Legions of Kate Hofman fans will be delighted to hear Kate has a new release, her long-awaited Reluctant Prince. "Prince" is available only in print at this time, so those who want this fantastic cover of model Billy Freda are in luck.
I will be giving you teasers of this great "little" book (well, it isn't little, but it is an easy read!). I had the pleasure of seeing this one before it was released and all I'll tell you is that it's an uplifting tale of true love conquering all. And in usual Kate Hofman style, there's quite a bit of "all." Those of you who follow her know what I mean.
Later in the week Kate will be offering a copy of the book, so be sure to stop back.
Later in the week Kate will be offering a copy of the book, so be sure to stop back.
Let's take a look at the introduction of our hero:
Excerpt from “RELUCTANT PRINCE”
Prince Armando di San Raffaele is on the mezzanine of his new hotel, watching the guests mill about below him at the opening festivities.
The excerpt begins here:
Scanning the crowd lazily, his attention was drawn to a woman who seemed to hold herself aloof from the celebrating crowd. She seemed to be more interested in the furnishings of the room than in the people. From where he stood, she seemed to be petite and elegant, coppery highlights showing in her luxuriant brown hair, when she turned her head. An eyebrow-length, wispy fringe softened her hair style. He thought she stood out because of the simplicity of her dress, the cut superlative, the black fabric probably crêpe de Chine—since it clung in all the right places, reaching just over the knee. And from where he was standing, he had an unusually good view of her cleavage—dear God, that was worth a second look, close up…
Although her heels were high, they weren’t the usual 5” stilettos. She walked with an easy grace, not teetering on too-high heels.
He frowned when he saw a heavy-set man lurch forward to approach her from behind, bumping into her—purposely, he felt sure. She took a step aside, and even from the balcony he could see she gave the man a disgusted look. Meanwhile, the man’s motor mouth was moving a mile a minute, without making any impression on the woman, who frowned, occasionally shaking her head. When she turned away, he put his fat hand on her arm—to hold her back?
Suddenly no longer bored, Armando went over to the grand stairway which led from the mezzanine to the great reception area. As he flew down the stairs two at a time, he saw the woman go into the gardens through the French doors opposite to where the stairway ended. To his disgust, the fat guy was still in hot pursuit.
When Armando slid through the French doors, he saw the woman instantly—she was walking on the outside balcony, still pursued by the creep—his private name for the man making an evident nuisance of himself.
He heard the woman say, “For the last time, I design interiors for your firm, a business arrangement…”
The man sneered, “Your nose in the air attitude doesn’t put me off in the least, Pammipoo. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll change your tune and be very, very nice to me, or your job is toast.” With that, he seized the woman’s upper arms, trying to turn her to him—stretching his beefy neck as far as he could, pushing his rubbery lips forward—evidently trying to kiss her. “Owww!” he yelled, halted for a moment. “You bitch, you dared kick me! I’ll make you pay for this, and you’re coming with me right now to start the first instalment.”
“Take your hands off me,” the woman bit out, her tone outraged. Although she had spoken quietly, the attacker stopped his attempt to force his slobbery mouth onto hers, but only for a moment. Doing his best to claw his hands around her, his face became distorted with rage when the woman kicked him again. “No!” she insisted, speaking more loudly—her hands pushing at him to keep him away.
And then Armando was there. He said, his tone commanding and ice-cold, “The lady said No. Step back.” Furious at being thwarted in his plans to force the woman to have sex with him, the man tried to take a swing at Armando, missing ludicrously, losing his balance in the attempt. When he had righted himself, Armando hit him with precision on the jaw, and the man went down. Without looking around—for Armando knew he was always kept in view by at least one bodyguard—he said, “Dispose of this. Not on these premises.”
“Yes, Sir. Of course not here, Sir.” Bryce looked around and whistled softly between his teeth. Another man came forward out of the shadows.
“Jock, help me dispose of this, somewhere in an alley. I have my car here on the apron at the end of the garden.”
“Guid mon.”
Bryce grinned. “You fake Scotsman—I know for a fact that you’ve never even been to Scotland.”
Jock responded, “I’m no fake—I’m a McTavish. My parents are Scots.” He slipped into his broad Scots accent again. “Verra guid.” The two men grinned at each other, carrying the heavy, unconscious body to the far end of the garden.
Armando did not bother to watch them, all his attention was for the woman who was—as he had guessed—petite and with a sensational figure.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you more quickly,” he said. “This must have been very upsetting to you. Will you allow me to get you a drink, to calm you?
I have a suite here in the hotel. And I assure you, you’ll be quite safe with me.
I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on unwilling ladies.”
The woman glanced at him, and seemed to get some of her cool back.
“I shouldn’t think you’d have to,” she said, with a brave attempt at a smile. “And your offer of a haven to sit down and get over this—this unpleasantness…” She sighed. “It’s very welcome, thank you.” Her voice was soft and melodious.
“Allow me to introduce myself—Armando di San Raffaele.” The woman gazed at him in amazement.
“B-but y-you are—”
“The owner of the Bijou Hotel chain, yes.”
She seemed to pull herself together with an effort. “My name is Pamela Stanhove,” she said.
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