BY: MONA KAREL
Her past was behind her…or so she’d thought.
Bethany Acton has come a long way from the day she was an abused child-bride of a dissolute jet setter. Now divorced and single, she writes for a lifestyles magazine, lives out of her motor home, and answers only to her boss—when he can find her. She has overcome her horrendous past and taken control of her own life. But when Jonathan Merritt, a rising star in wildlife photography, enters her world, she learns that control is a tenuous thing.
His past was despicable, but it hasn’t affected his future…until now.
Jonathan knows he has met the woman with whom he wants to spend his future, but first he must admit his role in her past. Afraid the truth will turn her against him, he tries to gain her trust and affection before confessing. But the longer he hesitates, the harder it becomes to tell her. Can Jonathan gain enough of her love and trust for her to forgive what he did—or will his past indiscretions destroy his only chance for happiness?
TAYLOR JONES SAYS: Teach Me to Forget by Mona Karel is a contemporary, hot, and sexy romance about a young woman who was abused by her first husband. Bethany breaks away from her tycoon husband and starts her life over, only to fall in love with a man involved setting her up for that abuse in the first place. Bethany is now a magazine reporter and she reviews a book by our hero, Jonathan Merritt—without his permission of course. In retaliation, Jonathan pays Bethany’s publisher a visit, only to find himself enchanted with the spunky, but shy, reporter. In order to get her alone long enough to find out more about her, he offers her publisher an exclusive interview, provided that the publisher can convince Bethany to spend the next few days at Jonathan’s home doing the interview. But no sooner does he get her alone than she begins to display the symptoms of deep psychological scars caused by her teenage marriage to her first husband, a cold, despicable, and wealthy business tycoon.
I was a little unclear as to when exactly Jonathan realizes that Bethany is the same person he helped inadvertently set up for her teenage wedding, but other than that, I had few complaints about the story. The writing is good, the plot strong, and the characters charming. This is a story about overcoming your past, learning from your mistakes, and forgiving others who also learn from theirs.
REGAN MURPHY SAYS: Teach Me to Forget by Mona Karel is an interesting novel. While it doesn’t have the same paranormal thriller bent that her first novel, My Killer, My Love had, it does have the same injured/scarred heroine, aloof/unfeeling hero style that appealed to me so much in that book. In the case of Teach Me to Forget, the heroine Bethany is emotionally and psychologically injured rather than physically, but the wounds are deep and just as debilitating as physical ones. Sold by her own father to a wealthy but cold and insensitive business tycoon, Bethany is a teenage virgin bride. She has to be drugged to willingly go through with the wedding, and once she is married she is abused and treated like a personal possession by her husband. When she finally escapes from the marriage, she has turned from a happy, warm, and generous teenager into a scared and untrusting young woman, who uses and alias to prevent her ex-husband from finding her.
When her magazine publisher demands that she accompany the hero Jonathan to his home in the mountains to do an exclusive, in-depth interview—something Jonathan has never offered a reporter before—Bethany has to agree or risk losing not only her job, but her boss as a friend. She reluctantly agrees to go with Jonathan, but she has no idea that Jonathan was partly responsible for her being chosen as her first husband’s virgin bride. The plot revolves around Bethany’s learning to trust another human being and coming out of her self-imposed prison of no emotional attachments—ever! The writing in Teach Me to Forget is as good as in My Killer, My Love, and the plot is equally strong. The subject matter was handles with sensitivity, and as Taylor says, the sex scenes are hot.
It was a storybook wedding. The elite of the world’s beautiful people crowded the groom’s yacht, cruising off the south French coast. The groom’s austere face was only slightly lined, the gray at his temples adding a distinguished air. His still trim body was clothed by the establishment which had enjoyed the patronage of every male in his family since his great-grandfather. Although he conversed urbanely with his guests, his possessive gaze never left his bride.
Framed in the lens of the ever-clicking camera, the bride had the lithe slenderness seen only in the very young and healthy. Delicate curves hinted at the woman she would one day become. Her short dark hair was gamine cut by the stylist who had created the look. Her make-up had been applied by the hands of the genius whose company had taken three generations of women from beautiful to gorgeous. Her lavish bouquet was of rare miniature white orchids, picked deep in the rain forests of South America and flown in for this ceremony. The lace for her veil had been created by devout hands in a convent which had produced lacework of this gossamer perfection for centuries.
