The Price of Pleasure

( 136 )


Kresley Cole returns with a breathtaking romantic saga of love, honor, and passion unbound — as a man of duty faces his greatest trial, and a young castaway discovers her greatest desire....

A man noted for his courage and integrity, Captain Grant Sutherland journeys to Oceania to find Victoria Dearbourne, an English girl lost at sea a decade before. He's given her ailing grandfather his word — as a gentleman — to find and protect her. But one ...

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The Price of Pleasure (Sutherland Brothers Series #2)

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Kresley Cole returns with a breathtaking romantic saga of love, honor, and passion unbound — as a man of duty faces his greatest trial, and a young castaway discovers her greatest desire....

A man noted for his courage and integrity, Captain Grant Sutherland journeys to Oceania to find Victoria Dearbourne, an English girl lost at sea a decade before. He's given her ailing grandfather his word — as a gentleman — to find and protect her. But one look at a grown Victoria and Grant has never felt less like one.
Tori relishes freedom, untamed passion, and spontaneity above stifling order. Even more so when a proud, cold British captain arrives to rescue her, though she has no wish to be. As Grant tries to convince her to leave her island home, she begins to see in him a man hungering for more. A man who once laughed. A man who desires her but won't take what she offers.
Grant struggles to control his own savage passions — and fails, Tori must decide what she wants more — her unfettered independence or the only man who could tame her wild heart....

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Virginia Henley A splendid read! The sexual tension grips you from beginning to end.

Heather Graham Sexy and original! Sensual island heat that is not to be missed.

From The Critics
Sexy and original! Sensual island heat that is not to be missed.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781476752471
  • Publisher: Gallery Books
  • Publication date: 4/13/2013
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 368
  • Sales rank: 857,383
  • Product dimensions: 5.30 (w) x 8.10 (h) x 1.30 (d)

Meet the Author

Kresley Cole

Kresley Cole is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the electrifying Immortals After Dark paranormal series, the young adult Arcana Chronicles series, the erotic Gamemakers Series, and five award-winning historical romances. A master’s grad and former athlete, she has traveled over much of the world and draws from those experiences to create her memorable characters and settings. Her IAD books have been translated into nineteen foreign languages, garnered three RITA awards, and consistently appear on the bestseller lists, in the US and abroad. You can learn more about her and her work at or

*Sign up for Kresley’s email newsletter to receive the latest book release updates, as well as info about contests and giveaways (

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

It was eleven-thirty when Marlie Keen left the cinemaplex with the rest of the Friday night moviegoers. The movie had been a good one, a lighthearted romp that had made her laugh aloud several times and left her in a cheerful mood. As she walked briskly to her car, she thought she could tell which movie people had seen by how they were acting now. It wasn't that difficult; the couples who were holding hands, or even exchanging kisses in the parking lot, had obviously seen the sexy romance. The aggressive bunch of teenage boys had seen the latest martial arts thriller. The well-dressed young professionals who were in earnest discussions had seen the latest Thelma and Louise imitation. Marlie was glad she had chosen the comedy.

It was as she was driving home on the brightly lit expressway that it hit her: She felt good. The best she had felt in years. Six years, to be precise.

In startled retrospect, she realized that she had been at peace for several months now, but she had been so caught up in the sedative routine of the life she had built here that she hadn't noticed. For a long time she had simply existed, going through the motions, but time had done its slow work and eventually she had healed, like an amputee recovering from the loss of a limb and learning to cope, then to enjoy life again. Her loss had been mental rather than physical, and unlike an amputee, she had prayed through dark, endless nights that she never recover that part of herself. At some point in the past six years, she had stopped living in dread that the knowing would return, and simply gotten on with her life.

She liked being normal. She liked being able to go to movies the way normal people did, liked being able to sit in a crowd; she hadn't been able to do that before. Several years ago, when she had realized it was actually possible, she had turned into a movie junkie for a while, visually gorging on the films that she thought were safe. For a long time any degree of violence was unbearable, but for the past couple of years she had been able to watch the occasional thriller, though they weren't her favorite type. To her surprise, she hadn't yet been able to watch any sex scenes; she would have thought that violence would have been immeasurably mote difficult for her to handle, maybe even impossible, but instead it was the portrayal of intimacy that gave her problems. Dr. Ewell had been fond of saying that no one should ever lay bets on the human psyche, and she was amused to find he was right. The violence in her life had been traumatic, devastating, while the sex had been merely unpleasant, but it was the "love" scenes that still had her squeezing her eyes shut until it was over.

