Then You Hide, the fifth book in Roxanne St. Claire’s Bullet Catchers Series, will be published by Pocket Star on 24 June 2008.

As in TODAY!

Read about the series and the Bullet Catchers, then read on for the first in a series of excerpts!

Oh and feel free to tell her to hurry her ass up and finish the nifty thing she is working on for us… 😉

When Bullet Catcher Wade Cordell is offered a cushy assignment to track down a woman on vacation in the Caribbean and persuade her to meet her birth mother, the secret ops sharpshooter decides it’s the perfect antidote to his stressful job. Except spirited and sassy Vanessa Porter isn’t on vacation, she’s on a hunt for a friend who has disappeared. Wade’s news doesn’t faze a woman who swims with the sharks on Wall Street — Vanessa knows she’s adopted and has no intention of meeting or helping the woman who gave her up in a black market scheme. But as it becomes clear that her missing friend is deep in hiding and deeper in trouble, Vanessa strikes a shaky bargain with the sexy bodyguard who’s an expert at finding people who don’t want to be found. How high a price will she have to pay the Bullet Catcher willing to put his life on the line for her? Will she sacrifice her pride . . . her heart . . . even her life?

Excerpt #1

Vanessa Porter was not his type.

Not that Wade didn’t appreciate a tall, sexy blonde as much as the next male, especially when her black tank top and white shorts hugged some sweet curves. But something about her irritated him — even from fifty feet away with clusters of tourists separating them across St. Kitt’s main port.

The horn rimmed glasses? A power play. The speed of her trajectory? That screamed Yankee to him. The little left-right sway in her backside that grabbed the eye of every man she passed? He despised women who drew attention to themselves. Her generous breasts were more than the requisite handful, her hair needed a six inch trim and something to keep it from flying all over the place, and those thighs? They didn’t quite touch at the top, as if there was room for…someone else in there.

She was plenty womanly, all right, but not feminine. He liked a sweet, tender peach, all squeezably soft and fresh. Vanessa Porter was no peach.

She was a tart.

And, just for the record, this tart was not on vacation. He didn’t have to scope her for ten minutes to figure that out. She’d disembarked a water taxi from a sailing ship anchored a half mile away, and held a brief conversation with an older woman who wore a ridiculous orange sunhat and a matching muumuu. Discussing an itinerary or shopping and lunch plans? But then she took off at the speed of light, leaving the big orange hat looking vaguely disappointed.

Wade followed her, easily matching her speed and agility, but marveling at it.

She navigated packs of tourists on the promenade, sidestepping street vendors who waved their wares, heading straight into the crowded streets and clogged sidewalks of Basseterre. Carrying only a huge handbag, her flip-flops snapping on the pavement, she moved like a heat-seeking missile with no camera or guidebook in sight. She was on a mission all right, and it wasn’t to sightsee in the capital of St. Kitts.

But whatever she had on her agenda, Wade was about to change it.

He planned to get the adoption-and-dying mother announcement over with as quickly and cleanly as possible, just like he would if he’d been sent there to put a bullet in her head. Find the target, scope out the situation, take a clean shot, be done.

If he got lucky, she’d take the Bullet Catcher plane to South Carolina all herself, and he could just hang around the tropics with no shirt, no shoes, no problems.

Watching her buzz through Basseterre, that fantasy faded fast. Everything about her body language was uninviting and closed. Her delicate jaw was set in the direction she strode, her left arm clutching her bag like a warrior’s shield, her right hand pressed protectively to her side as she barreled along.

Maybe that was just the walk of New Yorker, as observed by a man who grew up twenty five miles south of Alabama. Still, he followed her easily, his interest notching up. After years of stealthily tailing targets, Wade had gotten very good at surmising what someone was up to.

And Vanessa Porter, thirty-one year old Wall Street high flyer who hadn’t taken a vacation in six years and pulled in a quarter mill a year – base pay – as vice president and director of mergers and acquisitions at Razor Partners, LLC, was definitely up to something.

Every few minutes, she whipped out a handheld device and angled it to the sun, touching the screen and muttering to herself. Once, just for fun, he circled around and brushed by her, and heard what his mama called the ‘dirtiest of dirty words’ when she didn’t get whatever she wanted from the little computer.

She’d glanced up and met his gaze, holding it longer than any southern girl who’d been schooled in the art of averting her eyes. She gave him a thorough checking out before she zoomed on. She didn’t pause to check out the landmark tower, inhale the sweetness of the frangipani that hung over the whole island, or toss some change to the herds of barefoot children pleading for pennies on every corner. She sailed right past candy-colored buildings and marched over cobblestones and bricks with the focus of a woman who knew exactly where she was going, and why.

