(The Donovans #3)
by: Nana Malone
Publication: July 27, 2015
ISBN: 151040984
ASIN: B0012BYYZZ8
Length: 359 pages
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Blurb:
Up and coming racecar driver, Kisima Jennings, is all alone in the world and that's just how she likes it. After all, she has her career, who needs family? But when a near-fatal crash jeopardizes her future, she's forced to lean on someone for the first time in her life.
As an athletic trainer, Derek Donovan is driven and has always kept his eyes on the prize, never letting personal entanglements come between him and his dream of becoming a head trainer for the New Orleans Jaguars. That is, until one misstep costs him everything. Now he's startin over, ut with a client as tempting as Kisima, is he destined to repeat the mistakes of his past? Or will letting someone close bring him everything he's ever wanted?
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She
stopped her chair when she saw the man in the living room. From this vantage
point, she had an excellent view of a spectacular jeans-clad ass. It was so
good the jeans should be thanking him for making them look so good. Butterflies
fluttered low in her belly and she silently admonished herself. What was she
doing ogling this guy? She was here to work. Never mind that it had been so
long she barely remembered what sex was like.
She
dragged her focus back to the tall stranger taking up space in TJ's living
room.
Dark,
inky hair dusted his collar, lightly curling at the collar. His shoulders, holy
hell, they were broad. Clearly, he worked out, but not so much that he looked
like some muscle bound meathead. He still had a neck. Judging his height, he
was probably around six feet two, maybe taller. He was just a little shorter
than TJ. His back equally fascinated her as he studied the trophy wall and her
stats. But she mostly focused on how his jeans hung low on his hips, showcasing
his tight ass.
A deep
voice startled her out of her reverie. "You should take a picture, it'll
last longer. Or you like seeing it all in the flesh?" His voice was low
and sexy, but held a note of teasing.
A flush of heat crept up her neck, making her
face flame. The last thing she needed. When he turned slowly, Kiss
involuntarily held her breath, almost like her body knew to brace itself for
something magic.
Oh, wow.
With a jaw carved out of stone, his beautiful cheekbones were more geared for a
runway model than a physical therapist. And his thick, sooty lashes rivaled her
own. Jesus Christ, She was supposed to work with this guy? How was she supposed
to work with him day in and day out for the next few months? She had twelve
weeks until the Abu Dhabi race.
No way
no how. Physical therapy required touching. Lots
of...touching. She'd had her fill of too handsome too cocky assholes.
Antonio had been one. She knew the type "I won't be needing a picture
thanks, I've had enough."
The
corner of his lips tipped into a wry smile and those piercing baby blues of his
made it nearly impossible to think. Nearly.
He
studied her in her chair for a moment.
"So you're KM Jennings. I'm
not sure why, but before I got here, I expected a guy."
She
shrugged. "Kisima, actually. And it was done by design. When I first
started, it was to slip me past organizers without too much discrimination.
Added bonus was I looked like a boy for ages."
His gaze
slid over her and her skin prickled with heat in response. "Somehow I
doubt that. I can see you doing it to keep the announcers from butchering your
name.” His voice was softer and flowed over her like melted chocolate.
“That
too. It means spring in Swahili. Mom was Tanzanian.” Stop talking, Kiss. Why had she offered that? He wasn't here to
date her. He was here to train her.
His gaze
narrowed for a moment, then he angled his head toward the trophy wall.
"That you in Sports Illustrated?"
Like an
idiot, she blushed...again. What the hell was wrong with her? This guy was her
supposed new trainer not some cute boy who wanted to buy her a drink at the
club. "Yeah. The story on women in racing."
He
nodded. "So the racing bikini is totally called for."
She'd
regretted that spread from the moment she'd agreed to do it. It certainly
didn't help her gain respect. Magazines liked to feature her as their token
minority and woman. There were other women. And other black racers. But a black
woman, she was a chupacabra.
Kiss
shifted in the chair trying to take some pressure off her hip. "So they
call you the miracle worker. Is it true? I mean, why do you patch up broken
athletes? You going to have me all patched up and ready to drive in three
months?" Her lower back throbbed and all she wanted to do was lie down and
stretch properly.
His eyes
widened as he watched her shift in the chair and he crossed his arms. "I
don't know about that. I don't really believe in miracles." His frown
deepened. "But I guess I like to help people. And athletes are a special
breed. Able to do what so few can do."
"My
own personal superhero. I suppose you'll have me call you Clark Kent."
"If
you need to see me as a superhero, feel free. But there won’t be any magic
involved. Just plain old hard work. One question though, do you want to tell me
what you're still doing in the chair?" His glare was derisive as if she'd
done something wrong.
She
tilted her chin up. "Some trainer you are. I assume you've seen my file,
so you know I can't really walk right now. This is my ride."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR :
It was a sultry summer afternoon in Ghana, and Nana was a precocious thirteen. She's been in love with kick butt heroines ever since. With her overactive imagination, and channeling her inner Buffy, it was only a matter of time before she started creating her own characters.
While she waits for her chance at a job as a ninja assassin, in the meantime Nana works out her drama, passion, and sass with fictional characters every bit as sassy and kick butt as she thinks she is.
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