The veil was secured by a pearl crown once belonging to a medieval princess. It framed a delicate, serious face dominated by enormous, hazy green eyes and a lush, slightly trembling mouth, and billowed down to hand made, four inch spike heels. By tradition the full length veil attested to the purity of the bride, leaving no doubt in the mind of anyone attending that day that this was, indeed, a virgin bride. The diaphanous covering enhanced her bridal outfit, personally designed by the hand of the dresser of royalty. Brilliant fire opals had been meticulously applied to the hand sewn, French cut white bikini.
Ten years later, the offices of Western Living magazine, San Francisco, California:
“Acton, are you done in there yet?”
Bethany Acton stared at herself in the fogged-over mirror, and wondered exactly what her boss, Neil Chandler, meant by done? She was done removing grime collected in the last three days, when showers were not possible. Her skin, now concealed by the navy blue T-shirt she’d pulled on over a sturdy, dark sports bra, had attained an interesting shade of pink. Nearly the same pink tracked across the whites of her eyes, providing more color than their usual indeterminate green. She was even done subduing her stubborn mass of hair, too red to be a proper shade of brunette, into a semblance of restraint.
She was also done looking at herself in the mirror. She’d been done with that for a long, long time.
“You can’t hide in there forever, Acton.”
Who could ignore such a perfect entry cue? Securing an olive green scarf around her still damp hair, she added a matching over-blouse and reached for the bathroom door. At the last minute she dropped a battered fatigue cap on her head. Neil hated her cap.
“Who said anything about hiding? The heater’s out in my rig and I had to use your shower.” She spoke airily as she moved into the room, trying to project enthusiasm. “I’ve got to talk to you about a piece I want to do. Celia said you were out with someone. She told you I was here, didn’t she?”
“She didn’t have to.” Neil indicated the regularly spaced smudges, reaching from the office entrance to the bathroom, on the thick, elegantly pale gray carpeting. The luxurious office was a testimony to his transition from renowned wire service reporter to highly successful magazine editor. Along the way he’d gained some weight, lost some hair, and almost learned how to deal with the likes of BL Acton. “I take it you parked in the underground.”
She spared a moment’s regret for the carpet, but an apology could be taken as a weakness. At this point she needed to negotiate from a position of power. She had to remain focused.
“Of course. I wouldn’t leave my rig in front of the building and risk lowering the property value. Your messages sounded serious, so I decided to come straight in. I would have skipped going to Paul’s but…”
“If you thought the messages sounded so serious, why didn’t you bother returning one or two of them?” Neil kept his voice calm but the effort was beginning to show.
“I was coming in anyway?” Slanting a glance at him, she wondered if her editor was in a mood to be charmed right now or if she needed to give him more time to rant.
Neil caught the look, probably recognizing it as one his daughters and, more recently, his granddaughters, had tried out on him. Giving way to a gust of laughter, he lifted his hands in surrender but continued in a serious tone.
“Acton, we put a telephone in your motorhome to ensure communication. You’re my only writer without a house or apartment. I must be able to reach you.”
“You’ve never worried before about where I was, as long as you had my itinerary.”
“Your ‘itinerary’ tells me where you might be within a span of three to four days. Unless we have answers from some of your contact numbers, we have no idea where you are.”
“I still don’t understand what the big deal is,” she muttered, wandering over to his massive desk.
Her boss gathered his control with an obvious effort. Bethany knew she could send him off on a tangent faster than any revolutionary head of state.
“Do you remember the piece you did for Steve Wilkins while his wife was in the hospital?”
“The review of J. Phillip Merritt’s latest book?” She tried to keep her voice casual. “I thought it was a rather good piece of writing. As I remember you agreed, at least on the final version.”
“We’ve had some negative feedback.”
She frowned, turning to face him completely.
“You’ve only sent out advance copies, haven’t you? What was the objection, that I’d seen the great man’s book, or that I enjoyed it?”
Neil didn’t answer her directly. Turning his head slightly, he nodded to someone behind her.
“The fact, Ms. Acton, that the review was written at all.”
The voice, clear and commanding with just a hint of an accent, came from a grouping of plush leather chairs near the window. Bethany cursed her lack of attention. No wonder she hadn’t been able to charm Neil. On the outer fringes of her conscious, she’d sensed trouble.
Trouble came very elegantly packaged these days. The slightly baggy linen slacks were the dernier cri among those people to whom these things mattered more than life or sanity. For just a moment, as the tall, lean frame unfolded, backlit by the sunny San Francisco afternoon, she experienced an unpleasant shock of near recognition. Then he attained his full height and the impression was gone.
