Deirdre Martin is back with her wildly popular New York Blades series, this time taking readers on a journey away from hockey and all the way to Ireland. Breakaway pulls you into the story of the NHL’s only Irish player, Rory Brady, and the one and only woman for him, Erin O’Brien – but he has a lot of groveling to do now that he’s home again.

Since Rory left her behind after making it big in the states, Erin has finally come into her own, determined to make her dream of leaving the small town of Ballycraig at the earliest opportunity. But when Rory unexpectedly returns, plans have a way of changing, no matter how hard she fights against it. Will he work his magic on her again, claiming the forgiveness he needs and the love he knows is still there? Or will Erin stick to her path and make it without the big lug?

Summary:

Erin O’Brien was everyone’s favorite in Ballycraig, while Rory Brady was the town’s golden boy: the local lad who moved to America and became a professional hockey player. Rory promised to return to sweep Erin away to the life of her dreams in New York. But the bright lights and late nights turned his head and he never came back.

Two years later, Rory realizes he’s made the worst mistake of his life. Heading back to Ballycraig, he’s confident that all he needs to do is flash his winning smile and Erin will fall back into his arms. But Erin’s moved on.

Racing the clock, Rory needs to prove to her that the man she fell in love with is still there. But can happy-go-lucky Erin risk it all and give another chance to the man who broke her heart?

Chapter One

Lord, please don’t let there be any truth to the saying, “This is the first day of the rest of my life,” thought Erin O’Brien, as she shoved guests’ dirty sheets into the massive washer in the basement. Ever since her parents had purchased Ballycraig’s sole B & B, she’d come to feel like an indentured servant. Helping her mother run the place was supposed to be temporary until they found “the right kind of help.” Apparently, no one in the village was right for catering to the PJ Leary fanatics who made up the bulk of the visitors. Months had crawled by, and Erin was still here, relegated to the less glamorous tasks: laundry, housecleaning, dishes. The worst part was, she did it all for free, out of what mother liked to term, “family unity.”

Unity? I guess da and Brian are exempt.

She envied her brother: Brian had left town as soon as he got married, an IT job waiting for him Liverpool. It was a great career opportunity, except it left their father all alone to run Ballycraig’s sole auto shop. For years they’d worked side by side. Now her poor father was working with a very green assistant mechanic, who’d already come close to crushing himself under a number of cars.

“How’s it going down there?” her mother called from the top of the basement steps.

“Fine,” Erin called back, peering up at her mother’s creased, anxious face. “Dad did a great job fixing the washer. Could be a second career for him.”

“No need to be cheeky.”

“I’m not!”

“Nevertheless, watch yourself.” Her mother checked her watch. “The first of the weekend guests will be here in three hours. Would you be a love and go to the supermarket in Moneygall for me?”

Erin’s shoulders slumped. “Mam—“

“Asking too much, am I?”

Erin felt guilty. “No, it’s just you’ve more than enough time to go to the market yourself. You’ll be back here and baking before they’ve even arrived.”

“Assuming the buses are running on time.” She looked fretful. “Normally, I wouldn’t ask you to shop on such short notice, love. You know that. It’s just that I’ve got so much to do…. ”

Lord help me, Erin thought. I really need to get my license. If I don’t, I’ll always be hostage to a bus timetable, or worse.

“Relax, all right. You know I’ll do it.”

“You’re a good girl, Erin.”

“A patsy, more like,” Erin grumbled to herself. Her mother was still peering down at her with a distressed expression. “Mum, calm down. I just said I’d do it, so why do you still look so upset? All you achieve by fretting and wringing your hands is driving yourself—and everyone around you—mad. You’re going to give yourself a stroke, and for what?”

“I know, I know,” her mother agreed distractedly. “It’s just that I want it all to be perfect, you know?”

“Perfection doesn’t exist.”

Her mother snorted. “Oh, so now you’re a philosopher, I see. You should be down at the pub with that Holy Trinity of Dimwits, sitting at the bar, each one thinking they’re the next Stephen Fry.”

Erin felt the sting of criticism but refrained from saying what she was thinking: I can never win with you. She didn’t want things to escalate, especially since her mother could go from zero to fifty in the rage department in seconds. Still, she did have a right to defend herself.

