Blog Tour: Beauty and the Werewolf by NY Times & USA Today Bestselling author Kristin Miller

Beauty and the Werewolf Tour Banner Beauty and the Werewolf by Kristin Miller San Francisco Wolf Pack #2 Publication Date: August 2015 Genres: Paranormal, Romance
Beauty and the Werewolf Cover

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Synopsis: Unmated werewolves don’t normally live past three hundred years old...and billionaire Jack MacGrath is cutting it close. Sure, he has almost everything—the respect of his peers, a mansion in San Francisco, a private jet, and fast cars. But without a mate, Jack's in trouble. Then he sees her. Gorgeous, proud...and his enemy.
Isabelle Connelly is good at hiding things from her father. Like her success as a painter, or the incredibly intense attraction she has to Jack MacGrath. After all, she's royalty and falling for anyone lesser—to say nothing of a rival pack—would be, er, unseemly. Now she must choose between her duty to her family and her pack...or her perfect fated mate.
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Also in the San Francisco Wolf Pack series...

The Werewolf Wears Prada Cover
The Werewolf Wears Prada by Kristin Miller San Francisco Wolf Pack #1 Publication Date: April 2015 Genres: Paranormal, Romance

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Synopsis: Melina Rosenthal worships at the altar of all things fashion. Her dream is to work for the crème de la crème fashion magazine, Eclipse, and she'll do much anything to get there. Even fixing up the image of a gorgeous, sexy public figure who's all playboy, all the time. Even if he's the guy who broke her heart a year ago...
Even if Hayden Dean is a werewolf. Since his father's death, Hayden's the heir apparent to the San Francisco Wolf Pack—well, once he settles down. Hayden isn't interested in giving up his partying ways, except he's pretty sure he's found his fated mate, and the fact that she's a non-shifter is bad news. Now he must find a compromise between the traditions of his wolf world and his certainty that Melina is his...before fate (or another werewolf) bites them both in the butt.
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About Kristin Miller

Kristin Miller
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Kristin Miller writes sweet and sassy contemporary romance, romantic suspense, and paranormal romance of all varieties. Kristin has degrees in psychology, English, and education, and taught high school and middle school English before crossing over to a career in writing. She lives in Northern California with her alpha male husband and their two children. She loves chocolate way more than she should and the gym less. You can usually find her in the corner of a coffee shop, laptop in front of her and mocha in hand, using the guests around her as fuel for her next book.

Music is such an inspiration for my wolf pack books. I listen to it every single day I write. Well, allow me to rephrase. I listen to the same songs on repeat as I write each day. Yeah, I just revealed my little bit of crazy.
My process may be odd, but it allows me to write and edit a category romance novel like BEAUTY AND THE WEREWOLF in four to six weeks. While it’s not perfect at that point, the first draft is produced much faster than ones where I didn’t listen to music at all.
I listen to Spotify radio (either David Gray or Otis Redding), and let the songs cycle through the station as I write. Then, when the pace naturally increases, I take whatever song was playing during that time and save it to the book’s playlist. I repeat the process until I have a core list of songs (three to ten, usually) that work for the book.
I can’t explain why certain songs work and why others don’t. Maybe it’s the lyrics, the melody, or the message. I can’t say. By the end of the book though, I have a list of songs that solidly represent the book as it was written. They’re the lyrics that spoke to me as I breathed life into the characters. They’re the melodies that had me humming through fun scenes. These songs become the backdrop for the book—the soundtrack that was created organically rather than after-the-fact.
Want a peek into the songs that inspired BEAUTY AND THE WEREWOLF? Here they are in no particular order:
1.      January Rain by David Gray
2.      I Don’t Want to Change You by Damian Rice
3.      Ain’t No Reason by Brett Dennen
4.      Tears and Rain by James Blunt
5.      Round Here by Counting Crows
6.      Angel by Jack Johnson
7.      Shelter by Ray LaMontagne
8.      The Promise by Tracy Chapman
9.      To Be Alone With You by Joshua James
10.  Arms of a Woman by Amos Lee

What do you think? See any songs there you love?


