Tonight and Forever Magical Romances Boxed Set
Page 1
TONIGHT AND FOREVER
MAGICAL ROMANCES BOXED SET
HE’S NO ANGEL
by
Jacquie D’Alessandro
~~~
SPARKED
by
Wendy Etherington
~~~
TALES FROM MYSTERIA FALLS:
COME BACK TO ME and DOROTHEA’S WIZARD
by
Jennifer St. Giles
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MEET THE AUTHORS
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHORS’ NOVELS
DEAR READER LETTER
HE’S NO ANGEL
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
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SPARKED
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
EPILOGUE
TALES FROM MYSTERIA FALLS:
COME BACK TO ME
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOROTHEA’S WIZARD
CHAPTER ONE
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS
COPYRIGHTS
Meet the Authors
Jacquie D’Alessandro
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Jacquie D’Alessandro has written more than thirty books spanning the historical, contemporary romantic comedy and women’s fiction genres. She is a four-time RITA finalist, four-time Maggie Award of Excellence finalist, two-time Daphne du Maurier Award finalist, and both a PRISM Award and National Readers’ Choice Award finalist. She’s the recipient of three Orange Rose Awards, two Golden Quill Awards as well as a Booksellers’ Best Award, a Barclay Gold Award, and a Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award for “Best Historical Love and Laughter.” Her books have been published in over 21 languages. Jacquie grew up on Long Island, New York, graduated from Hofstra University and now lives in Georgia with her husband and son.
Wendy Etherington
Wendy Etherington was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. Winner of the Maggie Award for Excellence and the author of thirty books, she writes from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband, two daughters and an energetic Shih Tzu named Cody.
Jennifer St. Giles
USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer St. Giles also writes under the pseudonyms of Jennifer Saints and JL Saint. From paranormal to historical, from sexy humor to thrilling suspense, she loves writing stories about love finding a way no matter what obstacles her heroes and heroines face. She is a nurse and mother of three. Throughout her writing journey, she has won a number of awards for writing excellence including, two National Reader’s Choice Awards, two time Maggie Award Winner, Daphne du Maurier Award winner, Romance Writers’ of America’s Golden Heart Award, along with RT Book Club’s Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Gothic/Mystery.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHORS’ NOVELS
Jacquie D’Alessandro
“…fresh, funny and loaded with charm…”
--Publishers Weekly
“Romance at its enchanting best!”
--Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author
Wendy Etherington
“Another winner from Etherington with great humor and unexpected characters.”
--RT Book Reviews
“Captivating Characters! A Sizzling Seduction! A Perfect Plot! What more can you ask for in a romance?”
--Romance Junkies
Jennifer St. Giles
"St. Giles's story ripples with tension. This tension and the author's skill at creating the book's brooding atmosphere make this an engrossing read."
--Publishers Weekly
“A sexually charged romance that satisfies whether they're seeking suspense or passion."
--Romantic Times Book Club
HE’S NO ANGEL
by
Jacquie D’Alessandro
HE’S NO ANGEL
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
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HE’S NO ANGEL
CHAPTER ONE
It’s hell being an angel.
Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking-- being an angel is great, all floating around on fluffy clouds, eating anything you want without worrying about weight gain or cholesterol, a euphoric stress-free existence in a place where the weather’s always perfect and everybody’s friendly.
Well, it is-- if you’re a Full-Fledged Angel. But if you’re like me-- not quite an angel (or my official title, Angel in Waiting), it ain’t no picnic in the park.
And who am I? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Tristan Barrington, 4th Earl of Ryland. I died nearly two hundred years ago, on a frigid January morning in 1820. If I’d been given a preference, I would not have chosen to die at the age of thirty-four. And I certainly wouldn’t have picked to do so on a non-descript patch of brown, ice-encrusted dirt on a field just west of London. Most undignified, really. And truly, I shouldn’t have died-- I was a far superior shot to the dolt who stood across from me on the dueling field.
As our seconds-- my childhood friend Albert and the dolt’s bug-eyed solicitor-- counted off the paces, I marched ahead, my pistol gripped in my chilled fingers, resigned to get this over with. Then suddenly something happened to me… an unprecedented, overwhelming weariness at the reality of my situation-- that I was about to turn around and kill a man two decades my senior who’d challenged me on the field of honor for tupping his young wife. A nuisance really, having to do this, especially as I was still hung over from the previous evening’s frivolities. He wouldn’t be the first man I’d killed, nor was his bored wife the first married woman I’d entertained. Yet it occurred to me that at least the dolt had a modicum of honor. And something he believed was worth fighting for. Whereas I had…
And that’s where my mind went blank. What did I have? What was all this for?
