In the sixth and final installment of Jeffe Kennedy’s sizzling Master of the Opera, a man and a woman risk everything they’ve ever loved-for the most dangerous passion they’ve ever known. . .
Caught in a web of secrets and lies, Christy Davis has come under the suspicion of the local police. Since becoming an intern at the Sante Fe Opera House, she has witnessed strange occurences in the underground tunnels. She has heard inexplicable whispers in the shadows after midnight. And she has found the lover of her dreams in the masked man who lives down below. But after the discovery of a dead body and other sinister events, Christy realizes that her life is in danger. Two men hold her fate in their hands: Roman, the opera house’s wealthy benefactor who uses his money and power to control her. And the masked maestro known as the Master who demands her surrender and commands her pleasure with each stroke. Both want her; only one can have her. . .
In a rising crescendo of madness, obsession, and lust, Christy must take a chance and follow her heart-to a breathtaking climax as powerful as love itself.
Available March 20, 2014
From Jeffe's Blog
Posted on April 17, 2014 at 12:08 pm in NestPitch, pitching, query
Nest Pitch JK8: THE GIRL ON THE HALF SHELL
Category/Genre: New Adult Contemporary Romance
Word Count: 120,000
Virgin rich girl burner and superstar addict find love in NYC. These two lost people, a guy fresh from rehab and the daughter of a 60s music icon, fight to hold onto a searing passion.
If the MC was an Easter egg…
Alan is milk chocolate because he is smooth, seductive, a blend of pleasure and pain.
Excerpt: 300 words
People would have stared at my father even if he had not been famous. He is just that kind of man, but it has taken me until the age of eighteen to understand that. In my younger years, when I hated Jack in fleeting spurts, I thought fame was like a suit, he could take it off for me if he wanted to. Now I know better than to have childish expectations of what my father can or can’t do for me. Life with Jack is what it is. It is enough that he showed tonight, even if he did miss nearly the entire senior class spring recital.
I carefully conceal myself in the stage curtains as I watch Jack slipping into the auditorium and fading back into his customary seat in the far left corner. I can feel him in the darken theater though I can only make out a hazy detail of shape with my eyes.
Any other parent making that entrance would have had no impact on the audience. It is soundless. But my father is Jackson Parker, an icon of the sixties, forever part of the music and voice of a generation, and the entire chemistry of the room instantly alters.
Rene drops her chin on my shoulder as she stares out at the audience. “So, Jack did come,” she says. She frees my fingers from the shabby velvet and tosses a harsh glare at the curtains, their ages beaten elegance a thing she finds preposterous since the private Catholic boarding school we reside at cost a small fortune in tuition each year. The shabbiness of the facility she is certain is nothing more than deliberate proletarian punishment for children of non-proletarian families. “He said he would come and actually showed. Chalk one up for team Jack.