A tale of love, loss, revenge, and, oh! ... a secret marriage

Pierre Beauvoir is fired without even a reference, only for want of a better position. But when his nemesis’s beauty, the brand’s most popular and beloved daughter, strolls into sight, revenge enters his heart.

Isabel, the youngest of all the Locatelli siblings, hates her job, hates her life, and resents her irritating family. But the photographer her father sacked has a plan, and she is all in.

Wild Women Authors features Revenge’s Sweet Reward, book 4 in Mia Augustine’s Fiery Billionaires Nights series. Up first is high fashion model, Isabel Locatelli.

Thank you for joining us, Isabel. Today, we have an interesting tale. This past May we met your brother, Anthony [from An Unfashionable Diva]. His story was all about his job. How about you? I hate my job.

You hate being a model? Aren’t you the face of Locatelli International, Inc?

Rich? Famous beyond words? Our papa has no respect for my sisters or my wishes. For example, my oldest sister, Catarina. She is thirty. She wanted to practice law. But we were home taught—

You mean homeschooled? Sí. No university training. And me? I wished for computers. I am very good.

So, your sister couldn’t practice law because she was homeschooled. To become an avvocato, you must attend further schooling, no? Papa discourages that. It would detract from the family business, you see. I wanted to learn computers better. I have a—what do you say?—a trick?

You mean an aptitude? Ah. Aptitude. I like this word. Sí, an aptitude. When he fired our favorite photographer, it was the end for me.

You… quit? I try to explain, but Papa was most unreasonable. He wished me to marry. . . Adolfo. He is . . . the American phrase is icky. Correct? I could not stay, you understand?

I see. So, you ran away. I give Papa my notice, but he is stubborn and, the photographer—he had a strategy. I liked it very well.

Um, what was this plan? A secret marriage. Sí, I approved.

I take it that didn’t go over well? You mean, was Papa angry? Oh, yes. But we—Pierre and me—were clever. I feel bad for Catarina though. She was not so lucky.

Sounds as if I should talk to her. Sí, you will like her very much. Thank you for seeing me. I must go. Pierre needs me, you see.

Oh, of course. Thank you for speaking with me.

Now for a few questions for author Mia Augustine.

What literary pilgrimages have you gone on? Retreats? Many over the years. When I worked at my corporate job, by the time I started writing, I had four weeks’ vacation a year. I used almost all of it to travel to conferences, retreats, writing with friends out of town. One year, I went with three friends to Eureka Springs. It was so fun. We rented a house. When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, I was invited to a large house with thirteen other authors. I only knew two of them. 😊 Recently, I just returned from Bar Harbor, Maine. Soooo beautiful. And, productive.

What kind of research do you do and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book? The research for my contemporaries is primarily location. The weather, the terrain, what the town I’m using as a setting is like. I don’t always do a lot of research before I start writing. I tend to research as I go. Because you need just enough to authenticate the scenario you are attempting to create. For example, I wrote in a series with friends called Martini Club 4 (the Eureka Springs group) and the second in the series was set in Boston. I knew nothing about Boston. But the year it was set in,1947, was the year the Red Sox won the Pennant. It worked out perfect because of the dates we used in our stories, I had the friends going to a movie that ended the same time the game ended. And, the game was against the Yankees. Not only did the date match up perfectly, but so did the way the Red Sox beat the Yankees. It was crazy. And, one of the friends was from England. So, she referred to the game as Cricket. Of course, the other three were appalled. Little things like that give fun authenticity.

If you were not a writer, what would you be? A Broadway actor. 😊 In a heartbeat…

Mia brought an excerpt for us.

“Mmm?” Isabel strived to concentrate on Pierre’s words. A snuggly feeling swept through her. His body warmed her ribs, called to her.

“Where do you live?” he hissed.

With her eyes closed, her head fell against his shoulder. It was broad and solid. “Why are you whispering?” she whispered back and then giggled like a five-year-old child.

A low growl emitted from him that was decidedly sexy. She wanted more of that. Much more.

