit of book-diddling that the IRS wouldn’t necessarily approve of. Even if that story was proved unsubstantiated, there’s nothing wrong with repeating it here, is there, kids! Besides, Max has a social cushion and cache many of us would sell our designer bags and shoes for in a heartbeat.

      He’s heir apparent to his powerful father, the Earl of Westmore (that’s the title of nobility held by the Banfield family of England and Wales). According to my compats in London, however, the future earl hasn’t exactly lived up to his respected family name, given all his appearances in the tabloids. (And, oh, dear, there’s yet another one!) It’s rumored dear ole Daddy has cut his son off financially. But here he is, doling out cash for a luxury hotel.

      Makes one go hmm … huh?

      Certainly members of the peerage slithering away from a sticky situation has never happened before in our just and pristine land. So I’m sure those rumors about Max were, well … fraudulent. Wink, wink.

      I, your humble squire, just write and wonder. Maybe Max has suddenly got savvy? Maybe he miraculously found thirty million dollars under his sofa cushions? You be the judge, Urbanites. I know I’ll be hitting the streets to find out more.

      Keep your ears tuned and your gums flapping!

       —Peeps

      “WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING.”

      As Shelby Dixon shoved aside the newspaper, she sighed in disgust. “Where’d that crook Banfield get the money to buy a hotel?”

      Her best friend Calla Tucker patted her hand in sympathy. “Apparently there are a lot more swindling victims besides your parents.”

      Victoria Holmes—her other best friend—narrowed her ice-blue eyes. “For thirty mil, there’s a hell of a lot more.”

      Shelby sipped from her coffee mug and knew the bitter taste wasn’t the drink she’d been served at Javalicious, where she and her friends gathered most Sunday afternoons in midtown Manhattan.

      Though she was originally from Savannah, Shelby had moved to the city to attend culinary school five years ago, started her own catering business after graduation and had no intention of ever leaving. She loved the vibrancy, the chaos and the struggle of the people and its urban maelstrom of clashing cultures and agendas. She’d adjusted to the size of her meager apartment that contrasted sharply with the extreme wealth of some of the homes she’d visited on the job. She’d learned to groan at the tourists gawking, wandering and clogging the subways, streets and cabs. She’d gotten used to the symphony of horns honking and angry shouts in a variety of languages.

      She was home.

      Moss dripping from lazy swaying palms was more her parents’ style.

      Thanks to Max Banfield and his fraudulent investment scheme, however, their seaside retirement had become a nightmare instead of a dream. Their savings account was shot, their spirits broken, their new condo on the verge of foreclosure and they were looking to their only daughter for salvation.

      “He’s got a rich father.” Shelby’s gaze flicked to the gossip article. “Maybe I could appeal to him.”