I found Killian drunk and sprawled out on my lawn like some lost prince. With the face of a god and the arrogance to match, the pest won't leave. Sexy, charming, and just a little bit dirty, he's slowly wearing me down, making me crave more. He could be mine if I dare to claim him. Problem is, the world thinks he's theirs. How do you keep an idol when everyone is intent on taking him away?

When Liz Dougherty’s first reporting assignment for her North Carolina college newspaper finds her covering a state senator’s impromptu press conference, she has no idea how drastically her life is about to change. Senator Brady Maxwell may look the part with his devastating good looks and impeccable style, but his politics rub Liz the wrong way, and she’s not going to let him off easy. Liz’s hardball question catches Brady off guard and shows her editor, Hayden Lane, that she’s headed places as journalist. But to Liz’s surprise, she’s also headed for a secret, high-stakes romance with Brady Maxwell.

I shouldn't have remembered him. He was just a guy who walked through a restaurant. I didn't know his name. We never made eye contact. There was no connection between us at all. But I could feel him. The tingle down my spine. The command in his presence. The snap of tension in the air around him. That was the first time I saw him, and I was captivated.

Sometimes I need an escape from the demands, the puck bunnies, and the notoriety that come with being an NHL team captain. I just want to be a normal guy for a few weeks. So when I leave Chicago for some peace and quiet, the last thing I expect is for a gorgeous woman to literally fall into my lap on a flight to Alaska. Even better, she has absolutely no idea who I am.

Anna Jones just wants to finish college and figure out her life. Falling for star quarterback Drew Baylor is certainly not on her to do list. Confident and charming, he lives in the limelight and is way too gorgeous for his own good. If only she could ignore his heated stares and stop thinking about doing hot and dirty things with him. Easy, right? Too bad he's committed to making her break every rule.

It should have been easy. I needed the money. He needed a babysitter to keep him from snorting himself to death. I was cherry-picked especially for him. Responsible. Optimistic. Warm. Innocent. The worst part is that I should have known better. Alex Winslow. British rock star. Serial heartbreaker. Casanova with whiskey eyes. “Don’t get near the devil in a leather jacket. He’ll chew you up and spit you out.” Guess what? I didn’t listen. I signed the contract. World tour. Three months. Four Continents. 100 shows. My name is Indigo Bellamy, and I sold my soul to a tattooed god.

Running away from home at 17 wasn't easy. Let's face it, though, nothing before or in the ten years since has ever been easy for me. And I'm doing okay—sorta. I just need to keep scraping by, living under the radar. Staying out of people's way, off people's minds. When a man walks through my open patio door, stepping boldly into my home and my life, I should be scared, frightened, terrified. I must be more broken than I realized because I'm none of those things. I'm intrigued—and I'm wondering if the way to take control of my life is by giving in to him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.... I wasn't supposed to be boyfriendless, homeless, and jobless at 28. And I most definitely wasn't supposed to hit Hollywood's resident bad boy Gabriel Evans with my car and break his foot. Now I'm stuck in his apartment, taking care of him while he's incapacitated. Living with the hottest guy in Hollywood, who I've had a crush on forever, doesn't sound like a chore, right? Wrong. Gabriel Evans is rude and crude and drinks way too much, and as soon as his foot is healed I'm out of here. So why do I keep forgetting to check the classifieds?

Charming, captivating, seductive—and a cold-blooded killer. I married the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva anyway. I had to, it was part of the deal. Now, I’m faking marital bliss as I tremble with fear, and I cannot wait to be out of the clutches of this ruthless man.

I have one simple rule: Don’t date professional baseball players. There are no exceptions, no workarounds. With a brother in the league, I’ve seen the good, the bad, and the downright horrifying. Those guys might seem tantalizing when they’re in uniform down on the field, hitting grand slams in front of a crowd of adoring fans, but I know better. The huge egos? The insane travel schedules? The veritable buffet of female companions? No ma’am. Professional athletes are best handled at a distance, preferably far enough away that their chiseled jawlines blur into oblivion. Enter Grant Navarro.