Yesterday we had a bit of fun having coffee with Tilly Delane, author of the Brighton Bad Boys series.
Some of Tilly's favorites:
Favorite
drink: coffee, strong, white, no sugar.
Favorite
candy: jelly bellies.
Favorite
food: my mum’s tomato soup with all the extras.
Favorite
article of clothing or jewelry: because of what I do in my day job, I don’t
wear jewelry or accessorize, so I’d have to say: anything that has enough
pockets. Pockets are the most important aspect of any item of clothing.
Favorite
place to read: in bed.
Place you
want to visit some day: Outer Mongolia.
Now, as promised...
Brighton Bad Boys Book Blurbs
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| SILAS A Fighter Romance Brighton Bad Boys, Book 1 |
Silas
When I look into my future it’s like looking
down the barrel of a gun.
Trying to pay back a debt that was never yours,
a hopelessly fractured family, and betrayal by those you trusted the most will
do that to a man.
Most days I just survive. Alone.
The guys at TripleX, the club that hosts the
biggest illegal fight league in England, where I fight and bounce, all know
that I keep myself to myself.
I don’t do hanging around after lock up to pick
up drunk girls from the bar upstairs.
I don’t do staff drinks.
I don’t do socials.
I don’t do going to the gym together.
I don’t do friendship.
I work, I get paid.
I fight, I get paid.
End of involvement.
The irony is, there is nothing in Brighton, the
seaside city that I call my home, or in my life, actually worth fighting for.
Until Mum brings home a stray American.
A soft, curvy woman with bottle-red hair and
green eyes and a mouth made for sucking.
And no matter how hard I try to ignore her,
she’s there.
In my bed.
Grace
I’m here on a memorial tour for my mum - never
mom, she was born British, and no matter how long she lived in Washington DC,
she refused to be called mom.
I lost her a year ago, and it still hurts like
crazy.
I saved up every penny I made since her funeral
for this trip. Being here, in England, in Brighton, was supposed to help me
keep her memory alive, to remember her and the stories she used to tell me.
But in true Grace style, I fall at the first
hurdle.
The company I booked the hotel through has gone
bust, the hotel never got my reservation and there isn’t a room to be had
elsewhere in a ten-mile radius because of a small thing called the Brighton
Festival.
I’m ready to sleep in the lobby when the head of
housekeeping offers me a room in her house, at a rate I cannot refuse.
A room, it turns out, that smells of man in the
best possible way.
And with the scent comes a fighter, brooding and
beautiful, and about as lost as I am.
I want him.
Badly.
I just need to convince him that he’s worth the
fight, and that maybe together we can find our way out of the woods.
________________________
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| ROWAN Brighton Bad Boys Book 2 |
Rowan
When you’ve been to hell and back ─ and I don’t
just mean the outer rings of hell, I mean the ring right at the centre of
Hades, where gladiators like me fight for the entertainment of today’s Caesars
and Caesarias ─ you come back a monster or a broken man. If you come back at
all.
I’m neither.
I don’t know what I am.
I know I’m an addict.
I know I’m killer.
I know I’ve been running from myself since I was
twelve years old and that at every turn since I’ve made lousy decisions.
Time to face myself in the mirror.
So I’m taking a trip to the peninsula of Purbeck,
a beautiful nature reserve on the south coast of England, to enter rehab.
Can you rehabilitate a killer? Can you
rehabilitate a broken beast?
I doubt it, but at least I’m willing to try.
The last thing I expected was to meet a soul as
tortured as me, a woman whose eyes tell me she’s seen it, the
ugliness of life.
And she can deal.
She won’t look away.
She is competence in a fifties retro package
with fishnets and combat boots.
She’s my nurse.
And totally off limits.
Raven
I came out to meet the guy because he took
longer than is normal. I thought he might have gotten lost. Though that’s
pretty hard when going in a straight line down what was once the only road in a
village. But it’s a rehab clinic. Folk are kinda lost by definition when they
get here.
So I came to see what was taking him so long and
found him going down on the water fountain.
I mean, seriously, the way he hulked over it,
half his face under the stream, his tongue lapping at the water, was
obscene, feral. So my smart mouth decided to make a comment. A
wholly unprofessional comment, and now I’m standing here,
mesmerised. Like Mowgli meeting Kaa.
‘Cause he’s staring me down like a pro.
I can’t look away from his eyes. They are huge,
a deep, warm brown and they tell me stories too close for comfort. This is a
guy who gets it. Life. The ugliness. The bits where other people play three
monkeys. He sees them.
He sees me.
And I see him.
But he’s a client and that’s where the story
ends.
It’s my last intake of guests.
In a month from now my year in the British Isles
is over, I’ll hand over my job to a local, and I’ll be going home to America.
And I’m not getting fired in the meantime
because of a ‘connection’ to some sexy giant with muscle for miles.
‘Connections’ are a myth.
And a myth is not worth getting fired over.
But what if there is more than a connection?
What if there is actual healing?
_______________________
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| DIEGO BRIGHTON BAD BOYS BOOK 3 |
Kalina
I've been lusting after this guy for months.
George 'Diego' Benson is the forbidden fruit I
cannot have.
Not without putting my mission in peril.
Not without putting my heart in peril.
But then we look into each other’s eyes across
the distance between us.
And look.
And look.
My heart is racing.
My clit is pulsing.
My insides are clenching.
And suddenly I’m tired of the charade.
I like this guy.
I like him a lot.
Once my job here is done, I will never see him
again.
So just this once I want to be with him,
completely.
And I lunge.
Diego
Kissing her is like coming home.
Or how I always imagined coming home would feel
like.
It’s relief and feeling safe.
It’s hot and sweaty and raw.
It’s warm and sloppy and comfy.
It’s leaving behind all pretence.
And a whole lot of tongue.
So much tongue.
So much hunger.
This girl is on fire.
For me.
Not for the danger, not for the perceived
status, not for the money, but for me.
She’s not here to demurely please the boss and
then cream off the top.
She’s here, in my lap, because that’s where she
wants to be.
Where she belongs.
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