Ariel's Song: seducción al son de un violín + sorteo

Buenos días, arrebatadores. ¿Qué estáis haciendo en un día de fiesta tan hermoso como hoy? ;o) Por si acaso os pica la curiosidad sobre mis últimas lecturas, os diré que hace poquito he leído ARIEL'S SONG, de Evie Knight, por dos motivos. 

Primerísimamente porque donde hay un virtuoso de la música clásica, y más si es violín, a mí me apetece leer la historia sin más. Adoro que una trama incluya música en cualquiera de sus formas, sobre todo cuando se trata de un galán torturado. Y ahí es donde entra el segundo motivo, el romance. Y además de alto voltaje, el cual unido a la música ya me hace bailar de emoción.

Ariel's Song, o La canción de Ariel, es una novela corta de 171 páginas. No voy a engañaros, está lejos de ser memorable en cuanto a personajes y estilo narrativo. Sin embargo, si anestesio mi parte analítica de juez, estoy muy satisfecha con el aspecto de entretenimiento de la historia. Sabía que se trataba de un romance con mucha pelea, ansiedad y escenas íntimas antes de empezar a leerlo. Al final, me ha dado todo eso y un par de extras que me han gustado.

Ariel está sin blanca en Inglaterra. De vacaciones, se encuentra arruinada, sin forma de contactar con su hermano desaparecido y su tío a cargo de la empresa en Estados Unidos. La única salida es encontrar un trabajo para pagarse un billete de vuelta. Lo más asombroso de todo es que su ídolo, un violinista apasionado que se encerró en su casa tras un escándalo en torno al homicidio de su prometida dos años atrás, está buscando un asistente. Ariel se presenta al puesto como loca. Y lo que descubre es un déspota arrogante que la seduce con su voz aterciopelada.

Dejando de lado lo rápidamente que se derrite esta chica ante el primer contacto fatal de un tío despreciable, la relación entre Ariel y Colin es pura dinamita. La lectura resulta sexy y veloz. Colin es un recluso acosado por la culpa y la traición de su prometida. Casi todo el mundo le cree culpable de su asesinato, por lo que se ha refugiado en su casa lejos del mundo y su familia. Sus emociones son siempre caóticas, violentas, y asociales. Y lo paga con todos. Con su amigo y agente musical. Con su hermana. Con la chica nueva que despierta en él emociones enterradas y peligrosas.

Mientras Colin y Ariel exploran su atracción mutua en, ejem, todas las formas posibles, Colin va abriéndose a la posibilidad de recuperar su vida y volver a dar conciertos. Ariel significa ese renacer para él. Algo que le aterra y hace que reaccione con agresividad, a veces se muestra celoso y posesivo, otras veces recela de Ariel y la aparta de su lado por temor a necesitarla demasiado.

Al mismo tiempo, Logan, el agente musical, ayuda a Ariel a investigar su estado financiero y el paradero de su hermano. Los personajes secundarios aportan más contundencia a la trama doble. Por un lado, el peligroso rumor de que Colin es un asesino, algo que explota la mala de turno que trata de meter cizaña entre los tortolitos. Por otro lado, la desesperada situación económica de Ariel y la sospechosa desaparición de su hermano en plena ruina. Ellos también tienen sus historias cociéndose entre bambalinas y no me extrañaría ver más novelas en torno a ellos.

A pesar de lo malhumorado del carácter de Colin, el chico intenta conectar con su sensible asistente. Lo bonito es que Ariel le enseña que no puede detener la vida por un trauma. Es el rescate emocional del héroe por parte de la heroína. Eso siempre es un tema que me derrite XD. Y luego llegamos a la parte X. Intimidad a porrones, nada raro, todo muy directo y variado, que se inserta muy bien en la evolución psicológica y romántica de la pareja.

Así que a pesar de que la narración es standard, la trama a dos voces y la relación me han gustado mucho. Me gustaría leer más de esta autora.

***

IN A NUTSHELL

Ariel's Song is the very sexy tale of how a passionate romp can turn into a story of redemption and freedom. I loved the idea of a tortured virtuoso who finds his way to happiness through unexpected love. And I loved how a lovesick woman is the one who actually rescues the man of her dreams from his nightmare.
Best Feature: story and sexy encounters.
Worst feature: not too fond of the writing style and the heroine gives in too easily.

