LITMIR.BIZ

       “Wyatt, what is it?”

      The next she knew he was against her, his mouth burning hot and rough against hers. Not the way she’d imagined their first kiss. Caught so off-guard she could do little more than react, she let her arms come up under his as he steered her backward to the wall and ground her into it, kissing her with the length of his big body.

      She’d always liked kissing—good, wholesome fun kissing. This was nothing like the playful, gentle kisses she’d found on the lips of any other men. It overwhelmed her, burning away every other thought, claiming every part of her—it was a flow of something hot and molten that dragged her down, burning her lips, singeing her tongue, searing her from the inside out with his breath she breathed.

      When he lifted his head she could only stare at him, light-headed and shaking, her arms still locked around his shoulders, broad, warm, and steady…and she couldn’t think of anything but kissing him again.

      Imogen tried to get control of her breathing, but held fast lest he get any ideas about letting go before she got her balance. Say something. Quick!

      “I like the way you talk” was what came out, followed by a bubble of semi-nervous giggles.

      Smooth.

      His gaze fell heavy on hers. Dark. Troubled. Though the giggles ceased, words still failed to materialize—and she was usually so good at talking.

       Dear Reader

      Growing up, I shared a dream typical of kids growing up in the country: I wanted nothing but to see the world. I didn’t expect the way that travel would affect the way I see the place when I come home again, letting me really appreciate the lush beauty of the Appalachian region and the rich local culture of the kind, generous, and colourful people who live here.

      I’m so happy my debut novel allows me to introduce this place to those who will never walk these wooded hills, explore what home really means, and tip my hat to the notion of finding love in the most unexpected places.

      I hope you enjoy reading Wyatt and Imogen’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

      I’m thrilled to hear from readers. You can find me online: amalieberlin.blogspot.com, www.facebook.com/amalie.berlin, or by e-mail—[email protected]

      Cheers!

       Amalie

      There’s never been a day when there haven’t been stories in AMALIE BERLIN’s head. When she was a child they were called daydreams, and she was supposed to stop having them and pay attention. Now when someone interrupts her daydreams to ask, ‘What are you doing?’ she delights in answering: ‘I’m working!’

      Amalie lives in Southern Ohio with her family and a passel of critters. When not working, she reads, watches movies, geeks out over documentaries, and randomly decides to learn antiquated skills. In case of zombie apocalypse she’ll still have bread, lacy underthings, granulated sugar, and always something new to read.

      Craving

      Her Rough

      Diamond Doc

      Amalie Berlin

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      I dedicate this book to my mom.

      For enduring months of tears and tantrums while teaching this dyslexic girl to read. And for tricking me into reading of my own free will (at 11) with an old 1960s Mills & Boon^® Romance^™ and the warning that I was only allowed to read this grown-up book if I took the responsibility seriously…

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE PROSPECT OF six months in rural Appalachia pinched like a noose around Imogen Donally’s neck. Three months—four, tops—was how long she liked to stay anywhere. Six months may as well be six years.

      Amanda was the only person she’d even consider such a request from, and then only because she hadn’t seen her in a couple of years and Amanda’s need was great. Her pregnancy had started smoothly, but a week ago there had been an incident and now Imogen’s best friend—her only long-standing friend—was on bed rest for her entire third trimester. Single motherhood was hard enough without those kinds of complications. She needed help. In that perspective, six months wasn’t so long, right? Less time than gestation…

      She took a deep breath and engaged all-terrain on her four-wheel drive, eyeing the deeply trenched gravel drive supposedly leading to the forested mountain home of Dr. Wyatt Beechum, Amanda’s cousin and boss—owner of a modern medical oddity: his family practice was housed on a bus.

      This looked like the right place. Unless the hand-painted numbers nailed to a tree meant something other than the street address. Amanda’s directions were written in her usual wandering fashion: mentioning every landmark along the way. Mile markers on the road. The number of bridges she’d cross. And Imogen’s personal favorite—indications of where things used to be. As if Imogen had any clue where things used to be around there. She wasn’t even sure she could find things

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