She put her nose in his neck and breathed in a deep vastly masculine scent that reached her insides, and instinctively, had her curling into his side like a cat.

“Isabel!” He spoke sharply, but she didn’t fear him.

Her gaze fell on his hands. They were powerful hands, making her wonder why. She reached out with a finger and traced the knuckles on one hand.

Both his hands tightened into fists and whitened his knuckles. That sexy growl sounded again, and she turned her head up until her nose pressed against the back of his jaw, then used the tip of her tongue to touch his skin. Hot, rough, indiscriminately exciting. “How old are you?” She sounded funny, slurring; she giggled again. Slurring.

He groaned then turned in the seat, taking her by her upper arms. Her skin was so warm. She tried crawling closer, but he stayed her. “Isabel, listen to me.”

“No.”

“No?” He sounded so incredulous.

She couldn’t stand that piercing look in his eyes and shut it out, closing her eyes against it. She poked her lip out. She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to kiss.

With another irritated rumble, he rattled off an address to the driver, who immediately took a sharp turn, throwing her across his lap, and sending her into another fit of giggles. She couldn’t seem to stop.

A few minutes later the cab screeched to a stop.

Pierre had her by the arm and was tugging her out of the cab. The sun had set, leaving behind and inky black sky, dotted with stars that twinkled like diamonds, and a light breeze that stirred her hair. He pulled her firmly by the hand to the front entrance of a large two-story house. An old-timey mansion house. Two white pillars appeared to hold up an upstairs outdoor balcony, creating a portico to the door. He tossed money to the driver and, looming over her, ordered, “Be very quiet. My landlords do not care for their residents having company.”

His intensity sent shivers across her skin. “None?”

“Absolutely, none.” He tugged her up a step and she almost tripped. He turned back to her, and hissed. “I said ‘quiet.’”

His fierceness was irresistible. “Shh,” she whispered, motioning a zipper across her mouth, locking an invisible key, and tossing it aside.

He led her through the door into a lobby area with no furniture, though the decorative tiles were nice. And echoey, very echoey under her chunky heels. The walls, painted an unbecoming orange halfway up, then white to the ceiling, were not as pretty. The steps were topped with a hard marble substance and the banisters looked to be of old Spanish iron fashioned in swirls. At the top, he guided her to the end of a skinny hall with wooden floors and halted at the last door. He glanced over his shoulder at her, putting a finger to his lips.

She blinked at him, then remembered to nod.

He unlocked the door and pushed her inside. He checked the hall before entering then locked the door behind him and set his camera case on a small nearby table. “Now, you want to tell me why you’re here?”

She spun around, wobbling on her pink, crystal-covered shoes. “What do you mean?”

He caught her by the arm. “If your father…”

Anger surged through her. “Bah! Blast my father. He is not the boss of me. Well, not after Paris,” she said.

Pierre directed her to a tiny kitchen table and saw her seated. Ever the gentleman, wasn’t he? “Not much, he isn’t,” he responded. It took her a second to realize he was addressing her father as her ‘former boss.’ “If the old man doesn’t castrate me, your brother likely will.”

Her hand flew to her mouth to hold in her laughter. Her eyes watered at the effort. “Is there something to drink?”

With a sharp smirk in her direction, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, twisted off the top and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. She glanced around the one room flat, amazed at how small everything was. The sofa was pulled out into an unmade bed, covers askew.

“My main home is in Montmartre. Paris,” he clarified.

Nodding, she sipped at her water. Exhaustion hit her like a two-by-four. She set the water on the table and laid her head on her arms.

“You can’t stay here,” he said.

She smiled in her arms, the lethargy dragging her down. “Just for a minute. I’ll leave soon.” This was as safe and unguarded as she’d felt in forever. No demanding questions from her sisters, her brother, her father or stepmother. There was a hush about the building that drew her in. Maybe she would let this room once he vacated it.

“When are you moving?” she asked, but sleep stole his answer from her.

Mia Augustine can be found at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100089614103041

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Website: https://kathylwheeler.com