“I’m not being philosophical,” she replied calmly. “I’m just trying to point out that you drive yourself mad unnecessarily.”

Her mother didn’t respond. Erin could see this conversation was going in one ear and out the other.

“I’ll leave the list for you on the kitchen counter, all right?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a good girl,” her mother repeated.

Too good, Erin thought. She took comfort in knowing her escape plan was firmly in place and that she would, sooner or later, be free. She double checked behind her to make sure the washer was still tumbling properly, and headed up the stairs.

***

“Chores” done, Erin headed up to her room, locking the door behind her. She and her parents now occupied the top floor of the guest house, the sale of their family home and some land having provided the bulk of the money to buy the B & B.

She caught her reflection in the mirror atop the scratched bureau from her childhood, and paused. You’re no great shakes, she told herself. Nothing special to look at. But in the career she’d be pursuing, looks didn’t matter.

She glanced around the tiny attic room, her eyes caressing the reproductions of some of her favorite artwork that she’d pinned to the walls to help fend off dreariness: Frida Kahlo, the bright reds of Henri Matisse, fields of mood lifting bright yellow sunflowers by van Gogh, Irish landscape artist Henry McGrane’s gentle impressions of spring. Erin was pursuing an art history degree online with the Open University. Most people would think it impractical, even odd. Erin didn’t care: she loved art, and it was something she’d pursued off and on while Rory was away at college. Now that Rory was out of her life, she could do as she wanted, no more putting her dreams on hold for that selfish bastard. No one knew she was almost done with her degree but her best friend, Sandra.

Rory Brady. Just thinking about him made her feel like a twit. Ballycraig’s local idiot, that’s who she was, too stupid to tell when she was being played. How many times had she replayed their years long relationship in her mind? Why did she insist on torturing herself? The story always ended the same way: her life in tatters and his looking brighter and brighter, the first Irish born man playing in the NHL, for the New York Blades.

Rory’s face swam up in her mind’s eye. Her mam had always said he looked like David Beckham, and it was true. If he were a pop star, girls would be breaking into his house just to catch a glimpse of that dirty blond hair and blue eyes. It was a sin that a man should have eyes that beautiful and be such an SOB.

They’d started dating when they were just babies, fifteen years old. Casual, then serious. Very serious, then committed, even when his family moved to America. Six years of trying to find a place to be alone together when he’d come back in the summer, of arguing with her parents about visiting him, of the two of them planning their wedding. One memory in particular dashed back at her: it was early evening, the sky all grey dusk and pink, and she and Rory were lounging beneath the big oak tree in Old Man Mc Donagh’s field, the sun filtering through the lattice work of the leaves. “The Lover’s Tree,” it was called, because the old man never minded couples loafing beneath it. Rory was leaning back against the tree; she was stretched out with her head in his lap. It felt like they were in a poem.

Rory looked down at her, smiling. “I was thinking it might be nice if our wedding ceremony was just you and me, and some old padre saying the words in an ancient church, the only light coming from a blaze of candles surrounding us.”

Erin settled into his lap dreamily. “That’s very romantic.”

“And it saves us worrying about a guest list.”

Erin clucked her tongue and looked up at him with affection. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

“Me? Never.” His expression was tender as his large, strong hand brushed against her cheek. “I know it sounds mad, but sometimes I feel like we’re already married, we’ve been together so long.”

“Is that your way of telling me you’re getting tired of me, Rory Brady?” Erin teased.

His expression turned tender. “I could never get tired of you.”

“Promise?”

He put his hand over his heart. “On my life.” His voice, a deep sexy rumble, was charged with emotion as he continued, “You’re the only one for me, Erin, and you always have been. Nothing can change that, not even geography. You’re going to be my wife.”

She believed him. Their love was immutable, fixed as law. There was no telling where one left off and the other began. It had always been that way, and always would be.

The memory faded, straight on narrative returning as if she needed once again to recount the facts of what happened to make sure it was real.

They decided they’d wait to tie the knot until Rory graduated from Cornell and got picked up by a minor hockey team, and then hopefully, the NHL. Which is exactly how it happened.