He strolled forward—the look, one she knew all too well. His hair, dark and thick with an artistic droop over his highbrow, wasn’t quite as meticulous as might be expected. But she’d been isolated too long to be up on all the nuances—slightly rumpled could be all the rage this year. Certainly his pale blue eyes were ideal to convey his emotions, or lack thereof. She quelled an irrational impulse to step back. She’d stopped backing off about the same time she’d stopped studying herself in mirrors.
If she had retained the primitive escape impulses, she’d have indulged herself now. The stranger towered over her five-and-a-half-foot height. While his unreadable gaze took in her appearance he leisurely buttoned a European tailored jacket, automatically smoothing the sleeves. He had elegant hands, lean and strong-looking, with deft fingers. She didn’t want those hands anywhere near her body. Neil stepped between them, a welcome buffer in an atmosphere suddenly overloaded with tension.
“Lose the hat, Acton,” Neil muttered, pushing a cup of coffee into her stiff right hand. As if he knew she wouldn’t want to offer her hand in greeting.
With her free hand, she plucked the well-worn hat from her head, flicking it onto a chair. The scarf was revealed, covering her hair completely and doing nothing for her appearance. Neil’s groan came between clenched teeth.
“J. Phillip Merritt, BL Acton.”
Bethany felt her breath catch sharply in her throat. Her interest had been strictly in the renowned nature photographer’s work. Had she thought about the man himself, her image of him might have been along the lines of someone of sufficient size to equal the majesty of the images he preserved. She might have envisioned a fussy older sort, excruciatingly precise about detail and prone to wearing sweaters with shiny suede patches on the elbow.
Never would she have pictured a man fashionably dressed, with the kind of leanly muscled body made to wear the most expensive clothing—or no clothing at all. Shocked by this unaccustomed response to a man, she chose to attack rather than allow herself to retreat.
“Mr. Merritt, this is indeed an honor. I was not aware you moved among mortals.”
“Acton,” warned Neil.
“Were you aware that I prefer not to have my work reviewed in advance of publication?” Merritt asked, as though only mildly interested.
Bethany realized avoiding a handshake wouldn’t be a problem. He’d jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, no doubt to keep from wrapping them around her neck. She had that effect on a lot of people. From the corner of her eye she thought she caught a questioning expression on Neil’s face, but when she turned her head to look more closely, he was back to his enigmatic reporter look.
“In particular,” Merritt continued, still in that indifferent tone, “I do not encourage reviews done by unknown, imitation bohemians of questionable talent.”
“Would this mean you prefer reviews done by genuine, notorious bohemians?” She felt a brief moment of chagrin when Merritt’s mouth tightened, making his expression seem even more severe. This was the man who’d photographed dawn through a frozen spider web? He seemed to have the sensitivity of a glacier.
“Acton, have you eaten lately?” Neil broke in gamely, probably trying to excuse her testy mood. A frown was gathering on his brow, as though he were confused by something.
“How could I? Your phone’s been hounding me since last night.” Hearing the acid in her voice she turned away and drew a deep breath. When possible, a wise negotiator avoided confrontation on more than one front. “I think I had lunch yesterday.” She turned back before her boss could utter his standard protest. “But I’m taking my vitamins.”
“We were waiting lunch until you got here.”
Bethany eyed Merritt’s elegant clothing, and his expression. How had Jane Austen described Darcy? Repulsive? Repugnant? That was the problem with a classical education; she remembered just enough to confuse herself. Whatever, J. Phillip Merritt looked every bit the part of a supercilious aristocrat, as though he’d just stepped out of an historical novel. A deep rooted imp took over her vocal cords.
“I get the impression, Neil, that Mr. Merritt would not feel comfortable being seen in public with the likes of me.” She’d expected at best a smirk in reaction. What she got looked almost like a brief, guilty flush.
“Marsha found an outfit she thought you might like,” Neil said, still determinedly cheerful. “If you want to change we could try the new seafood place.”
“The dark green silk in the closet? It’s lovely. I thought I recognized your wife’s taste.” She hadn’t seen anything that stunning in many years. Then again, she no longer had use for that kind of camouflage. “I could stay like I am and order in a pizza.”
“How about a light lunch at the French place down the street?”
“How about I grab a ‘cheeseboogie’ or something and meet you back here?” She was almost able to smile. Neil was beginning to melt a little. If she could just get safely through the confrontation with Merritt—from the look on the photographer’s lean face, she wasn’t sure how easy that would be.