She exited off the expressway onto a four-lane street, and of course was caught by the traffic light at the bottom of the exit ramp. The radio was tuned to an easy-listening station and she inhaled deeply, feeling the slow music and the lingering lightheartedness of the movie combine in a delicious, physical sense of contentment —

— the knife flashed down, gleaming dully. A sodden, muffled THUNK! as it struck. The blade rose again, dripping red —

Marlie jerked back, an unconscious physical denial of the horribly real image that had just flashed in her mind. "No," she moaned softly to herself. She could hear her own breathing, sharp and gasping.

"No," she said again, though she already knew the protest was useless. Her hands were clenched on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, and even that wasn't enough to stop the trembling that started at her feet and went all the way up. Dimly she watched her hands start shaking as the spasms intensified.

— Black, gloating pleasure. Triumph. Contempt —

It was happening again. Dear God, it was coming back! She had thought herself free, but she wasn't. The knowing was coming closer, growing, looming, and she knew from experience that soon it would overwhelm her. Clumsily, her coordination already deteriorating, she steered the car to the right, so she wouldn't block the exit ramp. A car horn blared as she wavered too close to the vehicle beside her, but the noise was distant, muted. Her vision was fading. Desperately she braked to a stop and shoved the gear lever into park, hoping that she had managed to get completely out of traffic, but then the nightmare image was back, hitting her full strength like a beacon that had brushed by her in search before homing in.

Her hands fell limply into her lap. She sat in the car staring straight ahead, her eyes unblinking, unseeing, everything focused inward.

Her breathing became harsher. Rough sounds began to form in her throat, but she didn't hear them. Her right hand lifted slowly from her lap and formed itself into a fist, as if she were gripping something. The fist twitched violently, three times, in a rigidly restrained stabbing motion. Then she was quiet again, her face as still and blank as a statue's, her gaze fixed and empty.

It was the sharp rapping on the window beside Marlie that brought her back. Confused and exhausted, for a terrifying moment she had no idea who she was, or where, or what was happening. An unearthly blue light was flashing in her eyes. She turned a dazed, uncomprehending look at the man who was bent over, peering into the window as he tapped on it with something shiny. She didn't know him, didn't know anything. He was a stranger, and he was trying to get into her car. Panic was sharp and acrid in her mouth.

Then identity, blessed identity, returned with a rush and brought reality with it. The shiny thing the man was using to rap against the glass transformed itself into a flashlight. A glint on his chest became recognizable as a badge, and he, frown and commanding voice and all, was a policeman. His patrol car, Mars lights flashing, was parked at an angle in front of hers.

The images of horror were still too close, too frighteningly real. She knew she had to block it out or she wouldn't be able to function at all, and she needed to get control of herself. Some vague danger was threatening, some memory that danced close to the surface but wouldn't quite crystalize. Desperately she pushed away the fog of confusion and fumbled to roll down the window, fighting for the strength to complete even that small act. The exhaustion was bone-deep, paralyzing, muscles turned to mush.

Warm, humid air poured through the open window. The officer flashed the light beam around the interior of her car. "What's the problem here, ma'am?"

She felt cotton-brained, thought processes dulled, but even so she knew better than to blurt out the truth. That would immediately get her hauled in on suspicion of being under the influence of some kind of drug, probably a hallucinogen. Yes, that was it; that was the vague danger she had sensed. A night in jail, for a normal person, would be bad enough; for her, under these circumstances, it could be catastrophic.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but she knew that she must look pale and drained. "Ah...I'm sorry," she said. Even her voice was shaky. Desperately she sought for a believable explanation. "I — I'm an epileptic. I began to feel dizzy and pulled over. I think I must have had a slight seizure."

The flashlight beam sought her face, played across her features. "Please step out of the car, ma'am."

The trembling was back; she didn't know if her legs would hold her. But she got out, holding to the open door for support. The blue lights stabbed her eyes, and she turned her head away from the brightness as she stood there pinned in the glare, a human aspen, visibly quaking.

"May I see your driver's license?"