Except part of it didn’t. The wedding. Erin loved him so blindly and with such faith that even after he hadn’t come back to Ballycraig for two summers running, she clung to her belief they’d always be together. swallowing all that rubbish he fed her about the NHL and training camp and not having any time to get back home. Deep down, she knew. So when she gave him the ultimatum—either marry me like you promised or walk—she shouldn’t have been surprised when he grabbed Option B.

Even so, when the crash came, it was no less devastating. She was dragged under by their history together, tormented by every loving thing he’d ever said and done over the years. She’d have donned widow’s weeds if she could. It was a lucky thing that she was surrounded by loving family and friends, like Sandra and Rory’s former best friend, Jake Fry. Were it not for all of them, especially Jake and Sandra, she’d have spent her life curled up in bed, not caring about anything. She certainly stopped caring about her job in the jewelry store in Crosshaven, quitting a month after Rory dumped her. She couldn’t handle dealing with people, especially happy couples who came in looking for wedding rings.

It took her two years her to pull herself together, but when she did, she made a promise to herself: never, ever again would she give her hopes and dreams over to a man like Rory Gallagher.

Writing is hard work for me. Really, really hard work, since I can be somewhat insecure. What if I think the hero and heroine have chemistry, but they don’t? What if the sex scene I’m working on is about as steamy as a boiling pot of spaghetti?

On days when Madam Muse refuses to appear, or when I feel that writing is the equivalent of working on a chain gang, I daydream about doing something else for a living. My top escape fantasies are:

* Become a mailman. Woman. Person. Whatever the politically correct term is. The big attraction to this job is that I’d get to walk around all day, so I’d get really thin. Plus, I’d get to wear a uniform, so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear. This is of crucial importance to someone who once opened her front door wearing lemon colored harem pants and a Ringo Rocks! t shirt from 1975. On the negative side, I haven’t figured out yet how to handle the heat of summer, and the US Postal System is on the rocks. Note to self: see if mail people can do their job in the nude, as long as their mail satchels are strategically placed.

* Join the Merchant Marines. There’s no age limit to this profession, as long as you pass the physical. How hard could it be? I’m sure all you have to do is be able to climb a mast and properly wield a telescope. Plus I love to travel, I love the ocean, and sleeping in a mesh hammock is Number Four on my Bucket List.

* Work on a cruise ship. I’d be a really good entertainer: I can juggle, and I can also sing Bonnie Taylor’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” perfectly. I could easily brush up on my kazoo skills as well. Seriously: who doesn’t love kazoo music? Have you ever heard “Memory” from the Cats done on a kazoo? Haunting. I’m not kidding.

* Visit elementary schools as a Mary Todd Lincoln impersonator. This one is actu-ally the most viable: I’m plump, I’m moody, and I have a very tall husband with a beard who puts up with me. I’ve been trying to talk him into playing Abe to my Mary, but so far it’s a no go.

Alternate: visit nursery schools as Dora the Explorer. She’s little, plus we have the same haircut right now.

* Get a job as Bono’s personal secretary. I know, I know, I know: he’s the size of Rumpelstilskin and he never shuts up about aid to Africa. But I’ve had a mad crush on the man since 1981, when U2 released their first CD, Boy. Think about what a cool job it would be to be his PA: “Could you please call Edge and ask if he got his check for three hundred million dollars from the last tour? Because I haven’t gotten mine yet. Also, you know that luncheon I’m holding tomorrow at the Plaza to raise money for impoverished romance writers? Find out if Obama has any food allergies. I’m sure I can talk him into making a huge donation for these poor, struggling souls.”

Of course, if I ditched my profession, I wouldn’t have been able to write books like Breakaway, the latest in my New York Blades series. It combined two of my favorite subjects: hockey and Ireland. Here’s the back cover blurb:

They had it all planned out: college, marriage, happily ever after.

But it didn’t quite work out that way…

Erin O’Brien was everyone’s favorite in Ballycraig, while Rory Brady was the town’s golden boy: the local lad who moved to America and became a professional hockey player. Rory promised to return to sweep Erin away to the life of her dreams in New York. But the bright lights and late nights turned his head and he never came back.

Two years later, Rory realizes he’s made the worst mistake of his life. Heading back to Ballycraig, he’s confident that all he needs to do is flash his winning smile and Erin will fall back into his arms. But Erin’s moved on.