Neil looked from one antagonist to the other, and sighed. Between her fondness for mischief and the aloof photographer’s lack of appreciation for her lively tongue, Neil had to know it might not be a pleasant meal. The least he could do was pick a restaurant where they’d all be comfortable.
“There’s a small place a few blocks away, Mr. Merritt,” Neil said, apparently catching on. “Good selection, fresh food and patio tables. The dress code is relaxed but you might want to bring along your hat in case we’re in the sun.”
The food was superb, the service unobtrusive. Between courses, Jonathan Phillip Merritt sipped at freshly brewed coffee, watching the Acton woman while she pretended to concentrate on an excellent thick soup.
She’d chosen a table in the corner, seating herself against a brick wall softened by dark vines. Since her irreverent behavior in the office she’d refused to acknowledge his existence, determinedly keeping Chandler between them on the brisk walk to the restaurant. Once there, she chose to sit out of his direct line of sight.
Jonathan wondered if BL Acton thought wearing layers of ill-fitting clothing was sufficient armor against a curious male population. Her fluid movement hinted at a fascinating body. She dressed in Goodwill surplus but carried herself like a graduate from an outstanding private school.
He remembered a flash of thick auburn hair below the fatigue cap when she first sailed into the office, covered in mud and insouciance while she navigated through the greetings of her co-workers. Her zest for life, her intense vitality, had been obvious even from across the room.
From that distance and under a coating of various shades of dust and grime, her features seemed unremarkable. Cleaned up, her hair concealed, her face was displayed severely. A light golden tan, fine bones, a dainty nose and soft mouth couldn’t be disguised no matter how obsessively unfeminine she tried to look. Dark, thick brows and lashes guarded large eyes that made him think of his favorite secluded forest glade. She hadn’t quite hidden the flash of apprehension in her mossy green eyes when she noticed him for the first time. When she learned his identity, her guilt was obvious, and charming.
Her persona was excellent, the hard-driven, carefree, field reporter, sailing through life with a joke and a byline. It lacked only a can of beer in her fist to complete the picture. Still, no calloused, shallow reporter could have produced a review that cut effortlessly to the very soul of his work.
She was bantering again with Neil, the tension momentarily leaving her soft, full mouth when she heard a story about the newest member of the Chandler clan. As though suddenly coming to a decision Neil reached out, not quite touching her arm.
“Why don’t you spend some time at our place while you’re in town? You can have that corner room that opens onto the patio.”
This brought a wistful expression to her delicate features. For a moment she seemed tempted, one side of her soft lower lip slipping in between her teeth while she considered the offer. Jonathan felt an almost uncontrollable urge to rescue the abused lip, and hold it for ransom between his own teeth. The thought made him stir restlessly. This made no sense. Smart-mouthed females in masculine dress, who made a career out of being tougher and quicker than anyone else, held no appeal for him. Much to his relief, she released her lip.
“Who’s going to be there this week, Neil?” she asked, her voice silky, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Marsha, the girls. You know, the usual.” Neil murmured, suddenly very nonchalant.
“Mmm, I do know. What night is she planning the party?”
For a moment, Neil seemed irritated then he laughed abruptly. “That depends on what night you’re planning to be there. You know Marsha, she never gives up.”
“Well, give her my love and thanks for her concern, but I think I’ll bow out. I’m not up to facing the madding crowd right now. Besides, Casey’ll be coming by tonight or tomorrow.”
“For what?” Neil seemed to be confused, but his voice was a shade too smug.
“That piece I was trying to tell you about earlier.” She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup, tilting her head in question. “Why else would I want to see him?”
Her air of innocence was almost perfect, but Jonathan saw the shy imp peering out from behind the shadows in her eyes. Acton was baiting her boss and seemed to enjoy every second of it. Until he noticed the death grip she had on her coffee cup.
“You wouldn’t be planning to ask him about the photos he took for this next issue, by any chance?” Neil leaned forward in his chair, arms on the table edge. He was beginning to establish control over the situation.
“Oh,” she breathed, all flutter-headed innocence. “You’ve seen those?”
“I approved them. Not a bad piece, Acton. You really got into that man’s character.”
Acton waved aside the praise that, from her heightened color, warmed her intensely. “What about the shot by the fireplace?” she asked, as though it were of no great interest.
