Marie Treanor

Ariadne's Thread: Available now from Samhain Publishing.
It was supposed to be a simple burglary…but the ghosts had other ideas.

Glaswegian single mother Ariadne McSween is not having a happy New Year. Instead of celebrating with family and friends in time-honoured tradition, she’s helping her scallywag brother and his even less-savoury friends burgle a mansion in the Scottish Highlands. And nothing is going right.

First there’s the bad weather and car breakdowns. Then, instead of a quick, quiet robbery under cover of a noisy party, Addie finds herself flirting outrageously with the house’s owner, sexy concert pianist and accused murderer, John Maxwell. Worse, her violent and erratic accomplice, Shug, takes their hosts hostage.

Another complication: The house turns out to be haunted, and not just by the ghost of eminent composer Christopher Maxwell. Two randy spirits drawn to the lust of living want to join the party—along with the vengeful shade of John’s murdered wife.

Soon Addie becomes entangled in a host of mysteries, like why are Ariadne and her cohorts being paid to rob a house that holds nothing more valuable than dusty musical manuscripts? And most of all, how does she avoid falling in love with the chief victim of her crime?

Warning: This book contains explicit and musical sex, adult language and swearing in Glaswegian.

Read Reviews
Read Excerpts

Reviews:

"a great read! Exciting, scary, and adventurous, it is filled with a great romance."
"Marie Treanor always delivers a book that you’ll be talking about long after reading it."
"I particularly enjoyed the orchestrated love scene. You will have to get this book to find out what I mean..."
"so far, I have only read excellent stories from this very talented writer and you should run, not walk and get her entire list. You will not be disappointed! I guarantee it!" - Valerie, Love Romances and More, 5 hearts.

"a wacky crime caper with romance, and it's an interesting one... some intriguing twists and turns". - Mrs Giggles, 76.

"a fast-paced story with a very strong element of farce... fresh and fun. Addie is a gal from “the wrong side of the tracks” in working-class Glasgow. Readers will love her tough attitude and her smart mouth... John Maxwell is a man in a kilt, and who doesn’t love a man in a kilt? He has a wonderful, eccentric family that the reader will want to adopt as their own, ghosts included. This story will have one rooting for the hero and the heroine and wondering how they can possibly end up together since Addie is involved in the crime against the household... For those who love humor, ghosts, and a bit of a whodunit, Ariadne’s Thread is a Recommended Read." Whitney, Fallen Angel Reviews, 5 Angels, Recommended Read!

"wickedly humorous characters, and a plot that proves to be as intriguing as it is sexy. Addie and John are both a little dangerous, a little kooky, and a whole lot of fun... Whereas the crazy relatives and mischievous ghosts are the perfect accompaniment to really round out the story. Ms. Treanors’ sharp witty dialogue, and passionately bumbling characters are just the ticket for one fantastic read." - Lototy, Coffee Time Romance, 4 cups

Excerpts:

