I'm a Book Shark: Excerpt Reveal -- Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Jun 23, 2016

Excerpt Reveal -- Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Blurb

A smokin’ hot British player…

A jilted girl…

One night of mistaken identity…

Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows before fall semester begins at Whitman University.

She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.

She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.

Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they never had their night of unbridled passion in London.

But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…

One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.

*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*

**no one dies in the writing of this novel**

Chapter 1

Remi

Plain and simple, this night sucked.

Sadly, it was my honeymoon.

I sighed heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an

intimately lit London nightclub where everyone wore black

domino masks, some elaborate and some plain, to hide their

identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing with long,

loose cloaks. Not me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky

little number and three-inch heels, putting my height at nearly

six feet. Yep, I’m the giant in the blue dress, towering over

every girl and some guys at the bar.

My top teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the

smoky club, my eyes bouncing off random faces. Even in a

room full of party people, music, and strobe lights, I was

lonely.

My groom was missing.

That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at

Whitman University in North Carolina, had jilted me two

weeks before the big wedding day as we had dinner at our

favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.

And now here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed

with my best friend Lulu who’d decided to skip her beach

vacation and come with me at the last minute.

She poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy

wooden bar of the club. “Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed

look out of your eyes and order a drink already. I’m thirsty.”

She fluffed her pixie-cut pink hair and straightened her black

tutu, eyes scoping out the club. “Dang, the men in here are

hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch,” she said in her

honeyed southern drawl

I half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on

scanning the bottles behind the bar. “I want tequila,” I

murmured. “A whole bottle.”

Her face snapped back to me and her green eyes widened.

“Uh-uh. No way. I know what happens when you drink that

crap. You either eat a ton of tacos and puke, or you wrap

yourself around some cocky bastard with a well-developed

tush.”

True. I did love a tight muscular ass.

But I wouldn’t get one tonight.

A short laugh burst out of me, one of those I’m-miserable-

but-pretending-to- be-okay-laughs that I’d been doing a lot of

lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated between a

sobbing mess and an angry woman who became so

incensed that “fuck” was the only word that seemed

appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office to

mail he dumped me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck.

Going to the wedding venue and not getting the ten

thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was

homeless fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck.

Listening to my mother tell me it was my fault. Fuck, fuck,

fuck.

The bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I

sucked the tequila down while Lulu watched me warily. It

tasted like bad decisions and gasoline, but tonight was about

forgetting. The sooner the better.

A few minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British guy

she’d been making eyes at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling

with my diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing it like rosary

beads. I needed to forget Hartford, and according to Lulu,

that meant hooking up with someone.

Was she right?

Fate answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by

beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy with a backside so

delectable and muscular my mouth plopped open.

I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—

the annoying feathery plumes on the sides kept sticking to

my red lipstick—and turned ever so slightly to check him out,

not wanting to appear obvious. He slid into the seat next to

me, tall and broad with rippling shoulders and a massive

frame.

I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally

analyzing the odds of a girl like me snagging a hottie like

him.

Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have two

—okay, maybe three—things going for me in the looks

department. My shiny, golden-brown hair that hung down in

waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow lips” as Lulu

described them, and lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between

my two front teeth which were otherwise white and perfect.

Lulu claimed the gap lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or

Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a True Blood fan. I went

with it.

He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne

swirled in the air, the smell of expensive Scotch and musk

mingling together to create a heady, slightly dangerous

scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my bare arms. The

spicy whiff triggered a distant memory just out of reach.

As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to bottom.

Like me he wore a black mask, although his was more

masculine, not hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline. His

lips were carnal and luscious, the bottom more plump than

the top with a slight indentation in the middle. As I watched

, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top teeth biting it

as if he were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his

dark, longish messy hair, held it suspended above his head

for a few seconds and then released it, letting it swish back

into its tousled yet perfect place.

I tore my eyes away.

Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every

atom of my body.

Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.

But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black

shirt and sculpted chest that was obviously used to the

inside of a gym, right down to an arm that looked like it could

snap a board in half—or me.

Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.

The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue and orange

dragonfly tattoo displayed on his left arm. It was larger than

my hand and took up most of his bicep. My eyes traced the

contours of the design from the papery wings to the multi-

faceted eyes. A bold black color outlined the insect, giving it

a masculine feel.

Gorgeous.

True Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a

pair of black Converse without socks, giving him a boyish

quality that was in direct contrast to the crazy-sexy-bad-boy

vibe he had going on.

Him tonight?

Maybe. He was the polar opposite of Hartford who was

blond, lean, and tattoo-free.

I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice little ol'

me?

Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode up

to his stool, bold as brass, wearing a tight, white mini-skirt

that barely covered her booty. She brought with her the

smell

of sweet, cloying perfume, the kind I always got spritzed with

at the mall.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her

finger down his arm and struck up a conversation. Her fake

, black lashes—which she’d somehow managed to get

outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She puffed out

her well-developed chest

He smiled back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body

language telling me he was confident when it came to

women. She whispered in his ear, boobs right in his face, but

whatever he said back wasn’t what she wanted to hear

because a few ticks later, she crossed her arms, glared at

me, and stalked away.

I blinked. What had I done?

Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.

Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a

claustrophobic mask on.

But wait…

Was he crazy?

Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a

shot.

I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing

and sexy hair flicking. I didn’t know a thing about applying

fake eyelashes. I didn’t know how to make my breasts sit up

that high. I looked away from him and took another shot,

feeling anxious and strangely off-kilter.

Mr. Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his British

accent smooth as silk as it washed over me. I froze. I almost

knew that voice—deep with soft rounded vowels that made

you tingle in your lady parts.

What was it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot

for him?

Hello, tequila, my inner voice said. But it was more than that.

Getting brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr.

Beautiful’s eyes on me once more, searching my face. As if

he too recognized the pull between us.

My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My

skin prickled. I shivered.

Did I know him?

It clicked.

Dax Blay?

It was his voice, the same deep quality, the kind of voice that

made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a

cowgirl.

My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that

zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my

one mistake, the time I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid

plans aside and went with my instincts, only to have them

tossed back in my face.

But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.

Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity

party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair,

like always, and zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.

Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father lived.

Yet…

Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a

tattoo?

Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the

same club on the same night in a country where neither of

us lived?

I tore my eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender for

more limes, but somehow my tennis bracelet snagged on

the

bodice of my dress, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet

dishrag in a most inappropriate place.

I wiggled my arm.

Jiggled it.

Even went so far as to jerk, but it wouldn’t separate.

Sweat popped out on my forehead. Holding my breath, I

twisted and tugged the bracelet, forcing the delicate material

in my bodice to stretch beyond normal limits.

“Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.

Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a

stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper

on the side. Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it

was a Tory Burch and had cost four hundred dollars, the

most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want to

damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at

Whitman.

Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe

malfunctions.

I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to

wave at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing,

having a great time and completely oblivious. I resorted to

flapping both hands at her, one high and one low. Several

people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t

notice. Dammit.

I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream

Now what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good

plan.

But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making me

squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard

print heels—that Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the

stool to keep my balance.

I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think

straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and

why did I slam all that tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is

currently attached to my tit like a T. rex arm.

I had to get out of here before someone noticed what an

idiot

I was.

Trying to be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get my

beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my

right that I used most of the time, I got off balance and

stumbled—and my ankle folded in on itself. I yelped as my

shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward the dance

floor, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.

Filthy English (unedited excerpt)

The British are HERE!

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About the Author

New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.

She's addicted to all things fantasy, including unicorns and sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee beverages, dark chocolate, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she's a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.

She has a degree in English and a Master's in Education.

When she's not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.

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Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:

VERY BAD THINGS

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