“Good composition, marvelous color. I particularly liked the way the firelight filters through the dog’s ears. You could have done a bit more with your appearance but it does a lot for your image as a hard driven independent.”
“We had a deal, remember?” The breathy voice was gone, replaced by a clarity of tone that would do justice to a lawyer. “I would find the people who were hiding out from the world and display them in your magazine. In exchange my privacy would be ensured. ‘The Lone Interviewer,’ you called me. You liked the idea of me being a mystery person, remember? I was willing to overlook the fact that my back was ‘inadvertently’ not cropped out of one shot—”
“Not quite your whole back, as I remember,” Neil broke in smoothly, refilling his coffee cup from the carafe. “Do you by any chance remember what preceded that issue?” The tolerant humor had left Neil’s voice, to be replaced by the stern tones of an irate headmaster.
“That was when you found out I was turning off my car phone,” she said quietly, her shoulders slumping.
What had been a lightly accented, almost musical, voice suddenly lost all inflection. Only then did Jonathan realize how pleasant she had sounded. The cultured tones and precise pronunciation were as much at odds with the impression she attempted to convey as were the fine boned wrists extending from the cuffs of her heavy cotton over-shirt.
There was more than frustrated ego here. BL Acton was genuinely disturbed that the layout draft of her most recent article was accompanied by a photograph of her. The sudden haunted look in her eyes reminded Jonathan more than ever of a wood sprite thrust into the middle of civilization. Then her chin raised, her back straightened, and the sprite was sent back to hide in the enchanted forest.
Neil let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable for all of them before he spoke again. “Relax, Acton. There are alternates for that shot. However,” he continued sternly, “I can and will use that photo in the future if you do not keep in touch.”
He didn’t speak again until the young woman looked up and nodded tightly. “Tell me,” he asked, seeming genuinely interested. “Why would you want to talk to Casey? I choose the photos.”
“That’s true, but he takes them.” She allowed herself to relax and some of the beauty returned to her voice, along with the playful gleam in her eyes. “Casey knows I believe in getting even,” she said smugly, checking the carafe then signaling for fresh coffee. It was obvious she had fulfilled her purpose for the lunch meeting, and she was ready to eat quickly and get away.
She was ignoring him. Jonathan could not believe it at first, but this audacious fashion disaster was pretending he did not exist. He’d been willing to wait, to be patient as Chandler suggested, until she could get any pressing business out of the way and begin to relax. Obviously, patience was not going to get the job done.
He directed his attention to Chandler while Acton was occupied with the waitress. A lifted eyebrow, a shrugged shoulder, a nod of the head, and Chandler was setting down his napkin and rising. “Excuse me a minute. No, don’t get up, Acton. I see someone over there I’ve been trying to get in touch with for days. Marsha needs a commitment from him for one of her charities. You don’t mind taking over for me, do you?”
Neil left without waiting for an answer, walking away before Bethany could even get her lips moving. It wasn’t really a problem. Acting like a gracious hostess was one thing for which she had actually been trained. She opened her mouth, certain that an innocuous statement would fall out automatically. It never had a chance.
“It is interesting to note, Ms. Acton, that you are so protective about your own privacy and so careless about someone else’s.” Merritt’s cold haughty voice was in keeping with her initial image of him.
“The book was sent to us,” she said, tightly. So much for gracious.
“In error, and the publisher wrote you to that effect.”
“Not soon enough, I’m afraid.” She strove for absolute perfection in word and phrase. “Our regular reviewer was out that month, and I was filling in. By the time that letter arrived I was out of pocket, I believe on a working dude ranch, or was it the lost gold mine? Whichever, the letter caught up to me long after the piece was done and the magazine was in print.”
Actually, the letter, addressed simply to the book reviewer, had ended up in her pocket, unopened. The chance to write about her favorite photographer’s work had been too good to pass up. An apology, if required, had seemed a modest price to pay. Now she wondered. J. Phillip Merritt unnerved her. It had been years since she’d been close to a man like this, and she’d forgotten most of her hard-learned defenses.
“You do realize, Ms. Acton, I could have gone directly to the owners of the magazine. I doubt they would be quite so cavalier about this matter. Trouble for your editor would be an extreme price to pay for a practical joke, wouldn’t you say?”
At the threat to her friend she stiffened, chin raising, banishing any pretense of humor from her deliberately haughty expression. Power grew in her, overcoming the fear, drawing strength from the kind of education available only to the elite few. At times she had despised that education, but for this moment she welcomed the training.