Racing the clock, Rory needs to prove to her that the man she fell in love with is still there. But can happy-go-lucky Erin risk it all and give another chance to the man who broke her heart?

Intrigued? Breakaway hits the shelves today, February 7th. I’m also working on the next book in the Blades series. The writing seems to be going pretty well right now, but that’s all I’ll say. I don’t want to jinx things…

To find out more about my New York Blades series as well as The Wild Hart Saga, check out my website.

[Ed. Deirdre is kindly offering up a copy of Breakaway to one very lucky commenter, so be sure to leave a meaningful comment or question for her and we'll toss your name into the hat!]

We’ve got two copies of Sins of the Highlander, thanks to Sourcebooks, to give away today to two lucky commenters out there in romanceland!

And how easy it is to win – just tell us your favorite sin committed by romance heroes or your favorite sinful hero and you’ll be entered. Just like that!

See, told you it was easy.

U.S. and Canada only, please.

*Deep quivering sigh* I love Highlanders. Always have. Lately I’ve been disappointed once or twice in books that just didn’t live up to my expectations when reading about these alpha, sexy heroes. So I’m very happy to tell you that this book definitely gives a reader everything they want in a Highlander, sins and all.

Mad Rob MacLaren has reason to live up to the nickname given to him. He now lives dangerously on the edge, and with his current plan under way, folks are going to talk that much more when all is said and done and if he still lives. But his innocent abductee is going to change everything in his life. Elspeth at first wants only to return to her family, but when she learns more about Rob and sees him in action, her wants take a decidedly sharp left turn, and with Rob is where she wants and needs to be.

Summary:

Elspeth Stewart’s gift of Sight hadn’t warned her of the dark-haired madman who charged into her wedding and bore her away into the wild Scottish highlands. Pressed against his hard chest and nestled between his strong thighs, she ought to fear for her life. But her captor silenced all protest with a soul-searing kiss, giving Elspeth a glimpse of the pain behind his passion—pain only she could ease.

“Mad Rob” MacLaren thought stealing his enemy’s bride would be the perfect revenge. But Rob never reckoned that this beautiful, innocent lass would awaken the part of him he thought dead and buried with his wife. Against all reason, he longs to introduce the luscious Elspeth to the pleasures of the flesh, to make her his, and only his forever.

With two clans against them burning for battle, they must find a way to join—body, breath and soul. Or both will be made to pay for the … Sins of the Highlander.

Chapter One

The peat fire had burned out and the ash gone gray, but Rob MacLaren didn’t feel the least bit cold. Not while his hot-blooded woman writhed under him. Their breaths mingled in the frosty air of the bedchamber. Fiona tilted her hips, welcoming him deeper, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from emptying himself into her.

It was too soon. He never wanted it to end, this joining, this loss of himself in the woman he adored.

Rob raised himself up on his arms and gazed down at her. The candles had burned down to nubs but still flickered enough to cast her in soft light. He could see his wife clearly and loved looking at her.

“What are ye doing, daftie man? ’Tis too cold!” Fiona raised herself up and clung to him for warmth.

“That’s what ye get when ye marry a man on Christmas Day—a cold bridal night.” He gently pushed her back down, and she sank into the feather tick.

“It doesna have to be cold.” Her skin rippled with goose­flesh. “Come back under the covers, love.”

“I canna. I need to see the lass I wed,” he said. “I want to watch ye melt for me, to see your face when ye make that wee kitten noise just afore ye come.”

“Wee kitten noise, is it?” She shook with laughter. “Have a care, husband, lest I bare my claws.”She raked her nails across his chest, and the sensation made his balls clench.

He lowered himself and kissed her, devouring her lips and chasing her tongue. He withdrew for a heartbeat for the sheer joy of sliding slowly back into her slick wetness. Then he raised himself again and reached between them to stroke her over the edge.

“Oh, Rob.” Her inner walls clenched around him, and he felt the soft tremor that signaled the start of her release. “When ye do that, I don’t care a fig if it’s so cold I catch my death…my death…my death…”

Her voice echoed round the chamber and faded into the distant thatch overhead.