Wade stayed right on her tail and watched those white shorts hitch left, right, left, like her own military march.

Not far from the Circus clock she slowed her step, glanced up and down the busy intersection of Fort and Banks street, then crossed to enter the Ballahoo Restaurant. The tables were outdoor, under umbrellas, mostly peppered with the early lunch crowd, and she snaked through them, straight to the bar, where she levered herself into an empty stool and whipped out that handheld again.

Wade followed her path, murmuring some “excuse me’s” she’d no doubt skipped and stood close enough to her to hear, but not draw attention.

The bartender placed an empty cocktail napkin in front of her. “CSR and Tang? It’s the official drink of St. Kitts, you know.”

“No, thank you.” She slid something across the bar. “Have you seen this man in here in the past few weeks?”

Oh, so that’s what she was up to. On the hunt for the one that got away.

The bartender raised his brows a little, glanced at the picture, then at Vanessa. “No, sorry.”

Wade saw her shoulders sag in frustration. She pushed the picture forward again. “Are you sure?”

The man’s smile faded. “I’m sure. And if you’re going to sit here, you need to buy a drink.”

“Are you absolutely positive?”

The bartender glowered at her. To be fair, the man had barely looked at the picture and Wade would have wondered the same thing. Only he’d have taken the time to get friendly first, to make a connection with the potential informant, and probably get a better response.

“Listen,” she leaned closer, and reached for the man’s hand. “I know about this place.”

Wade took a tiny step closer, glancing around the bamboo bar and it’s higher-end clientele. What about the place?

The bartender’s black eyes narrowed. “I have never seen your man in here. Sorry.” He turned away.

She stared at him for a second, then turned in her stool to survey the patrons. She lingered over a table of four young men, tanned, toned, and dressed in the tourist’s uniform of khakis, T-shirts and flip-flops. One of them said something, they all laughed, and toasted beers.

She watched for another few seconds, gathered her giant bag, her phone and her picture, and headed straight for the table. The laughter died down when she reached them, changing to a look of surprised interest.

If she was out to get lucky, which Wade doubted, maybe she didn’t realize she’d gone to the wrong side of the street. That group was far more interested in each other than blonde in short shorts and a tight top.

Wade moved to the other end of the bar and leaned against the last stool. He couldn’t be hear the conversation, but he had a direct view of the table and their interaction.

Out came the picture again, passed from man to man. The first three shook their heads. The last one studied it and said something, eliciting laughter from the others.

Except for Vanessa, who gave them a tight, impatient smile. Then she crouched down and spoke to them, whatever she said holding their attention. One nodded. Another put a sympathetic hand on her arm.

“Buy you a drink?”

Wade pulled his attention from the table to the older man who stood next to him, quickly taking in an impression of wealth and confidence.

“Unless you’re more interested in that table of playboys you’re watching,” the man added.

His target had led him right into a gay bar.

“No, thanks,” he said, but the other man eased into the next barstool, forcing Wade to move his arm.

“You on vacation?”

“Business.” Wade turned away, just in time to catch one of the men at the table write something on a paper napkin and hand it to Vanessa.

“What business are you in? Modeling? You’ve got the build for it.”

She said goodbye and whisked her way toward the street.

“‘Scuse me.” Wade pushed off the stool and followed, staying about twenty steps behind. She paused at the entrance, re-read the napkin, and crunched it into a ball before tossing it onto a table that hadn’t been bussed.

Wade grabbed the discarded napkin just as a large group of tourists entered, blocking him long enough for her to dash across the street and get into a taxi. He uncrumpled the paper and read, Bartholomew Nine. Gideon Bones.

“You won’t do any better there.”

Wade drew back at the intrusion, meeting the gaze of the guy who’d tried to pick him up at the bar. “How’s that?”

He cocked his head and gave him a get-real look. “More babies at Bonesy’s place. No real men.”

Wade held up the napkin. “Is this another bar?”

That was met with a snort. “That’s a whorehouse for fags. Men like me wouldn’t be caught dead there.” With a shrug, he walked away.

Wade stuffed the napkin in his pocket, crossed the street to the taxi stand, and got into the first cab.

“Bartholomew Nine,” he ordered.

“In Monkey Hill?” Black eyes met his in the rear view mirror. “You looking for a mon?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a woman.”

The driver shook his head and bared spaces where his two front teeth should have been. “Not at Bonesy’s house. For twenty dollars I take you to a woman.”

“I’ll give you fifty if you take me to Bartholomew Nine and wait.”

The cabbie flipped the meter. “No problem, mon. But you don’t find no woman up dere.”

But Wade had a feeling he most certainly would. “Just hurry, please.” Because that woman moved fast.

Stay tuned for Part Two!