Her limbs were leaden. It was an effort to retrieve her purse, and she dropped it immediately, the contents spilling half in the car, half on the ground. Innocuous contents, thank God; not even an aspirin bottle or pack of cigarettes. She was still afraid to take over-the-counter medications, even after six years, because the mental effects could be so unpredictable.

By concentrating fiercely, holding the crippling fatigue at bay, she managed to pick up her wallet and get out her license. The policeman silently examined it, then returned it to her. "Do you need help?" he finally asked.

"No, I'm feeling better now, e-except for the sh-shakes," she said. Her teeth were chattering from reaction. "I don't live far. I'll be able to make it home."

"Would you like for me to follow you, make sure you get there okay?"

"Yes, please," she said gratefully. She was willing to tell any number of lies to keep from being taken to a hospital, but that didn't mean she had lost her common sense. She was incredibly tired, the aftermath worse than she remembered. And there was still the nightmare image — knowing or memory, she couldn't tell — to be dealt with, but she pushed it out of her mind. She couldn't let herself think about it; right now she had to concentrate only on the tasks at hand, which were remaining coherent, upright, and functional, at least until she could get home.

The policeman helped her pick up her belongings, and in a few moments she was behind the wheel again, edging back onto the pavement, driving with excruciating care because every movement was such an effort. Twice she caught herself as her eyes were closing, the darkness of unconsciousness inexorably closing in.

Then she was home, turning in to the driveway. She managed to get out of the car and wave at the officer. She leaned against the car, watching him drive away, and only when he turned the corner did she set herself to the task of getting inside the house. To safety.

With weak, shaking, uncooperative hands she looped the strap of her purse around her neck, so she wouldn't drop it. After pausing for a moment to gather strength, she launched herself away from the car in the direction of the front porch. As a launch, it was spectacularly lacking in power. She staggered like a drunk, her steps wavering, her vision fading. Every movement became more and more difficult as the fatigue grew like a living thing, overwhelming her muscles and taking them from her control. She reached the two steps leading up to the porch and stopped there, swaying slowly back and forth, her blurred gaze fixed on those two steps that normally required no effort at all. She tried to lift her foot enough to take the first step, but nothing happened. She simply couldn't do it. Iron weights were dragging around her ankles, holding her back.

She began to shiver, another familiar reaction from before, in that other life. She knew she had only a few minutes to get inside before she completely collapsed.

She dropped heavily to her knees, feeling the resulting pain as only a dull, distant sensation. She could hear her own harsh, strained breathing, echoing hollowly. Slowly, torturously, she dragged herself up the steps, fighting for each inch, fighting to keep the darkness at bay.

She reached the front door. Keys. She needed the keys to get in.

She couldn't think. The black fog in her brain was paralyzing. She couldn't remember what she had done with her keys. In her purse? Still in the car? Or had she dropped them? There was no way she could retrace her steps, no way she could remain conscious much longer. She began fumbling in her purse, hoping to find the key ring. She should be able to recognize it by touch; it was one of those stretchy bracelet things, the type that could be slid onto the wrist. She could feel metal, but it eluded her grasp.

Bracelet...She had slipped the keys onto her wrist. It was a habit so ingrained that she seldom even thought about it. The shaking was worse; she pulled the key ring off her wrist but couldn't manage to fit the key into the lock. She couldn't see, the blackness almost complete now. Desperately she tried again, locating the lock purely by touch, concentrating with her last fierce vestige of strength on the herculean task of guiding the key into the lock...Got it! Panting, she turned the key until she felt the click. There. Unlocked.

She mustn't forget the keys, mustn't leave them in the lock. She slid the bracelet back onto her wrist as she twisted the doorknob and the door swung open, away from her. She had been leaning on the door, and with that support suddenly gone she sprawled in the doorway, half in and half out of the house.

Just a little more, she silently urged herself, and struggled to her hands and knees again. Get in far enough to close the door. That's all.

It wasn't really crawling now. She dragged herself in, whimpering with the effort, but she didn't hear the noise. The door. She had to close the door. Only then could she give herself over to the blackness.

Her arm waved feebly, but the door was out of reach. She sent a command to her leg and somehow it obeyed, slowly lifting, kicking — a very weak kick. But the door swung gently shut.

And then the darkness overwhelmed her.

She lay motionless on the floor as the clock ticked away the hours. The gray dawn light penetrated the room. The passing morning was marked by the path of sunlight, shining through a window, as it moved down the wall and across the floor to finally fall on her face. Only then did she move in a restless attempt to escape the heat, and the deep stupor changed into a more normal sleep.

