Bad, Bad Boys! Books 1-3

• Marriage of Convenience
• Switched at the Altar
• Royal Romance
• Kidnapped Bride
• Forced Marriage
• Fake Fiancée Romance

What happens when powerful, sexy Bad, Bad Boys! find the woman they want? They’ll do whatever it takes to keep them. Whatever it takes.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “My favorite author!”

Tropes:

Marriage of Convenience
Switched at the Altar
Royal Romance
Kidnapped Bride
Forced Marriage
Fake Fiancée Romance

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Three Fab Books in One!"

Books included in bundle:

Book #1: His Princess. He captured her to save his country. He married her to protect her. He kept her ... for himself.

Book #2: His Mistress. He signed a top-secret contract. Marriage in exchange for saving his kingdom. Now to keep his wife in the dark!

Book #3: His Wife. He kidnapped his future mother-in-law to force his future wife to marry him. But who did he actually wed and bed?

He backed her against a tree trunk, holding her with only his hand clamped to her mouth and the sheer force of his personality. The rough bark bit through her gown and clawed at her back. “I’ll release you if you promise not to scream. Otherwise, I pull out the duct tape. Clear?”

She gave a careful nod. One by one his fingers lifted away, his hand hovering a mere breath from her mouth. Tilting her chin she forced herself to meet his leonine gaze without flinching. She wouldn’t plead, she refused to beg. But she’d demand answers before she took another step.

“Why?” She breathed the single word from between numb lips, allowing a hint of outrage to underscore the question.

He shrugged, his black shirt pulling taut across broad, well-muscled shoulders. “You’re a pawn. A pawn I intend to remove from the playing field.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. How did he plan to remove her? Did he mean…by killing her? A bubble of nearly uncontrollable hysteria built inside her chest, pressing for release. “Isn’t there some other way?” She forced the words past her constricted throat, despising the hint of entreaty they contained.

His expression remained unrelenting. Merciless. This wasn’t a man who could be affected by a woman’s tears. Nor pleading, nor demand, nor wiles. What would happen had been predetermined by him and she was helpless to change that.

“I can’t allow the wedding to go on.” He hesitated, and to her surprise a hint of distaste gleamed in his odd golden eyes before being ruthlessly extinguished. “I need your gown.”

The demand caught her off-guard. “My what?”

“Your wedding gown. Take it off.”

“But…why?”

“Wrong answer.”

She shook her head. Her hair, loosened when he’d ripped the veil from her head, cascaded to her shoulders, cloaking her. “Then you won’t like this one any better. I can’t remove it.”

She was right. He didn’t like her answer. Hard furrows bracketed his mouth and tension rippled across his frame. The lion stirred. “Pay attention, Princess. Either you take it off or I do. Your choice.”

For some reason his response angered her. She didn’t have a clue what hidden wellspring it erupted from, or how it managed to overcome the fear that held her on the very edge of control. She simply recognized that she had two choices. She could give in to the fear and start screaming, knowing full well that once she started, she’d never be able to stop—not until he silenced her, perhaps permanently. Or she could choose to react to an impossible situation with a shred of dignity.

She looked Merrick square in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth. I can’t remove my clothing. I’ve been sewn into my wedding gown. I gather it’s the custom in this principality. So, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

“Kill you?” Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Affront? “I have no intention of killing you. But I do need that dress. It’ll draw too much attention to us. So, if you can’t remove the damn thing, I will.”

She heard the distinctive scrape of metal against leather and, unable to help herself, her gaze darted downward. He’d pulled a knife from a scabbard strapped to his leg. It was huge and serrated and gleamed wickedly even in the shadow of the massive oak. The breath hissed from her lungs and she discovered that she couldn’t draw it in again. Darkness crept into the periphery of her vision but all she could focus on was that knife and the hand that held it—a hand that fisted around the textured grip with unmistakable competence and familiarity.

“No—”

She managed the word just as the knife descended in a sudden, swift arc, the edge biting into the bodice of her gown. For a brief instant she felt the repellent coldness of metal against the swell of her breast before it sliced downward through the silk straight to the hem. He shoved the ruined gown from her shoulders, allowing it to pool on the verdant tufts of grass at their feet.

She turned ashen, every scrap of color blanching from her skin as she struggled to suck air into her lungs.
Merrick watched her reaction with a bitter distaste for the necessity of his actions. He despised what he’d been forced to do, what he’d been forced to become because of von Folke. And yet, despite everything he’d done to her, her recovery was as swift as it was impressive. The panic and fear rapidly faded from her expression and renewed anger glittered in the intense blue of her eyes. He applauded her spirit, even as he realized it would make his job all the more difficult.
The instant her breathing stabilized, she attacked. “You son of a bitch.”

He conceded the truth with a twisted smile. “So I’ve been told before.”

She stood with her spine pressed against the rough tree trunk, her arms folded across her chest. Seeing her without her gown answered two of his earlier questions. She had, indeed, the creamy complexion he’d imagined, perfect in every regard. And she was more goddess than dynamo.

