never failed to get my synaptic gaps flashing. And would you believe it? I have never hankered for Latin American food more than during the writing of this book. Rural England is not the best place to come across plantains and puerco pibil, believe you me.
And finally—writing about a scrumptious Latino with a huge heart and a chip on his shoulder is deeee-lightful. Especially with Saoirse Murphy as his heroine. She’s the kind of gal I’d just love to be friends with. Loyal, feisty, passionate about her work, and fighting with every bone in her body not to fall in love with the most yummy, inky-haired, long-legged, perfect-looking man she has ever seen.
Please, please don’t be shy. I love hearing from readers—good or bad. I promise I’m working on a thick skin! I can be reached at [email protected] or @AnnieONeilBooks on Twitter. Oh! And I’m on Facebook, too.
See you soon—and enjoy!
Annie O’ xo
ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.
This book goes unabashedly to the women behind the creation of each of the Valentino brothers—The Ugly Sisters. Tina, Amalie and Amy—you kept the fiery, feisty, sizzlin’ hot hearts of each story shining bright and strong. Thank you, ladies—you’re in a class of your own (a really good one, in case you didn’t know that already). Thanks, too, to the great team at M&B/Harlequin. May there be a Mad Ron margarita in each of your futures. Xx
Annie O’Neil won the 2016 RoNA Rose Award for her book Doctor...to Duchess?
SANTI CLENCHED HIS fists so tightly it hurt. Good. There was still feeling in them. He shot his fingers out at full length, simultaneously giving them a hard shake. The movement jettisoned him back to memories he’d thought he’d left back in Afghanistan. Syria. Africa. Wherever. Didn’t matter. Dog tags were dog tags. CPR worked or it didn’t. The need to shake it off and stay neutral was the same no matter where he was.
What mattered now was the chest in front of him needing another round of compressions. Fatigue couldn’t factor into it. Giving this guy another shot at living could.
“Where the hell is the ambulance?” he bellowed to anyone who might be in the vicinity. The only answer...the echo of his own voice reverberating off the cement stanchions of the underpass. Raw. Frustrated.
Santi wove his fingers together again and pressed the heel of his palm to the man’s chest, ignoring the worn clothes, the stench of someone who had slept rough too many nights and the fact he’d been providing CPR for twenty minutes since he’d rung for an ambulance.
“C’mon, Miami!” he growled, keeping steady track of the number of compressions before stopping to give the two rescue breaths that just might jump-start this poor guy’s system. “Give the man a chance.”
He glanced at the man’s dog tags again. Diego Gonzalez.
“What’s your story, amigo?” He tugged off his motorcycle jacket, leaving it where it fell on the dry earth before beginning compressions again. He might leave it for Diego once the ambulance turned up and they got a shot or two of epi and some life back into him. From the state of Diego’s clothes, the world had given up on him. Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t. He’d seen it time and again since he’d left the forces. Veterans unable to find a path after their time overseas. Nothing computing anymore. Lives disintegrating into nothing. He might have hung up his camos just a few months ago, but the last thing he was going to do was forget the men who’d given the military their all, only to find life had little to offer when they came home.
Home.
The word was loaded, and just as dangerous as a sniper bullet. He shook his head again, tightening his fingers against his knuckles as he pressed.
Twenty-nine, thirty.
As he bent to give another two breaths he heard the distant wail of a siren.
“Finally.”
One. Two. Three...
* * *
“Ready or not! Here we come!” Saoirse flicked on the whoop-whoop of the sirens, loving the wail of sound that cleared a path through the thick of Miami’s commuter traffic.
“For crying out loud, you mad Irish woman! You’re not in your racing car now.”
“Is that you angling for a ride this weekend, Joe?” Saoirse grinned.
“I’ll be happy to make it through this shift alive, thank you very much. And then you are taking me straight to the cantina. Safely,” he added with a meaningful look as she took the next turn at full pelt. “And heaven help your next partner. They’re going to need nerves of steel.”
Saoirse laughed, weaving between the cars as if she were barrel racing a horse she’d known since it was a colt. Smooth, fluid. It was grace in motion, if weaving an ambulance through grumpy Floridian drivers was your thing. It was hers. Hadn’t always been. But speed ran through her blood now and the tropical heat suited her to a T.
At least something in the past year had turned out all right.
Life had well and truly shot her in the foot, but it had also given her a visa to the States. It should have been a fiancée visa, but the student visa did the same trick. Not that the change of direction still wasn’t raw. Still too fresh to discuss. She gave her head a quick shake and refocused.
“What kind of cake will you be having, then, Joe? Not that awful rainbow-colored thing you had on your birthday, I hope.”
“Hey, little whippersnapper. It’s my retirement party—not your twelfth birthday.”
“I’m partial to coconut.” She gave him a cheeky wink, eyes still glued to the traffic. “We don’t get that sort of thing in Ireland. Want me to call the desk and tell them it’s your favorite?”
Joe pressed his hands to the dashboard of the ambulance as Saoirse hit the brakes then the gas pedals in quick succession as a very expensive-looking convertible whizzed past them, horn blaring.
“What’s up with them?”
“They weren’t expecting Annie Oakley behind the wheel, Saoirse,” Joe hollered. “For the love of my retirement check! You’re going to give me a coronary before we get to the call!”
“Joe! What are the chances you’re going to pronounce my name properly before our last ever shift is over? Sear-shuh.” She overexaggerated the vowel-heavy name her parents had lumbered her with. Maybe she should change that, too. Chopping off most of her hair had been downright liberating.
Joe
