Kimberly
Kincaid writes contemporary romance novels that split the difference between
sexy and sweet, taking the traditional idea of boy-meets-girl and infusing it
with a sassy magic all her own. She believes in fiery yet flawed characters
destined for a crash-course in falling in love-- usually the hard way-- and
injects her trademark humor as well as poignant touches into her writing to
create her stories.
Kimberly's
writing journey has led down some bumpy roads (that first manuscript is under
the bed, where it is very likely to stay), but there has been some fresh
pavement too (her second manuscript earned her very first contest final, and
landed the fantastic Maureen Walters at the Curtis Brown Literary Agency). One
thing is certain -- the wild ride of being a writer is a lot richer in both its
ups and downs because of friends and readers along the path.
When
Kimberly's not sitting cross-legged in an ancient desk chair known as "The
Pleather Bomber", she can be found practicing obscene amounts of yoga, whipping
up anything from enchiladas to eclairs in her kitchen, or curled up with her
nose in a book. She resides in northern Virginia with her wildly patient
husband and their three daughters.
GIMME SOME SUGAR
The three stairs
leading from the yard to what remained of the deck were still anchored in
place, and Jackson mounted them easily even though the far side of the deck had
sustained enough damage to make it a bad idea. It was the only way he was going
to get a good enough look at the point of impact; plus, if the boards ended up
giving way, it wasn’t as if he’d fall more than a foot or two.
He was crouched
down low to examine the missing boards and busted railing when the most
horrific attempt at song filtered loudly through the screen door.
“Ouch.”
Jackson winced at the spectacular racket over his shoulder, biting back a
laugh. It was absolutely wrong to eavesdrop on a client belting out oldies in
the privacy of her own home, even if she was
doing it with nothing but the rolling screen that accompanied her sliding glass
door between them. The woman’s voice was an audio train wreck, and his
curiosity jumped like a trout at daybreak. One peek wouldn’t hurt, would it?
As
soon as he caught sight of the woman through the screen door, all bets for a
quick look-see were off. The image of an old lady went up in smoke, replaced by
a curvaceous, dark-haired woman in a skimpy bathrobe. Her eyes were shut tight,
pretty face turned up to the living room ceiling as she wailed out the song
with all her might. Common decency dictated he step back from the house and
pretend he hadn’t seen her. He needed to walk away, and he needed to do it
pronto.
Nope. Not
happening. This woman was beautiful.
Even if she did sound like a bag full of pissed off kittens.
Jackson
stood, mesmerized, as she moved in place to the slow beat of the music. She was
a little slip of a thing, but an air of strength belied her size. Muscular
calves tapered gracefully into slim ankles, nearly covered by a pair of floppy
yellow socks. A handful of dark tendrils came loose from the knot on top of her
head, perfectly framing her Mediterranean features. She stood in the middle of the living room,
eyes squeezed shut to serenade God knows who, and propriety be damned, he
couldn’t rip his eyes from her.
Every
time she undulated to the sultry rhythm of the song, the belt on her bathrobe
slipped lower over her hips, loosening it just enough to reveal the thin tank
top beneath. The cotton stretched over her chest as she swayed, and she crooned
again to the climbing music.
“You
make me feel, you make me feel, you make me feel like a natural womaaaaaaan!”
With each breath,
the generous curve of her breasts pressed against the fabric.
For
a split second, all Jackson could think was oh,
hell yes.
But then his
decency kicked in, hard and fast. He averted his heated face, raising one hand
to knock on the metal door frame of the screen. In that same instant, a blood
curdling scream ripped through the air over the music, followed by a string of
curse words that made Jackson wonder if he should cower in fear or be hugely
impressed.
“Whoa,
whoa, whoa. Hold on!” Jackson hollered, holding his hands up. He opened his
mouth to tell her who he was and why he was there, but before he could form the
words, she snatched something up from the side table and flung it at him with
freakish accuracy.
“Wait!”
Too
late.
Out of the frying pan. . .and into the fire!
Desperate to escape the spotlight of her failed marriage to a fellow celebrity-chef, Carly di Matisse left New York City for a tiny town in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The restaurant she's running these days may not be chic, but in Pine Mountain she can pretend to be the tough cookie everybody knows and loves. Until she finds herself spending too much time with a way-too-hot contractor whose rugged good looks melt her like butter. . .
Jackson Carter wasn't looking for love. But he's not the kind of man to walk away from a worksite--or from a fiery beauty whose passionate nature provides some irresistible on-the-job benefits. . .
It's the perfect temporary arrangement for two ravenous commitment-phobes--except that Jackson and Carly keep coming back for seconds. . .and thirds. . .and fourths. . .
"Kimberly Kincaid knows how to whip up a delicious love story." ~Susan Donovan
"Smart, fun, and heartwarming." ~Jill Shalvis
"A sweet and sexy treat! Don't miss it!" ~Bella Andre, New York Times bestselling author
FIND KIMBERLY:
Sloane Russo’s turned a decade of crazy jobs and whimsical travel into a career writing steamy novels set in exotic places. Trouble is, Sloane’s flat broke now—and she can’t channel sun-drenched beaches in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The only fast cash in town comes with some seriously distracting temptation: Gavin Carmichael, hot, handsome and oh-so-hard-headed.
Gavin isn’t the impulsive Don Juan of Sloane’s novels. He’s raising his thirteen-year-old half-sister, and he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to act like he’s never heard of fun. Sloane is way too sexy and irresponsible to be his idea of a good tutor for Bree, but the unpredictable anti-nanny may be irresistible as well…
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NEXT ON GLIAS: GINA CONKLE
KIMBERLY WANTS TO KNOW: Carly, the heroine in
GIMME SOME SUGAR, is a chef, and she and Jackson share more than a few meals
together. What's the one meal you'd share with your sweetie if money and
ability (and calories!) were no object?"
