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Her Mail-Order Husband, Book #1

Her Mail-Order Husband, Book #1

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Sexy, sinful, with tons of secrets? Oh, yeah!"

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They all have Sinful Secrets ... passionate secrets, past secrets, baby secrets, love secrets. And those Sinful Secrets are about to be revealed!

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "These kept me on the edge of my seat until the very end!"


  • Marriage of Convenience
  • Mail-Order Husband
  • Secrets!
  • Cowboy Romance

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Sexy, sinful, with tons of secrets? Oh, yeah!"

Books Included in the Bundle:

Her Mail-Order Husband

Leah's mail-order husband kisses like sin but is keeping a secret that could ruin her.

Main Tropes

• Marriage of Convenience
• Mail-Order Husband
• Secrets!
• Cowboy Romance


In order to save her Texas ranch, Leah Hampton needs a husband, and fast. So, she advertises for the “perfect” man to help her out of her predicament. Instead she gets Hunter Pryde, who kisses like sin, but is keeping a secret that could bring salvation . . . or utter ruin.

Hunter wants Leah—and her ranch—and he’s not sure in what order. Years ago her father forced Hunter off their ranch at the hurting end of a shotgun after he had the unmitigated gall to sleep with the boss’s daughter.
Now Hunter’s going to have it all… Leah, her ranch, and the sweetest revenge of all—Leah in his bed.

Her Mail-Order Husband is a sexy, tender, contemporary romance, guaranteed to make you a believer in happily-ever-after.

Note to Readers: Her Mail-Order Husband is Book #1 of 6 in The Sinful Secrets series, a contemporary romance series by USA Today bestselling author and eleven-time RITA© (Romance Writers of America) finalist, Day Leclaire. This story features a hot, take-charge alpha hero and the perfect woman for him, and a sizzling romance between soul mates.

Look Inside

She really needed a knight in shining armor to come riding up her drive, ready and able to slay all her dragons. A foolish wish, she knew. Even so, some silly, romantic part of her couldn’t help wishing for the impossible.

Leah glanced at her watch. Her final interview should arrive any time. She could only hope he’d prove more acceptable than the others, docile enough to agree to all her demands and yet skilled enough in business matters to satisfy the bank. As though in response to her silent plea, a solitary rider appeared over a nearby ridge, shadowed black against the burnt-orange glow of a low-hanging sun. She shaded her eyes and studied him with keen curiosity. Could this be H.P. Smith, her final applicant?

He rode easily, at home in the saddle, swaying with a natural, effortless rhythm. Even from a distance she could see the beauty of his horse, the pale tan coat without a blemish, the ebony mane and tail gleaming beneath the golden rays of the setting sun. The animal was also a handful, but one he mastered without difficulty.

She frowned, something about him setting off alarm bells. If only she could figure out what. Then it hit her. She knew the man. On some basic, intuitive level she recognized the way he sat his horse, the simple, decisive manner with which he controlled his mount, the square, authoritative set of his shoulders. Even the angle of his hat seemed faintly familiar.

But who the hell was he?

She waited and watched, intent on the stranger’s every movement. He rode in as though he owned the place, as though he were lord and master of this land. From beneath the brim of his hat Leah caught a glimpse of jet-black hair and deep-set, watchful eyes, his shadowed features taut and angled, as though hewn from granite. He dismounted a short distance away, tying his buckskin to the hitching post. Not giving the vaguest acknowledgment, he turned to cross the yard toward her.

He stripped his gloves from his hands as he came, tucking them into his belt, and she found herself staring at those hands, at the strength and power conveyed by his loosely held fists. She knew those hands. But from where?

A flash of memory hit her. She saw those hands, winding her braid around his fist, anchoring her against him. The nimble way they unbuttoned her shirt, sweeping it off her shoulders. The skillful drift of callused fingers lingering on her breasts, tender and yet forceful. The short, sharp images brought ecstasy mixed with unrelenting pain, and she gasped.

He looked up at the small, feminine sound.

Full sunlight cast the shadow from his face and revealed to her the threat—and promise—in his cold black eyes. In that instant she recognized him, and knew why he’d come.

“This just isn’t my day,” she muttered. Acting on blind instinct, she shouldered her rifle and fired.

The first blast cratered the ground a foot in front of him. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even break stride. He came for her, his steady gaze locked on her face. She jacked out the shell and pumped another into the chamber. The second blast landed square between his boots, showering the black leather with dirt and debris. Still he kept coming, faster now, hard-packed muscles moving with catlike speed. She wasn’t given the opportunity to get off another round.

He hit the porch steps two at a time. Not hesitating a moment, he grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked it from her grasp, tossing it aside. His hands landed heavily on her shoulder, catapulting her straight into his arms. With a muffled shriek, she grabbed a fistful of shirt to keep from falling.

“You never were much of a shot,” he said, his voice low and rough. And then he kissed her.

His kiss contained everything she remembered and more. He’d always combined strength with tenderness, but now it included a ruthless demand, a fierce assault on both mind and body that held her stunned and unmoving. His mouth shifted over hers, subduing any hint of resistance, taking with a relentless thirst, but also giving a wealth of passion in return. It had been so long, so hideously long since she’d last been in his arms, last shared a kiss of such explosive power.

One hand settled low on her back, arching her into the tight cradle of his thighs. His other hand slid up her spine, beneath the heavy fall of her braid. His fingers thrust through the silken strands of her hair and cupped her head. Unable to help herself, her arms tightened around him, discovering again the breadth of his shoulders and the lean, compact muscles sculpting his ribs and chest. She should fight him, should end this farce. But somehow she couldn’t.

He’d been her first lover. Her only lover. They shared a connection neither could ever sever, much as she might wish it otherwise. He’d hurt her, left a wound that festered to this day. And still it didn’t diminish the want. He deepened the kiss between them, his thumb sliding along her jaw to the corner of her mouth and teasing the sensitive spot until her lips parted beneath his.

To her shame, she kissed him back, kissed him with eight lonely years’ worth of pent-up yearning. Just this once. Just this one final time. She needed this moment, and part of her rejoiced in the exquisite memories his touch resurrected. She came alive in his arms, became the woman she’d once been. But another part of her, the part that had suffered at his hands, knew the danger, knew the price she’d pay for allowing him to sweep away the barriers she’d fought so hard to erect. She couldn’t afford to feel again. She’d almost been destroyed once by this man. She wouldn’t offer him the opportunity to complete the job.

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