“Freedom of the press, Mr. Merritt,” she began quietly, not allowing her voice to change from the perfectly modulated tones. “At worst, I would have to print a retraction. Let me see, how would I word this?” She narrowed her eyes, drawing her brows together, giving every impression of serious thought. From deep inside came a need to strike out at this man, to push him away before he could get any closer.
“In spite of my former review, I have not seen J. Phillip Merritt’s latest offering. I do not feel his talent is of any significance. Surely any hack with a box camera can do a better job of portraying the fragile beauty of the environment.” She drew in a breath, fighting the quaver her voice acquired when she let herself become upset. “Nor do I sense any emotion when I happen to encounter his work, except perhaps the feeling that he is a pompous ass.”
She rose from her chair, turning away from the table, nearly stepping into her editor. “Neil, I have a few things to take care of, so I’ll be off now. I’ll have them wrap my sandwich to go. If you need me, you know where I’ll be parked.” Her dignity still protected her like a cloak. “If Mr. Merritt has need of any further communication, you might inform him I specialize in mature, interesting people. Perhaps an interview could be arranged—in ten or twenty years.”
She avoided Neil’s outstretched hand and dropped crumpled dollar bills on the table before turning away. She was aware of the flare of interest in Merritt’s glittering blue eyes but chose to ignore it. After today, she would continue to admire Merritt’s body of work but she had no interest in seeing any more of his body.
Jonathan enjoyed the rear view picture of her winding through closely packed tables, her spine erect, her head carried just so. A diamond in the rough. No, not quite. A diamond of the first quality, roughly faceted by a careless hand. The chilling thought came from somewhere deep within him. No, he argued with himself. The tension-tightened mouth and shadows in her eyes had been a trick of the light, nothing more.
He felt eyes boring into him, and turned to face the humor on Neil Chandler’s face.
“She needs manners,” Jonathan murmured, knowing the older man wasn’t fooled.
“Her manners are impeccable. She just chooses when to use them.”
Jonathan toyed with the handle of his coffee cup, contemplating the money that had been flung on the table. Even in that small way, she proclaimed her self-reliance. “What do you know about her?”
“I know she is a very private person,” Chandler began, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I know she writes better than anyone else on my staff, and I’m very lucky she wants to stay with us. She has a knack for finding and interviewing people I didn’t know existed. One day she’ll realize there’s more to the world than California and this magazine, and we’ll lose her.
“My family adores her,” he continued, now smiling at some private thought. “My wife would adopt her in an instant if she could. Beyond that I can’t tell you. I hired Acton with the agreement that her privacy would not be violated.” There was no misunderstanding the finality in his words.
Jonathan sipped his coffee, thinking about forest glades, wounded spirits, wasted lives, and experiences that did not always bear closer inspection. He sensed the blood racing through his veins, gathering energy in anticipation of something momentous.
“Chandler, you know I have never encouraged any press about myself. How would you feel about Western Living running an exclusive interview on my life and future plans, to be published in conjunction with my upcoming showing?”
Interest flared in the man across from him, displayed by a covetous gleam in his eyes and a quick stiffening of his spine. It was masked, but not well.
“Who would conduct this interview?”
“I would expect the best, of course.”
Now Chandler took time to think. Years of experience with people from all walks of life had honed the editor’s instincts. He would have to balance the merits of running this exclusive against the possible negative reaction of a person he valued.
“Do you know what you’re getting into?”
Jonathan sat back in his chair, that strange excitement still rushing through his veins. “Yes, I think I do.”
“You’ll have to pin her down before you can examine her, and no one has ever done that,” Chandler advised. “She’s unique and very special, and if she were ever intentionally hurt, a lot of people would be very angry.”
Jonathan smiled again. For the first time in years, he looked forward to something. “I would never hurt your writer. I’m going to give her a chance to make us both famous,” he said and wondered when he had lost his ever-loving mind.
Thursday, April 18, 2013: Billie Jo of Romance Junkies recommends Teach Me to Forget.
She says: “TEACH ME TO FORGET is a contemporary romance. Ms. Karel pens a lovely tale filled with strife, secrets, and a sensual passion that will leave you fulfilled. The characters are delightful, the descriptions rich and the secondary characters add a lot of spice to this charming tale. I laughed at the antics and my heart soared when two tortured souls became one…If you are looking for a sensual romance with a mysterious background, then I would recommend TEACH ME TO FORGET by Mona Karel.” READ FULL REVIEW