Rob jerked awake.

He wasn’t in his bridal bedchamber. He was lying on stone-hard ground with a stone-hard cock still primed to make love to the woman in his dream. Stars wheeled above him in a frigid sky. His band of men snored nearby.

And the fact that Fiona was dead slammed into him afresh.

He’d married her two years ago at Christmas, and she’d been gone by Epiphany. Twelve days, he’d been a husband. Only twelve.

And now a night didn’t pass without his wife visiting him as some phantom, sometimes tender, sometimes terrifying. She lived in his dreams, but always he was powerless to hold her to earth. She was so vibrant, so real by night, he suffered all the more in the waking world with the knowledge that he’d not find her there.

One of the men in the clearing let out a loud snore and mumbled in his sleep. It was hours till dawn, and even more till Rob could accomplish what he intended in the coming day. But he would not seek sleep.

He couldn’t bear to lose Fiona again so soon.

 

Rob narrowed his gaze at the stone kirk across the glen. The bagpipes’ celebratory tune ended with an off-key wheeze. He and his men, concealed on the edge of the forest, had watched the bridal procession and the arrival of the groom’s party. Now he heard nothing from the kirk. The only sound was the harsh cry of a jay from the branches above him.

The ceremony must have been beginning in earnest. Rob snorted, his breath like a curl of dragon smoke in the chilly air.

“’Tis time, Hamish.”

“I wish ye’d reconsider.” His friend shook his head, his scruff of red beard making him look like an alarmed hedgehog. Hamish never let his beard grow beyond the stubble stage. A metal worker couldn’t chance much facial hair. Even his eyebrows were habitually singed off. “If ye go through with this, folk will say ye’re…that ye’re—”

“Mad? They say that already.” Rob mounted his black stallion. The beast sensed his agitation and pawed the dirt, restive and spoiling for action. “I see no other path before me. Now will ye help me or no?”

“Aye, Rob, ye’ve no need to ask, but—”

“Then get the men ready to ride. I hope to be in a wee bit of a hurry when next ye see me.” He shot his friend a mirthless grin and spurred his mount into a gallop across the glen. It was possible the next time Hamish saw him, Rob might be in no hurry at all.

He might very well be dead.

 

The smell of incense was so cloying, Elspeth Stewart feared she might faint dead away. But a bride must stand before the altar. She drew a shallow breath and swallowed hard. That was better. As the priest droned on, she sneaked a glance from under her lashes at the man who would be her husband.

Lachlan Drummond.

Tall and commanding in his dress plaid, he wasn’t altogether unpleasing. His face was tanned, and the lines at the corners of his eyes suggested he’d squinted into countless northern suns. Those lines didn’t trouble her. They proved the laird was a man of action, not like the dainty fops who visited from the English court from time to time.

No, it was the deep grooves between his brows and the hard set of his mouth that gave her pause.

Dinna fret yerself,” her mother had assured her when she complained that she didn’t know her betrothed well enough to even speak to him if she met him in Queen Mary’s court. “An arranged match is a safe match. Yer father has chosen the Drummond for ye, and ye’ll do well to bide by his wishes.”

The queen had approved too. She’d angered so many of the nobles with her other policies, she didn’t dare gainsay two of them on something as inconse­quential as the marriage of one of her ladies-in-waiting.

Inconsequential to everyone but me, Elspeth fumed. An exchange of breeding cattle, a grant of grazing rights, a promise of fealty between their clans; that was really all that was being solemnized now. It was certainly no marriage as she’d ever imagined it.

Or Seen it. Elspeth was gifted with a bit of the Sight, and never in all her prescient dreams had she seen this match on her horizon. This loveless ceremony was as far removed from the tales of courtly devotion in her precious little book of sonnets as the distant moon.

Yet when the priest asked Lachlan Drummond to pledge his faith to her, his voice was strong, the tone pleasing. He even sent her a quick private smile.

Elspeth jerked her gaze back to her folded hands. Her cheeks burned as if she had a fever. She wondered if her mother was right.

“Passion,” Morag Stewart had said, “is a dish that flares hot, but then goes cold as a tomb often as not. An arranged match is like a cauldron set to simmer over a low fire. A nourishing broth heated evenly warms a body from the inside out.”