EXCERPTS: Beauty and the Werewolf by Kristin Miller

He had eleven Bella Nolan paintings.
Werewolf in Venice would make twelve.
And he wasn’t about to be outbid by the tiny little pixie sitting in the row across from him. She had dark hair that dropped past her shoulders and curled up at the ends. Bright green eyes lined with thick lashes. Freckles covering her plump cheeks. She was a werewolf—he could tell by the sweet and spicy smell of her—but she wasn’t from the San Francisco Wolf Pack.
He would’ve run into her by now, and he never forgot a face.
The pixie wore a thick black scarf, black heels, and a black dress that revealed the porcelain-smooth length of her legs when she crossed them. Judging from her attire, she was either headed to a funeral after the auction or stuck in a permanent state of melancholy. Or maybe she simply thought the monochromatic color would make her incognito.
Yeah, no way. With legs like that, anonymity was impossible.
As the bid tiptoed higher, reaching six hundred fifteen thousand, Jack raised his paddle with a flick of his wrist. He couldn’t care less about the money spent. He’d accumulated an estate worth billons, but even if he hadn’t, he’d go in debt to hang Werewolf in Venice on his walls.
Besides, he couldn’t take his billions with him when he died, so he might as well spend his money on something he could enjoy in his final days.
Seeing as how he was a 320-year-old werewolf who’d yet to find his Luminary—his one and only fated mate—he was weakening. Werewolves could only live about three hundred years without going through the bonding process with their Luminary. With every year that passed by, he was pushing the envelope.
He’d searched tirelessly for his mate. Scoured wolf packs throughout the country, and had come up empty-handed. Luminaries could feel the spark of connection at first touch.
He’d failed. End of discussion. End of his life.
A shaky breath ripped from his lungs.
Just then, he picked up something else in the pixie’s scent. Hints of something rich and creamy. It smelled almost like—no, it couldn’t possibly be—Guinness? Smooth and full. Bittersweet underneath. Had she drunk the beer recently? Was it still on her breath?
He couldn’t tell.
The pixie lifted her chin—a slight move, but he caught it—and raised her paddle.
Guess she was a Bella Nolan fan, too.
Without thinking twice, he rebutted.
She craned her neck to the side and glared at him, kinking one eyebrow. It was clear that she was trying to give him attitude, but she looked downright adorable. Like a puppy gearing up for battle against a more formidable dog. He couldn’t help but smile.
Sweetheart, I’m 320 years old. I’ve met and outbid enthusiastic bidders like you before.
But you’ve never met me.
Her thoughts struck him like a hammer to the temples. He hadn’t meant to project his thoughts, or for her to hear them. But now that she’d responded, he couldn’t get the sweet sound of her voice out of his head. Her tone was light and airy, like the winter wind, carrying a soft accent.
He couldn’t place it. English? Irish? Definitely European.
With a huff, the pixie redirected her attention to the front. And raised the bid again.
I can do this all day. Her lips twitched in irritation as her words pulsed through his mind. You might as well go home now. It’ll save you some embarrassment.
Exhilaration fired through his veins.
There was only one thing he loved more than a challenge: a tantalizing game of cat-and-mouse.
Keeping his eye on her, Jack bid until the price reached seven hundred fifty thousand and the room erupted in excited whispers. Pixie fidgeted in her seat, shifting her weight from one hip to the other.
Don’t overextend yourself, he projected.
Don’t worry about me. She waved her paddle. Worry about what your friends in the auction circuit are going to think when you’re outbid and lose this painting.
He bid again. Without hearing the next price.
She matched him.
A smirk curled the corner of his lips as he met her eyes. Fiery determination burned in those emerald depths. Her eyes stunned him, twinkling bright and holding him captive. But not enough to miss the price of the painting rise near a million.
He winked. And then lifted the paddle slowly.