     They had reached the top of the stairs now. Turn right, please turn right, away from Tammy…
     He drew her to the left. Addie was sure she could hear the office door rattling. She coughed to cover up any shouting, then found herself whisked into the piano room and the door firmly closed.
     “What are we doing here?” she demanded.
     “I thought you might like to play the piano with me.”
     The lamp was still on. By its poor light, his face looked rugged and more devilish than ever. And he stood too close, much too close. With the door behind her, there was nowhere she could go. God help her, there was nowhere she wanted to go…
     “Though now we’re here, I find I don’t give a stuff about playing.”
     You could drown in the storm of those eyes. She so needed to be away from him…
     “Shit, Kate.” His breathing seemed suddenly uneven. “Remember what you said about the lucky bag?” She opened her mouth to deny that she’d meant any of that, but he didn’t let her speak. “You’re right. It would be a bloody unlucky dip that dropped me in your lap. Tell me to sod off. Tell me quickly, and mean it—right after this kiss…”
     His head swooped down and his mouth seized her parted lips before she could think, let alone react to his words. She wasn’t prepared for it. She had no time either to reject him or to savor the moment. He went from speaking straight to kissing, his hands on either side of her face while his body pressed her back into the door. Paralyzed, she hung there while his mouth devoured hers, moving across her lips with a strange, tender hunger she’d never encountered before. It astounded her, enchanted her. So when his tongue slid between her lips, she opened wider to him, meeting his tongue with her own. He wound it in his, danced with it, sucked it into his own mouth while he explored every nook of hers.
     Sensation rolled inward like a tidal wave. Every caress of his sensitive fingertips at the corner of her lips, every movement of his devastating mouth, dragged her further in. She clung to him, kissing him back with forgotten passion till he groaned into her mouth.
     His hands left her face, trailing down her neck to her shoulders, and down the sides of her body, just teasing her breasts on the way to her waist where they lingered, stroking. Her hard, needy nipples pressed into him through the thin camisole. She moved in his arms, rubbing them against his chest. His hands swept down her hips, holding her while he pressed his lower body into her, his sporran jabbing into her abdomen.
     With an impatient jerk, his hand pushed between their bodies, pushing the sporran aside so that he could grind his erection into her instead. Through the thickness of his kilt, she could feel it already hard and thick. Desire flooded her, soaking her jeans. Her pussy pulsed with need.
     This can’t be happening…how can I want him so much so quickly?
     Changing the angle of his mouth, he deepened the kiss even further. One questing hand found her breast, cupping and caressing, his thumb flickering back and forth across her rigid nipple, making her moan into his mouth. She pressed forward into the delicious hardness of his cock and obligingly he rubbed it against her. She wanted it inside her, pushing, thrusting. She wanted him naked, to feel his skin, every inch of the hard body pressed so beguilingly against her now.
     At last, as if it were a supreme effort, he dragged his mouth free. “Tell me now,” he whispered, touching his forehead to hers. “Tell me quickly… ‘Sod off, John Maxwell, you’re nothing but trouble.’ Kate…”
     His mouth found hers again, brushing back and forwards across her lips as reality flooded back, bringing shame and guilt and a pain so sharp it made her gasp aloud. She grasped his head between her hands to stop his devastating mouth.
     “Johnny… I… Johnny, I’m not…”
     Something bumped inside the room, crashing against the window frame at the same time. A body fell into the room, cursing in fluent Glaswegian.
     Appalled, Addie watched over Johnny’s shoulder as Big Malky rose to his feet, shaking his shaggy head as if to clear it.
     Johnny span round. “What the…?”
     Malky blinked at the pair of them. “Aw right there, big man?” he said amiably to his host. “Happy New Year.”

***

     Oh, Jesus Christ, do you only exist to get in my way?
     Addie’s eyes snapped open. She was still orgasming as the door of the room pushed inward. Somehow she managed to grab at the fallen quilt, half-tugging it across her body. Through the haze of pleasure that still held her helpless, she gazed toward the door, waiting for Shug to appear. Instead, John Maxwell strolled into the room.
     The man of her dreams was more rumpled than ever, his black hair wild, his shirt opened most of the way down his chest, half in, half out of the kilt’s waist. Addie wanted to shout at him to get out, but as she was still in the throes of orgasm, only something like a whimper escaped from her lips. The sight of him at that precise moment was beautiful. It was appalling.
     Helplessly, she dragged her hand over her face, hiding it, hoping feebly that he would imagine she was just trying to wake herself up. It gave her a moment to get herself back under control—sort of—and when she looked again, Shug was hopping into the room, leaning heavily on a walking stick. In the other hand he grasped the inevitable gun, pointing it, of course, at John Maxwell.
     “Nice tits, Addie,” Shug said, “but there’s no need to show the world.”
     “Fuck off, Shug,” she said shakily. She dragged the quilt farther up and realized that, humiliatingly, John Maxwell was not looking at her but at the foot of her bed. Which is when, belatedly, she saw the naked man who sat there.
     His skin gleamed a warm shade of sepia. Long, tangled hair fell around his shoulders and across his curiously unclear but handsome face. Beside him stood another young man wrapped in a faded plaid. Through the latter’s body she could still see the window and the pale grey light of dawn gleaming through the curtains. They were both transparent.
     It seemed she was still dreaming, a dream now well out of control, but hey, it was a hell of a lot more fun than her waking life, so she was quite prepared to run with it.
     But no, Shug was distressingly real. He kept looking at her, as if willing the quilt to fall again.
     “No, really, Shug,” Addie said dangerously. “Fuck off.”
     “Thought you fancied a quick one for auld lang syne.”
     “Oh, I think she’s had one,” John Maxwell drawled...