It was late afternoon when she began to rouse. The floor wasn't the most comfortable of sleeping places; each shift of position brought a protest from her stiff muscles, nudging her toward consciousness. Other physical complaints gradually made themselves felt, a full bladder protesting the most insistently. She was also very thirsty.

She struggled to her hands and knees, her head hanging low like a marathon runner at the end of the race. Her knees hurt. She gasped at the sharp, puzzling pain. What was wrong with her knees? And why was she on the floor?

Dazedly she looked around, recognizing her own safe, familiar house, the cozy surroundings of the small living room. Something was tangled around her, hampering her efforts to stand — she fought the twisted straps and finally hurled the thing away from her, then frowned because it looked familiar, too. Her purse. But why had her purse straps been around her neck?

It didn't matter. She was tired, so tired. Even her bones felt hollow.

She used a nearby chair to steady herself and slowly got to her feet. Something was wrong with her coordination; she stumbled and lurched like a drunk on the way to a common destination: the john. She found the comparison faintly humorous.

After she had taken care of her most pressing need, she ran a glass of water and gulped greedily, spilling it down her chin in the process. She didn't care. She couldn't remember ever being so thirsty before. Or so tired. This was the worst it had ever been, even worse than six years ago when —

She froze, and her suddenly terrified gaze sought her own reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back at her had her face, but it wasn't the soothingly ordinary face she had become accustomed to. It was the face from before, from six years in the past, from a life that she had thought, hoped, was finished forever.

She was pale, her skin taut with strain. Dark circles lay under her eyes, dulling the blue to a muddy shade. Her dark brown hair, normally so tidy, hung around her face in a mass of tangles. She looked older than her twenty-eight years, her expression that of someone who has seen too much, lived through too much.

She remembered the stark, bloody vision, the storm of dark, violent emotion that had taken control of her mind, that had left her empty and exhausted, just as the visions always had. She had thought they had ended, but she had been wrong. Dr. Ewell had been wrong. They were back.

Or she had had a flashback. The possibility was even more frightening, for she never wanted to relive that again. But it suddenly seemed likely, for why else would she have seen that flashing knife blade, dripping scarlet as it slashed and hacked —

"Stop it," she said aloud, still staring at herself in the mirror. "Just stop it."

Her mind was still sluggish, still grappling with what had happened, with the aftereffects of the long stupor. Evidently the results of a flashback were the same as if she had had a true vision. If the mind thought it was real, then the stress on the body was just as strong.

She thought about calling Dr. Ewell, but a gap of six years lay between them and she didn't want to bridge it. Once she had relied on him for almost everything, and though he had always supported her, protected her, she had become accustomed to taking care of herself. Independence suited her. After the encompassing, almost suffocating care of the first twenty-two years of her life, the solitude and self-reliance of the last six had been especially sweet. She would handle the flashbacks by herself.

Copyright © 1994 by Linda Howington

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First Chapter


A journal by Victoria Anne Dearbourne, 1850

January 17

Today is the third day of our time here. Mother, Miss Scott, and I survived the wreck of the Serendipity and drifted in a leaky lifeboat to a deserted isle somewhere in south Oceania. Becalmed for weeks, we'd been unable to escape the approaching typhoon season. Mother said it was as though we'd been held in place for the storm.

When the timbers began to break, the sailors scurried -- like rats, all of them -- to abandon the ship and every one of us. One crashed into Mother -- he didn't even hesitate when she fell into the lifeboat from the height of the deck. Her back was separated and her arm was shattered as well. But she is strong, and I am convinced if we find help, she will recover.

We have not yet found Father. I looked up through the rain and foam and spied him atop the deck, a child in his arms. With the next crack of lightning, the deck was gone. Is it wrong for me to wish he'd left the children screaming down below and escaped? The vile crew did. It doesn't matter what I wish -- he never would have left them.

It was this morning that we received a windfall of supplies from the sea. Mother whispered to me that it is the hand of Fate that brought us these gifts, though Miss Scott says it's only a repeating current -- the same that brought us here (Mother has said that though Camellia Scott is only in her twenties, she is very wise, and so I don't know which version I wish to accept).

Miss Scott and I hauled ashore several trunks, a cask of much needed water, a paddle, and other various goods. Amongthe trunks, we found the captain's footlocker, and inside was an empty log and a bottle of ink. Miss Scott bade me record our time here.