“Tell Mr. MacGrath that Isabelle Connelly is here to see him.” She spoke loudly into the intercom. “I’d like to make an offer on his newest piece of acquired art: Werewolf in Venice.”
Silence followed after a deafeningly loud crackling sound.
Five minutes dragged by. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and refused to move. Stared at the intricate ironwork on the gate.
“I’m not leaving,” she mumbled to herself. “Not until I get my painting.”
Nothing else mattered.
Billionaire or not, everything had a price.
She’d simply have to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Hell if she knew what that was, though.
Without warning, the gates let out a groan, startling her. She jumped in her seat and watched them open slowly, revealing a winding stone-paved driveway. She put the Camry in gear and drove toward a towering fountain erected in the middle of the driveway.
But the closer she got to the fountain, the slower she drove.
She gawked, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
Good God, the fountain was hideously phallic. Like a giant penis standing ramrod-straight in the middle of a gravel bed. Water bubbled up from the tip, making her throw up a little in her mouth.
Craning her neck around, Isabelle shook her head and scoffed.
It was a disgustingly perfect fountain for a guy like Jack MacGrath.
As she turned, veering away from the fountain—out of pure instinct—she realized she was now parked facing the stairs to his mansion. And took up the width of the driveway, hood to rear end.
Damn it.
She should’ve just parked next to the damn thing.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she reversed carefully. As she inched closer to the penis monolith, the unmistakable whop-whop-whop of a helicopter sounded in the distance. The racket increased.
Was a helicopter landing on the damn house?
She bent, craning to look beneath the doorframe. She searched the sky. One way, and then the other.
There it was.
A freaking helicopter swooped over his house, making a low dive over her car.
She squealed, ducking low in her seat.
The thunderous flac-flac-flac of the blades drowned out everything—the rumble of the Camry’s engine and the drumming of her own heart—as it dropped out of the sky and hovered above the large lawn on the opposite end of the estate. The chopper was massive. Menacing. A door on the side slid open. A rope was flung out, hitting the grass.
What the hell?
With a jolt, the tires of her car ran over something crackly. Her car bumbled. Shook. And then backed into something solid.
“Oh, shit!” Isabelle gripped the wheel tight and slammed on the brakes. Whipping around, she glared out the back window…and caught the breath in her throat. She must’ve been inching back without realizing it. She’d rear-ended the giant penis. It wobbled, shook. The tip seemed loose, teetering on the thick base. “No, no, no, don’t—”
And then it fell. Dropped right to the ground with a thud.
Cue mortification.


He couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. Not now.
She couldn’t go back to Ireland.
As she hit the gas, jerking the car door from his grasp, he stood and hollered, “I’ll give you the painting.”
Brake lights.
This time, when she reversed, he jumped out of the way. Rolling down the window, Isabelle stuck out her elbow and glared. “What do you want?”
Think fast. Think clear.
“I donated a painting to the de Young museum for its exhibit tonight. They’ve invited me to attend as an honored guest. If you’ll be my date, Werewolf in Venice will be yours.”
It was a small price to pay to add hundreds of years to his life.
“You’ll give it to me…just like that.” She squinted, disbelieving. “If I go out with you. Yet two million dollars wouldn’t cut it?”
“There are some things you can’t put a price on.” He nodded. Only once. “You can even meet me there, if you’d like. It’s black tie. Eight o’clock.”
She didn’t say a word. But as she pulled out of his driveway and slowed around the corner, he knew he’d see her again.
It was all he needed.
It was everything.


“Oh, I’ve got secrets,” he whispered against her ear. “But this isn’t one. Is it so hard to believe that I simply craved your company?”
Good God, her earlobes shivered. Was that even possible?
The thought of this gorgeous man craving anything had her mouth watering. Words evaporated from her brain, which didn’t happen very often, if ever. Despite herself, she relaxed. Probably had something to do with that smooth-as-silk voice.
“That’s your big secret?” she asked, stepping up to the next painting. “You wanted to spend time with me and chitchat?”
“Sure.” He followed her, a constant presence at her side. But he wasn’t pushy. Oh no. He glided over the floor a few feet behind her, his free hand in his pocket, the tuxedo coat stretched taut over his impossibly broad shoulders. And damn if those pants didn’t pitch over his obviously impressive groin. “Have you done anything fun since you’ve been in the city?”
Oh, there were a few fun things she was thinking about doing at the moment. Enjoyable, naughty things that made her girly bits tingle.

Heart thumping out of her chest, Isabelle did the only thing she could think to do. She covered his wound with her hand. Put as much pressure as she could to stop the bleeding. His fur was soft—not coarse, as she would’ve imaged it to be—and wet, sliding between her fingers. He had large brown eyes, though they’d closed, and long lashes resting against his furry face. And he was larger up close. Not small, as she’d thought from her vantage point at the back of the room. He was muscular, but lean. Undeniably strong.
Although he was a jerk for leaving her—twice—and really freaking stupid to put himself in this position, he was striking in wolf form. Not that she’d ever tell him that.
“You can’t die, MacGrath,” she said, adding more pressure to the wound. “I’m not finished bothering you yet.”



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