I had no answer.
I didn’t love his wife. Indeed, I didn’t even particularly like her. A selfish, shallow shell wrapped in a beautiful package. B
eing selfish and shallow myself, I would have forgotten her name in a fortnight’s time. She was but a momentary diversion in a privileged, dissolute life filled with self-indulgent debauchery.
As I continued crossing the field, my future suddenly flashed before my eyes with crystal clear clarity: years of drifting from one empty, meaningless depravity to another, my fortune wasted, my health destroyed, abandoned by fair-weathered friends. Alone. Utterly, completely alone. My conscience, an inner voice I’d believed long dead, coughed to life, and in that instant self-disgust and something that felt exactly like terror nearly choked me. And with that, an insight struck me with the power of a lightning bolt: I didn’t want that existence. I didn’t want to die alone, my insides rotted by drink, with nothing to show for my immoral life but a string of paramours, broken friendships, and cuckolded husbands challenging me to duels. In fact, I didn’t want this duel. I didn’t want to take this man’s life.
In the space of a single heartbeat I felt as if my life changed. That I’d changed. And I was going to implement that change immediately.
I decided to delope.
Of course dueling tradition dictated I’d still have to allow my opponent to fire, but given his advanced age, poor eyesight, and reputation as a dreadful shot, I didn’t consider he’d even come close to hitting me.
Boy, was I wrong.
Albert and the bug-eyed solicitor reached the end of the count and shouted, “present!” With my weapon aimed toward the sky, I prepared to turn, but before I could so much as blink, a pistol shot rent the air. Searing pain exploded in my head. My last thought was bloody hell, that doddering old blind dolt shot me.
I was dead before I hit the ground.
As I said, most undignified.
I’d been taught that after death there were three options: good people went to Heaven, bad people went to Hell, and then there was Purgatory for those who fell in the middle. I’d never given much thought to what would happen to me after I died-- if I had, I might have behaved better while living (although probably not), but the instant I was shot I knew I was headed straight to Hell. Indeed, I was halfway there, plummeting downward through the darkness toward the eternal fire pit when I suddenly jerked to halt.
And that’s when I discovered several things: first, that contrary to any doubts I may have harbored on the subject, there is indeed a Most Powerful One, who is privy to all one’s thoughts and actions. Second, the Most Powerful One has a Council, a group of six angels in charge of making certain that deceased humans go where they’re supposed to. And third, that based on my thoughts of changing my immoral ways in those last seconds of my life, it was decided that I deserved a chance to prove myself.
And that’s when I discovered that in addition to Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, there’s a fourth place where the dead like me, those with last minute epiphanies, are sent-- Pre-Pearly Gate Limbo. Spin doctors call it a not-quite-an-angel holding pattern, but the truth is it’s nothing more than a prison, a void where the occupants wait for do-good assignments that will, if completed successfully, push their Goodness Quotient high enough to earn a Review from the Council. Those who make the grade become Full-Fledged angels and are allowed to pass through the Gates and enjoy the full benefits of angelic existence, including the spa (which I hear is to die for. Ha! A little angel humor there). If, however, the do-good assignment isn’t completed successfully, it’s back to the end of the line-- the very loooooong line-- to wait for another turn. Which means, if you’re a perpetual screw-up, you can find yourself in Pre-Pearly Gate Limbo for a very loooooong time.
Welcome to my world.
Yes, I’ve been floating around in this mind-numbing empty space where the menu consists of ghastly oatmeal, stale crackers and tepid water-- not a bottle of wine or brandy or even a flagon of ale in sight-- since 1820. Interaction between Angels-in-Waiting (translation: inmates) is limited to a mere one hour per week-- we’re to spend the rest of our time reflecting on our earthly misdeeds and bettering ourselves so we’re prepared and worthy to become Full-Fledged.
The end result of all my self-analysis is that I realized looooong ago I was a selfish bastard, something I already knew before getting shot in the head. And except for that one hour a week I’ve no one to talk to but myself. If I weren’t already dead I’d have bored myself to death decades ago. Believe me, heaven this is not, and after nearly two hundred years, I am desperate to leave. The only things that have made my time here even slightly bearable are the Humanity Updates-- weekly in-depth reports on all the Earth’s current events. I may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I’m not up to date on who’s who and what’s what, especially since I’ve re-read every report ad nauseam. You need to know any politician’s stand on a particular issue, details regarding any battle from any war, which sports team is recruiting which players, or which Real Housewife is doing what, I’m your guy (hey, don’t judge on that last part-- as I told you, there’s bloody nothing else to do here). I would be an excellent addition to any trivia team.
