Sugar’s not so sweet and
secrets can be deadly … especially with matters of the heart
Sienna’s
bestie, Harper warned her not to intern for famous bad boy artist, Casper
Mason. After all, he just fired Harper who helped Sienna get the interview. But
the moment Sienna sees Casper—or Caz—sweaty and practically shirtless and
swinging from chains while he works on his sculpture, she’s hooked. He’s the
richest, hottest artist in New York, and he lives in the fabulous Williamsburg
Sugar Factory. But he’s also an incorrigible game-player, who seems to relish challenging
Sienna’s loyalty with a string of unsettling tests.
She
knows she should get away fast. But by the time Sienna sneaks into his locked
storage room and begins to unearth his dark and terrifying secret, she’s fallen
way too hard for the handsome, charismatic Caz.
Author Bio:
Kitsy Clare hails from Philly and lives in New
York. A romantic at heart, she loves to write about the sexy intrigue of the
city, and particularly of the art world. She knows it well, having shown her
paintings here before turning to writing. Her new adult romance series The Art
of Love is about artist Sienna
and her friends. Living in a Bookworld says: “Beautifully written! We get to learn things about
art & painting, which is refreshing. A colorful story from a promising new
adult author.” Kitsy also writes YA as Catherine Stine. Her
futuristic thriller, Ruby’s Fire was
a YA finalist in the Next Generation Indie book awards. Fireseed One, its companion novel, was a finalist in YA and
Sci-Fi in the USA News International Book Awards, and an Indie Reader notable.
Her YA horror, Dorianna, launches on
Oct. 24 with Evernight Teen.
He
locks his rich, hot-chocolate eyes on me, and studies my every curve and angle,
seems to be piercing right through my skin into the alleys of my mind and
heart. Curious, he’s so curious. I
sense him asking where I’m from and why it took me so long to find him, and
what kind of art I do, and whether I’ve ever sold it or gotten a review, or who
I know, who I hang out with, and how much experience I’ve had in galleries, in
school, in the world, in bed. My neck
heats up. Did I just think that? Or was
that something in his head that crossed wires and invaded mine? He’s close
to me now, still staring boldly, when suddenly I feel his inner questions stop.
And a wall, like one of those metal store gratings, clatters downward and
slams. Closed for business, closed for questions, closed for good.
This,
all before we’ve exchanged one word. When I come back into myself, I’m
embarrassed to realize that I’m wringing my hands—the old-fashioned hysterical
Victorian damsel in distress kind of wringing. I stop, immediately. Rub my
sweaty palms on my dress. Buck up! I
scold silently. And I extend my hand. “I’m Sienna. I’m your new intern.”
Casper
Mason doesn’t take my hand. The nerve. He’s standing there, boldly, legs wide
apart in some twisted warrior stance, arms folded across his wide chest. Jaw
jutting out rebelliously, eyes daring me . . . to do what? So after an
excruciating few seconds, I retract my hand.
“My
new intern?” Caz mumbles as though an intern is a radioactive space rock or
some otherworldly object and he never ordered one. “Well, it’s about time. That
last one was a disaster.”
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