Elspeth wasn’t sure how she could do the things her mother said her husband would expect of her. Bizarrely intimate things. Of course, she’d seen horses mate, and dogs too, but she never suspected people did something as…primitive as the mere beasts.

And now she’d have to do it with a man she barely knew.

Silence jerked her back from her musings. The priest had asked her a question and was waiting for a reply. She blinked stupidly at him. What had he said?

Suddenly the double doors of the nave shattered. A man on a large black horse was silhouetted in the opening for a heartbeat. Then he urged the stallion into the kirk and charged up the center aisle.

“Mad Rob!” she heard someone call out. Half the horseman’s face was painted with woad, and his cobalt eyes burned as brightly blue. With his dark hair flying and the fierce expression of a berserker on his features, he certainly looked mad.

“The MacLaren,” shouted another. Her bridegroom was silent, but a muscle worked furiously in his cheek.

Her father reached for the horse’s bridle, but the MacLaren shouted a command, and the stallion reared, pawing the air. Then it lashed out with its hind hooves, and everyone scrambled out of reach of the slashing kicks.

Elspeth watched in disbelief as the man drew a long claymore from the shoulder baldric strapped to his back and laid the flat of the blade across Lachlan Drummond’s chest. Riding a horse into the kirk was bad enough. Mad Rob had broken the sanctity of holy ground by drawing his weapon. All the other men had laid their swords and dirks outside the doors, which now hung drunkenly from the hinges. Elspeth half expected the Almighty to strike the blasphemer down with thunderbolts from the altar.

“Twitch so much as an eyelash, wee Lachlan, and I’ll take yer head,” Mad Rob said as pleasantly if he’d offered Drummond a plate of warm scones.

Then he leaned down and scooped Elspeth up with his other arm and dropped her belly-first across his kilted lap.

She was too astonished to be afraid. All the air fled from her lungs with a whoosh. Her head and arms dangled on one side of the restive stallion, and her legs kicked on the other. She couldn’t rail at the man, since she was busy fighting for breath, but she struggled to free herself from such an undignified position.

“Hold still, lass, lest my hand slips and I lop off a bit of your groom.”

Now fear sliced into her. She froze and looked at Lachlan. The madman’s blade had slid up to his chin. Her bridegroom hadn’t taken his black-eyed gaze from Mad Rob’s face.

“I’ll be going now, Drummond,” Rob said in the same reasonable tone a man might use to discuss cattle or the weather. “If ye’ve the stones for a fight, ye may collect yer bride at Caisteal Dubh. But dinna show your face till month’s end. Come for her sooner or try to follow us now, and I might have to kill her.”

Elspeth couldn’t look up at her captor’s face, but she heard a wicked smile in his voice. Kill her reverberated in her mind.

And all she’d thought she’d lose when she woke this day was her maidenhead.

Thanks for having me here today.

As you know, Sins of the Highlander, my first collaborative novel with NY Times Bestseller Connie Mason, is on bookstore shelves now. I’m a firm believer in letting readers “try before they buy” but instead of the usual excerpt, I’m offering a “box of chocolates” sampler of the end of chapters in this story. (Warning: I’m known as a “happy hooker.” Writing hooks, of course. What were you thinking?)

SINS OF THE HIGHLANDER Sampler:

Chapter One ~ When he tried to kiss her again, she delivered a ringing slap to his cheek. Reason flooded her mind again. Perhaps he was called “Mad Rob” because he could entice others to insanity.

“Now get away from me,” Elspeth ordered.

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Lass, I’ve killed dozens of men. Do ye really think ye can stop me from whatever I may decide to do with you?”

He took a step toward her, his eyes glittering fiercely in the dark.

Chapter Two ~ She’d forgotten to breathe as he spoke. Now she sucked in a quick breath.

“Shall I pleasure ye, Elspeth?”

Chapter 3 ~ If Rob could seduce Elspeth Stewart into giving herself to him willingly, his enemy would be thoroughly shamed. The name of Lachlan Drummond would become a byword, held up for ridicule by all as the cuckolded bridegroom. Bards would compose songs about it and folk would laugh at him over many a winter fire.

Drummond would be so furious, he’d respond to Rob’s challenge of single combat at last.