For such a petite woman her breasts were surprisingly full, overflowing the low cut demi-bra she attempted to conceal with her crossed arms. A tiny pink bow rested between the cups holding them together, though how it managed to remain tied defied explanation and tempted him beyond reason to release the pressure keeping all that bounty in place.

His gaze lowered and he almost smiled. Damned if she wasn’t wearing a petticoat, no doubt another custom of the region. But then, he supposed it was necessary given the gown she’d worn. The layers of white silk and tulle belled around her, whispering in agitation in the light breeze.

His amusement faded. Time to set the tone for their relationship from this point forward. Distaste filled him again, but he forced himself to do what he knew he must. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

He lifted the knife again, giving her a full ten seconds to fixate on it before driving it through the voluminous skirting at her hip and deep into the tree trunk, pinning her in place. Then he reached down and snatched up the shredded wedding gown, crumpling it in his fist. Deliberately turning his back on her, he carried the gown to the silver SUV and tossed it inside. His men would dispose of it.

Merrick paused, interested to see what the Sutherland woman would do next. Her choice would determine how they spent the rest of their time together. He didn’t have to wait long for his answer. Nor was he surprised by her decision. The sound of rending silk signaled her response.

Turning around, he was just in time to see her stumble free of the knife and run—as best she could given her three-inch heels—back into the woods, her petticoats fluttering behind her. To his relief, it didn’t occur to her to scream. He retrieved his knife before giving chase, running in swift and silent pursuit. Her hair streamed behind her like a golden flag of surrender and her breath came in frightened pants. She’d kicked off her shoes at some point and the tear in her petticoats where she’d ripped free of the knife gave her plenty of legroom, allowing her to run more easily and making her far more fleet than he’d anticipated.

Merrick gritted his teeth. Miri’s disguise would only hold up for so long. Before von Folke discovered the deception, he needed to have his princess whisked far away from here. Putting on an extra bit of speed, he closed the distance between them. He waited for her to take a couple more steps so that he could control their fall, and then he launched himself at her.

He twisted so he’d take the brunt of the landing. Hitting the earth with a thud, he skidded a foot or two in the leaf litter and tree bracken before coming to rest in a grassy section free of rocks and sticks. He wrapped one arm around her body and the other around her neck, controlling her air supply. She struggled for a brief minute before giving up the fight with a soft moan of surrender.

“You don’t listen very well.” He spoke close to her ear. “That’s going to cost you, Princess.”

“You don’t understand.” His choke hold prevented her from speaking above a whisper. “I have to get back to the chapel. I have to go through with the marriage. If I don’t—”

“If you don’t, you won’t get to be Her Royal Highness, Queen of Verdonia. Is that it?”

“No! You don’t understand. My mother. He has my mother.”

“If your mother is anything like you, I’m sure she’ll be able to fend for herself.”

He released his choke hold and rolled, reversing their positions, which might have been a mistake. Seeing her splayed beneath him against the grass-sweetened earth, her tousled hair fanned around her beautiful, treacherous face was more provocative than he could have imagined. And though honor kept him from touching, he sure as hell could look.

Her petticoats belled around her, nipping in at her narrow waist. The tear in the endless layers of tulle allowed him to catch a glimpse of a lace garter and silk stockings—stockings that seemed to glisten along every endless inch of her leg. And then there was the practically nonexistent bra she wore with the tiny bow that tempted a man almost beyond endurance, begging him to tug at the ends and allow the feminine scrap to drift from her body.

Merrick’s body clenched, reacting to a powerful need with frightening predictability. He was infuriated to discover that it was beyond his ability to control the automatic response. Not even a lifetime of training enabled him to overcome the temptation of this particular woman. It defied explanation.

Beneath her silver wedding gown she’d been dressed to seduce, to provoke the ultimate possession, to make a man forget everything but the desperate need to mate. She stared at him with wide aquamarine eyes and in that insane moment he saw what it would be like to have her. He saw them locked together in the most primitive dance of all. A give and take that went much further than mere sex. He saw the ultimate possession, a sharing he’d never dared allow himself with any of the women he’d had in his life. White-hot passion. Basic driving need. A mindless surrender. Blind trust—something he’d never known in all his twenty-nine years. He saw every last detail in eyes rich with promise.

And he wanted as he’d never wanted before.

He forced words past a throat gone bone dry. “Von Folke must have caught one glimpse of you and thought all his dreams had come true.”

To his surprise she shuddered. “If he was attracted to me, he never showed it.” She squirmed beneath him, which thrust her breasts and pelvis up against him in a provocative brush and swirl. “Please let me up.”

He wanted to refuse her request, wanted it with a raging fervor that proved to him that man was still at heart a creature of wanton instinct, an unleashed animal lurking beneath a thin veneer of civilized behavior, ruled by emotions barely kept in check and not always within his ability to control. He fought with every ounce of willpower. Endless seconds ticked by before intellect finally managed to overcome base desire.

“Very well, Princess.” Or maybe intellect hadn’t fully won out because he found himself saying, “But I warned that running would cost you. Time to pay.”

With that, he took advantage of her parted lips and dipped downward, possessing the most lush, sumptuous mouth he’d sampled in many a year.