Not that such knowledge has done me any good. I’ve made it to the head of the line four times, and each time the outcome of my assignment has been less than successful. In fact, one could say they’ve been abysmal failures. However, in my defense, those unsuccessful outcomes were due to circumstances completely beyond my control.
First, all four of my do-good assignments involved bringing star-crossed lovers together. Real kiss-of-death tasks for a man who neither believes in nor cares about True Love. And second, the times and places involved in my assignments practically guaranteed failure. You see, unlike Full-Fledged Angels, Angels-in-Waiting cannot see the future (from what I hear, the most common phrase in heaven is I knew that was going to happen).
To wit, my first assignment came in 1863, in a small American town in Pennsylvania. Not so difficult, you say? Well, the town happened to be Gettysburg. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. And can imagine what happened to the solider I was supposed to reunite with his childhood sweetheart. Deadly battle ensued, soldier died, which meant I failed. Back to the end of the line I went.
I didn’t have another chance until 1912 (that’s a lot of years of ghastly oatmeal, stale crackers and tepid water, my friend). This assignment thankfully took place in my native England. I arranged for my couple to take a romantic holiday where they would discover each other and find True Love. Yes, nothing more romantic than a transatlantic crossing on a fabulous new ship. Unfortunately, that ship was the Titanic.
Neither of them survived and back to the end of the line I went.
You can see why the ability to see into the future would be most helpful to me.
My two next efforts also failed, thanks to a plane crash and a skiing accident. Stupid modern technology. Such things didn’t happen in 1820, let me tell you.
But I’m not going to fail this time. After an interminable forty-three year wait, I’m finally, finally at the front of the line again. In minutes my Task Director would arrive to brief me on my new assignment. One at which I would succeed. I might not have the power to see into the future, but I planned to fully utilize what limited powers I did have.
“I am not going to the end of that bloody line again,” I muttered.
“Excellent,” came a voice behind me, “because this is, literally, the end of the line for you, Lord Ryland.”
Ah. My Task Director had arrived.
The sound of that voice shivered a fissure of anticipation through me. Anticipation, I told myself firmly, that stemmed only from the fact that the results of this meeting would set me free. It had nothing to do with her.
Alessandra Foscari. My Task Director.
The one being who, by virtue of the fact that Task Directors were able to see into the future could have saved me from my miserable failures, which in turn would have allowed me to leave this miserable prison more than a century ago. But no, she hadn’t lifted a finger to help me. Supposedly Task Directors couldn’t read minds, but I’d heard rumors that in rare cases so
me could. I had no proof Alessandra Foscari possessed the ability, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. There was no bloody way I wanted her privy to my thoughts. Especially now, when I was so close to getting out of here.
I turned around. And faced my nemesis.
Our gazes locked and another fissure rippled through me, this one pure annoyance mingled with something else I couldn’t put a name to. Covered from neck to toes in a boring black suit and with her dark hair pulled back in a tight don’t-mess-with-me chignon, she looked exactly the same as when I last saw her four decades ago. I’d been dead much longer than Alessandra-- according to Pre-Pearly Gate scuttlebutt she’d died in 1924 when a fire broke out in her family’s home in Venice. I’d been unable to glean any further information about her from my fellow inmates other than that she’d reportedly perished while attempting to save her brother from the flames. Which could explain her rapid rise in the angelic hierarchy to the exalted position of Task Director-- the Powers That Be are suckers for heroes. Which is why I’ve never been a favorite of theirs.
Many of my fellow detainees in our Pre-Pearly Gate prison believed Alessandra was the most beautiful creature they’d ever beheld. If I was inclined to hold her in any good opinion-- which I most emphatically was not-- I might concede that the combination of her ebony hair, sea-green eyes, ivory skin, and plump mouth was mildly attractive. But as far as I was concerned the effect was ruined by her stick-up-the-arse, nose-in-the-air superiority. She exuded zero warmth, her demeanor as severe as her all-black attire and tight chignon.
Plus I didn’t care for the way she looked at me through those sea-green eyes-- first for several seconds with an intensity that suggested she knew all the dark secrets of my black soul and found me lacking in every way, then in a blink it was as if she were looking through me rather than at me, all while her expression gave away nothing. Plus she had an annoying habit of muttering in Italian, just soft enough so I couldn’t make out the words, but in a tone that made it clear those words were less than complimentary. Plus she’d ruined my afterlife with the idiotic, happily-ever-after assignments she’d continuously given me, in spite of my protests and requests for some other sort of do-good deed to perform. To say I found her irritating was an understatement of the first order.