And then Rob would send him straight to hell. Even if he had to go through the flaming gate with him.

Chapter 4 ~ “Trust me, lass. By and bye, ye’ll thank me for keeping from becoming Lachlan Drummond’s wife.”

Elspeth curled her toes inside her slipper and managed to wiggle the left one off without his knowledge. It fell under the stallion’s hooves and was pressed into the path, marking their way as clearly as if she’d stopped and drawn an arrow.

Chapter 5 ~ The numbers in the pack dwindled. As the eastern sky lightened to pearl gray, hope rose in Elspeth’s heart.

Then the largest wolf charged and leaped. His flying lunge knocked Rob from Falin’s back. They rolled together, tooth and claw, man and blade, off the path and into the thick underbrush, disappearing in a growling, swearing mass.

Chapter 6 ~ Wolf song reached their ears, distant, but close enough to be worrisome.

“Come, lass. And step lively.”

This time he didn’t have to tell her twice.

Chapter 7 ~ “Unfortunately, of the two of us, it seems only ye have the honor of always being right. There’s no tree big enough to bear your weight nearby,” Rob said as he put her down. He stooped and pulled out his boot knife, handing it to her haft first. “If they get past me, dinna let yourself be taken.”

Chapter 8 ~ Elspeth stood with her back to him, next to the table. She poured water from a kettle into the ewer. Steam rose before she added cold water from the pitcher. She dipped a cloth into a basin, unaware that Rob was watching her.

He prayed that happy state would continue.

She was naked as Eve in glory.

Hope you enjoyed the Sins of the Highlander sampler. If you’d like a traditional excerpt, most of the first chapter is posted on my website. While you’re there, be sure to enter my website contest where the Grand Prize is a NEW KINDLE! The drawing will be held Jan. 30^th.  I love to connect with readers. You can also find me at my Twitter fan page and my Twitter author page. Hope to see you around the web.

I’ll be around checking the comments all day! Leave a question for me or share your favorite snippet from Sins of the Highlander from the sampler above.

If you have teenagers, you might want to read this book. Then give it to him or her to read. It covers a lot of ground from the perspective of a depressed, post-suicidal teen. From family to school to his own inner thoughts, Try Not to Breathe doesn’t dwell on the negative. The story follows Ryan as he tries to move on, which he does with remorse, a good sense of humor, and more insight into himself and those around him than he had before.

Even if you don’t have teenagers, this is a book worth reading. Young adults today go through so much, and Jennifer Hubbard takes a look deep into that world with emotion and humor. Even a little romance. Yeah, remember those days? And maybe for some you, you might remember a few of the same issues Ryan is living today.

Summary:

Learning to live is more than just choosing not to die, as sixteen-year-old Ryan discovers in the year following his suicide attempt. Despite his mother’s anxious hovering and the rumors at school, he’s trying to forget the darkness from which he has escaped. But it doesn’t help that he’s still hiding guilty secrets, or that he longs for a girl who may not return his feelings. Then he befriends Nicki, who is using psychics to seek contact with her dead father. This unlikely friendship thaws Ryan to the point where he can face the worst in himself. He and Nicki confide in one another the things they never thought they’d tell anyone—but their confessions are trickier than they seem, and the fallout tests the bound of friendship and forgiveness.

It was dangerous to stand under the waterfall, but some kids did it anyway, and I was one of them. The water pounded my mind blank, stung my skin. It hit my naked back, chest, and shoulders so hard I couldn’t think. That water could knock me over, pound me into hypothermia, force the breath out of me, pin me to the rock, and I knew it.

But I kept doing it.

My parents’ heads would’ve shot through the roof if they’d known. They’d done their best to wrap me in cotton since I’d gotten out of Patterson Hospital a few months before. My mother panicked if I missed a dose of my meds, so I sure wasn’t going to tell her about the waterfall. How could I explain it anyway?

Because I needed it. The roaring water shot over the ledge and beat down on my shoulders and head, a thunder I felt even through the slick stones under my feet. My nerves crackled and buzzed. It was all I could do to stand still against the water.

Whatever else I had messed up in my life, I could do that much: stand still. Okay, so I wasn’t setting the bar too high.