She probably believes if I am occupied so, I won't be able to see the misery that has befallen us. But I have, and even as I cared for Mother and wrote, I still saw the two bodies that floated in with our bounty. The sea had done awful, awful things to them.

I know Miss Scott dragged them to the edge of the jungle and buried them, because I see the tracks in the sand and her palms blistered from the paddle handle. Miss Scott has only been with us for a short time, and I know she wants to spare us any harshness. But I hope she would tell me if one of the deceased was Father.

January 18

Last night was the first night Mother cried. She tried to be strong, but the pain was too great. Rain began to drizzle and the wind gusted. Miss Scott found flints in the lifeboat and tried time after time to light a fire. It was hopeless, but I think it took her mind from the situation. By the time she'd given up and fallen asleep where she knelt, her hands were sliced and ragged.

Mother told me I must help Miss Scott because "she is so very young for such an important charge."

January 19

I see how much I've written and worry that one log will not be enough, but Miss Scott predicted we will be rescued well before I run out of paper.

Later in the day, she found a map in one of the trunks and tried to determine our location, sending me to look for firewood on the beach despite the fact that we have no fire. When I returned, both she and Mother seemed resigned to staying here for some time. We must be far away from civilization. Though Miss Scott and I beg her, Mother has stopped taking her share of what little water we have left.

January 20

Last night I dreamt of Father, of him laughing with Mother and me, of him patiently teaching me to fish or tie knots. Father's laugh is wonderful, hearty because of his barrel chest, and he's quick to it. He loves Mother so much he looks to burst with it. With each new land we explored, the two would search for creatures, some little beastie never seen before. He always marveled when Mother sketched its exact image, though she'd done it again and again for the articles they published. Then he'd set down her drawing and twirl her around, grab me up under his arm, and proclaim that the three of us were the best team in this hemisphere, at least. And then Miss Scott joined us too, to teach me deportment and sums, and to become Mother's boon companion. Everything had seemed so perfect.

Luckily, I rose before Mother and Miss Scott because I woke up crying miserably. I dried my eyes, but all throughout the day when I thought of him, I felt just on the verge of tears, my lip trembling and face turning hot, just like the babies I played with on the ship.

Both Miss Scott and Mother tell me each day to be brave, but today they seemed even more insistent. Yet in the afternoon, Mother woke to find me with my head in my hands crying like a little child though I am thirteen!

I told her I didn't know if I was strong enough to do everything that needed to be done on the island. I know we need to build a shelter. I try to remember everything I've learned from our travels, but she and Papa always did the hardest things while I played with whatever children we came upon.

Mother told me that I am indeed strong enough to survive here. She said, "Remember, Tori, diamonds are born of pressure."

January 21

The deep cuts on Miss Scott's hands are not healing and are so swollen she can't close her fingers. I know how dangerous this is in this climate. I did not know I could worry even more than I had been. There's still no sign of Father, but I have to believe he survived and is even now standing on the bow of some grand ship (bigger than that hateful Serendipity) searching for us.

January 22

I am always dreaming about food and water now that we have so little of both. It drives me to think of ways to get them. Miss Scott wants to go inland to search for a spring or some fruit but fears leaving us alone on the beach or taking me with her into that dark jungle. The sounds at night tell us it's packed with creatures that we mightn't want to see.

This afternoon, Mother made me sit beside her. In a solemn voice, she told me that Father might not have lived. Hearing her say that was like a hit to my chest. It wasn't real until she voiced it. When my tears finally died down, she looked me in the eyes and told me that no matter what, my grandfather would find us. She swore that he wouldn't stop searching until he brought us home. But I know that he's too old to journey so far. Mother vowed he will send someone in his stead.

January 22, Afternoon

We have decided that I will go with Miss Scott. The hungrier I get, the less the jungle frightens me. But I have a sense I can't shake -- a heavy feeling that something is happening. I know it, and the back of my neck feels like it's covered in ants. Something's about to go wrong.

I almost laugh at the words above. About to go wrong. How much more wrong could our circumstances be?

I glanced over at Mother and saw her urgently whispering to Miss Scott. My mother, who's always been so sensitive to others' feelings, was unaware she was squeezing Miss Scott's ruined hands. Miss Scott winced as she listened, but said nothing.