***

Ariel’s Song

In Bed with the Enemy Series #1

By: Evie Knight

Colin Hoskins, famous classical violinist, is tainted by his past. Angry at life, unable to move beyond the betrayal of his dead fiancé, he’s sworn off performing or falling in love ever again. All Colin wants is to be left alone, except no one listens. Especially the pretty little assistant he can’t fire and his body burns to claim.Stranded in a foreign country, bankrupted heiress Ariel Parks needs a job to fund her way home. Assistant of sorts to the musician she’s fantasized about for years sounds like a dream job. She never imagined the gorgeous genius would be a reclusive beast. But the real problem is the way every nerve in her body tingles at the mention of his name.

Amazon - Are - Follow Tour

About the Author...

Evie Knight writes wickedly sexy contemporary romances with irresistible bad boys, sassy heroines, a bit of conflict, humor and a dash of spice. When she’s not hard at work writing, she spends her time blogging, reading, listening to music, or looking for a muse.

She lives in sunny Southern California.

Evie loves hearing from her readers. Feel free to drop her a line at evie@evie-knight.com or you can stalk her on Twitter @inlovewromance

Author Links

Website | Facebook | Pinterest | Tumblr | Twitter

SORTEO / GIVEAWAY TIME

a Rafflecopter giveaway

¿Os gustan las historias con elemento musical?

Babel afinando el violín.

Novedad: Sarah MacLean y sus reglas para sinvergüenzas

A Sarah MacLean la conocemos en España gracias a su serie Love by Numbers: Nueve reglas que romper para conquistar a un granuja, Diez lecciones para cazar a un lord y que te adore, y Once escándalos para enamorar a un duque. Sin embargo, tiene otra serie en marcha cuyo tercer volumen quiero presentaros hoy.

La serie se titula The Rules of Scoundrels, compuesta por A Rogue by Any Other Name y One Good Earl Deserves a Lover. El 26 de noviembre de 2013 se publica el tercer volumen, NO GOOD DUKE GOES UNPUNISHED.

No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

The Third Rule of Scoundrels

By: Sarah MacLean

Le llaman el duque asesino porque se le acusa de asesinar a Mara Lowe en la víspera de su boda. Temple sufre de amnesia respecto a esa noche y, desde entonces, ha dominado los recovecos más oscuros de Londres. Tiene poder y dinero pero su reputación está arruinada. Hasta que una noche, Mara reaparece y con ella la posibilidad de la redención.

Mara no tenía intención de volver al lugar del que había huido pero su hermano tiene grandes deudas de juego. Se verá obligada a proponerle un trato a Temple: rescatarlo ante la sociedad a cambio de la liberación de su hermano. Parece un buen trato hasta que Temple se da cuenta del reto que supone resistirse a esta mujer y a los secretos de su pasado.

A rogue ruined...  He is the Killer Duke, accused of murdering Mara Lowe on the eve of her wedding. With no memory of that fateful night, Temple has reigned over the darkest of London’s corners for twelve years, wealthy and powerful, but beyond redemption. Until one night, Mara resurfaces, offering the one thing he’s dreamed of...absolution.
A lady returned... Mara planned never to return to the world from which she’d run, but when her brother falls deep into debt at Temple’s exclusive casino, she has no choice but to offer Temple a trade that ends in her returning to society and proving to the world what only she knows...that he is no killer. 
A scandal revealed...  It’s a fine trade, until Temple realizes that the lady-and her past-are more than they appear. It will take every bit of his strength to resist the pull of this mysterious, maddening woman who seems willing to risk everything for honor . . . and to keep from putting himself on the line for love.

Amazon - B&N - BAM - Indie - Tour

AUTHOR INFO

Sarah MacLean grew up in Rhode Island, obsessed with historical romance and bemoaning the fact that she was born far too late for her own season. Her love of all things historical helped to earn her degrees from Smith College and Harvard University before she finally set pen to paper and wrote her first book.

Sarah now lives in New York City with her husband, their dog, and a ridiculously large collection of romance novels. She loves to hear from readers.

Author - FB - Twitter

un extracto para los más impacientes

Excerpt:

TEMPLE

Whitefawn Abbey, Devonshire

November 1819

 

He woke with a splitting head and a hard cock.

            The situation was not uncommon. He had, after all, woken each day for more than half a decade with one of the items in question, and on more mornings than he could count with both.

            William Harrow, Marquess of Chapin and heir to the dukedom of Lamont was wealthy, titled, privileged and` handsome—and a young man blessed with those traits rarely wanted for anything relating to wine or women. 

            So it was that on this morning, he did not fret. Knowing (as skilled drinkers do) that the splitting head would dissipate by midday, he moved to cure the other affliction and, without opening his eyes, reached for the female no doubt nearby.

            Except, she wasn’t.

            Instead of a handful of warm, willing flesh, William came up with a handful of unsatisfying pillow.

            He opened his eyes, the bright light of the Devonshire sun assaulting his senses and emphasizing the thundering in his head.

He cursed. He draped one forearm over his closed eyes, sunlight burning red behind the lids, and took a deep breath.

Daylight was the fastest way to ruin a morning.

            Likely, it was for the best that the woman from the previous evening had disappeared, though the memory of lovely lush breasts, a mane of auburn curls and a mouth made for sin did bring with it a wave of regret.

            She had been gorgeous.

            And in bed—

            In bed she’d been—

            He stilled.

He couldn’t remember.

            Surely he hadn’t had that much drink. Had he? She’d been tall and full of curves, made just the way he liked his women, a match for the height and breadth that was too often his curse when it came to women. He did not like feeling like he might crush a girl.

And she’d had smile that made him think of innocence and sin all at once. She’d refused to tell him her name . . . refused to hear his . . .

            Utter perfection.

            And her eyes—he’d never seen eyes like hers, one the blue of the summer sea, and one just on the edge of green. He’d spent too long looking at those eyes, fascinated by them, wide and welcoming.

            They’d crept through the kitchens and up the servants’ stairs to his room, she’d poured him a scotch . . .

            And that was all he remembered.

            Good Lord. He had to stop drinking.

            Just as soon as today was over. He would need drink to survive his father’s wedding day—the day William gained his fourth stepmother. Younger than all the others. Younger than him.

            And very very rich.    

            Not that he’d met her, this paragon of brideliness. He’d meet her at the ceremony and not before, just as he’d done the other three. And then, once the familial coffers had been once again filled, he would leave. Back to Oxford, having done his duty and played the role of doting son. Back to the glorious, libidinal life that belonged to the heir to the dukedom, filled with drink and dice and women and not a worry in the world.

            Back to the life he adored.

            But tonight, he would honor his father and greet his new mother and pretend that he cared for the sake of propriety. And perhaps, after he was done playing the role of heir, he’d seek out the playful young thing from the gardens and do his best to recall the events of the night before.

            Thank Heaven for country estates and well-attended nuptials. There wasn’t a female in creation who could resist the sexual lure of a wedding, and because of that, William had a great affinity for holy matrimony.

            How lucky that his father had such a knack for it.

            He grinned and stretched wide in the bed, throwing one arm wide across the cool linen sheets.

            Cold linen sheets.

            Cold wet linen sheets.

            What in hell?

            His eyes flew open.

            It was only then that he realized it wasn’t his room.

            It wasn’t his bed.

            And the red wash across the bedsheets, dampening his fingers with its sticky residue, was not his blood.

            Before he could speak, or move, or understand, the door to the strange bedchamber opened and a maid appeared, fresh-faced and eager.

            There were a dozen different things that could have gone through his mind at that moment . . . a hundred of them. And yet, in the fleeting seconds between the young maid’s entrance and her notice of him, William thought of only one thing—that he was about to ruin the poor girl’s life.

            He knew, without doubt, that she would never again casually open a door, or spread sheets across a bed, or bask in the rare, bright sunlight of a Devonshire winter morning without remembering this moment.

            A moment he could not change.

He did not speak when she noticed him, nor when she froze in place, nor when she went deathly pale and her brown eyes—funny that he noticed their color—went wide with first recognition and then horror.

Nor did he speak when she opened her mouth and screamed. No doubt he would have done the same, had he been in her position.

It was only when she was through with that first, ear-shattering shriek—the one that brought footmen and maids and wedding guests and his father running—that he spoke, taking the quiet moment before the coming storm to ask, “Where am I?”

The maid simply stared, dumbstruck.

He made to move from the bed, the sheets falling to his waist, stopping short as he realized his clothes were nowhere in sight.

He was naked. In a bed that was not his own.

And he was covered in blood.

He met the maid’s horrified gaze again, and when he spoke, the words came out young and full of something he would later identify as fear. “Whose bed is this?”

Remarkably, she found her answer without stuttering. “Miss Lowe.”

Miss Mara Lowe, daughter of a wealthy financier, with a dowry large enough to catch a duke.

Miss Mara Lowe, soon-to-be the Duchess of Lamont.

His future stepmother.

es hora del super sorteo

giveaway time
(como siempre, fijaos si internacional o no)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Yo diría que es perfecto para los románticos que buscan humor y aventura ;o)

Babel que ha observado que hay un antifaz en la escalinata y va a quitarlo antes de que la dama se estampe contra el suelo.