Am I to lose my father and my mother as well?

Sometimes I feel as if all my fears and sadness are held in check with something as thin as lace. And sometimes I'm tempted to rip the threads open, to tear at my hair and scream so long and loud that I become frightful. That the things I fear will fear me instead.

We leave for the jungle at daybreak.

Copyright © 2004 by Kresley Cole

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 136 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 137 Customer Reviews
  • Posted November 11, 2012

    Cole is always a good read

    But some are better than others. A 75 page game of hide and seek in the jungle didn't exactly blow my skirt up but the book was still enjoyable.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    enjoyable Victorian romance

    In 1850, a storm wrecks the ship Serendipity. Young Victoria Dearbourne, her mom and her pragmatic companion Miss Cammy Scott survive the disaster having been shipwrecked on an Oceania deserted island. Not long afterward, Victoria¿s mom dies from her injuries.----- Eight years later, Victoria¿s grandfather hired Captain Grant Sutherland to learn if any of his relatives survived and if so to bring them home. Nine searches have failed, but on the tenth Grant and crew locate Victoria and a somewhat befuddled Cammy. They bring the marooned pair back to England in triumph. However, after living free in the wild, Victoria struggles to return to the corset lifestyle of Victorian England although falling in love with her heroic rescuer makes it easier to readapt.----- PRICE OF PLEASURE is an enjoyable Victorian romance due to the antics of the lead female protagonist who is the personification of 'How 'Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down On The Farm? (After They've Seen Paree)' though her big city was a island wilderness. The story line is fun to follow due to Victoria¿s struggle to adapt to polite society. Cammy is an intriguing sidekick and Grant and his main crewmember are solid protagonists. Still this is Victoria¿s tale, as she must make life choices.----- Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 15, 2015

    Really good read! From the very first chapter, I could tell I wo

    Really good read! From the very first chapter, I could tell I would like the novel. And the book kept my interest until the very end. I like that Victoria remained an unconventional character, naturally, due to her being shipwrecked for 8 years! And even though Grant is written as a rigid, disciplined man, he's not dull. You witness his struggle to fight his attraction to what he deems as an unsuitable wife in Victoria - but the story isn't bogged down in this battle. The love story moves along at a good pace.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 6, 2014

    Where is Ian story?

    Excellent read!!! Could not put it down. I have looked at the published date, where is Ian story?

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted November 12, 2012

    Excellent book. But, need the next one to see what has happened

    Excellent book. But, need the next one to see what has happened to the baby. And to cousin Ian. Need to know these things. Would love another book.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 23, 2012

    Loved it. Was an all nighter for me. Could not put it down.Looki

    Loved it. Was an all nighter for me. Could not put it down.Looking
    forward to the next one.!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 27, 2012

    Ahhhh another sexy Sutherland

    Yep, decided Grant is the Sutherland brother I would choose! Kresley has woven another amazing story, wish she would have gone on to write Ians story tho :(

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 4, 2012

    Must Read!!!!!

    This book is a fun read. It has plenty of adventure, wit, and suspense to grab the reader's attention. The characters are easy to relate to and really pull at your heart strings. You won't be disappointed by this book!!!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 6, 2012


    Great read, steamy love scenes and a plot that will keep you reading. Loved this one!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 27, 2012

    LOVE! LOVE! LOVED IT!!!!!!!!

    This author has so many great thoughts and aspects about her. I have read everything she has written and thoroughly enjoy her plot twists, and funny anecdotes! If you are looking for a little bit of romance, hillarious statements, and intrigue, her storylines are definitely for you.

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  • Posted August 16, 2011

    Very good

    This brother was definitely hotter than the first.... great story...not a 5 star because it seemed the end was rushed.... problems... termoil... fixed....married...pregnant.... WHAT?? too fast for all that was going on... Love this writer though

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  • Posted February 22, 2011


    This is by far one of the best authors. i finished all of the IAD series and wanted to read more from her so I got these and they are just as good

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 27, 2006

    Loved it

    I have read the Captain of all Pleasures and just finished with this one and absolutely loved it. It sounds like there will be another book on the way for Ian. I sure hope so.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 16, 2004



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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 18, 2004



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    Posted September 13, 2010

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    Posted May 13, 2011

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    Posted February 9, 2011

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    Posted July 7, 2010

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    Posted May 2, 2011

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