There were rumors that a guy had drowned here once, or that he’d fallen from the cliff and smashed his head on the rocks, his brains spilling into the pool below. Each version of the story was bloodier and less believable than the last.

There were rumors about me, about what I’d done back in the spring. Everyone snuck looks at me in the school halls after I got out of Patterson. Sometimes I was tempted to foam at the mouth and babble to invisible people, because the other kids seemed so disappointed that I didn’t. But I couldn’t be sure they would realize it was a joke. The few times I’d tried to make anyone laugh, all I got were nervous glances and squirming. Nobody expected me to have a sense of humor, and it was safer for me to let them think I might be crazy than to give them proof.

So I knew about rumors, how they were 95 percent bullshit with maybe one kernel of truth. I wasn’t sure where the kernel was in the story about the dead guy at the waterfall.

I first went under the waterfall in May, and I kept it up all summer. July was so hot, I imagined steam pouring off me whenever the icy rush hit my skin.

Early in August, we got rain. I watched the waterfall from the stream bank, waiting for the cool stormy weather to pass, for the heat to return.

I was sitting there one day when Kent Thornton’s sister came by. Kent was going into eleventh grade like me, and I knew his sister was a year younger, but I’d never talked to her much. Last year she’d been at the junior high, since Seaton High didn’t start until tenth grade.

“Hey.” I tried to remember her name, but couldn’t.

She stood watching the water charge over the cliff. Ferns waved in the breeze. “Are you going in?” she asked.

“No, not today.” All that rain had swelled the creek and the waterfall. I was tempted to see if I could stand up under the cold weight of that water, but I wasn’t completely insane, no matter what kids at school might whisper about me.

“I do it all the time.” She grinned. “My friend Angie won’t even stick her foot in the water. She says the rocks are too slippery.”

“They are slippery.” Not that it had ever stopped me.

Kent’s sister wiped sweat off the back of her neck. “You live up at the glass house, don’t you?”

“It’s not glass.” I hated when people called it that. It sounded like we were expecting some TV show to feature us in our architectural wonder of a home. Lifestyles of People Who Have Way More Money Than You. “It just has a lot of windows.”

“Whatever. That’s your house, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Her face flushed pink. “Just wondered.” She waved at the waterfall. “Dare me to go under there?”

“Nah, it’s too cold today. And strong. It’s kind of dangerous.”

She stepped into the water. Ripples spread out from her foot. She wore a tank top and shorts, which she didn’t take off. She walked toward the waterfall, slipping once on the mossy rocks.

I followed her with my eyes. Dread squeezed my stomach and wedged a lump at the back of my throat. I didn’t even know this girl, but I had no desire to see her crushed, drowned. She disappeared under the silver curtain of water.

I stood up because I couldn’t see her anymore. I squinted at the foaming water, trying to see into it, through it.

My fingers tapped the sides of my thighs as if counting the seconds she’d been under. How long should I wait before going in after her? If I should go in at all—there being a narrow line between heroes and idiots.

Kent’s sister ducked out, spitting, hair glued flat to her head. I exhaled. She lifted a handful of wet hair off her face, shook herself like a dog, and laughed. She splashed toward me.

“You all right?” I said.

Her lips were purple; her skin prickled with goose bumps. Her teeth hammered against each other.

“I should’ve brought a towel,” she said.

I’d done that before—remembered the towel only after I was wet. “I can get you one.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her arms. “That sounds fantastic.”

My second novel, Try Not to Breathe, was a story that grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

I’d been working on something else—a book that I’d been writing for quite a while—and I was planning to take a writing break. But Try Not to Breathe had other plans; it refused to wait. It grew out of a verse-writing exercise that I was playing with one day. The main character, Ryan, did not confine himself to a few poems. He just kept on speaking.

I started with the image of a boy standing under a waterfall, and as I wrote, I learned more and more about him: his suicidal past, his secrets, the crush he had. Then a girl burst onto the scene, with goals and secrets of her own, pushing against the walls Ryan had built around himself. She revealed more about herself with every scene, but I didn’t learn her biggest secret until the second or third draft. Her secret shocked me at first, but it fit. It all made sense, and it brought the story back to where it began—the waterfall.

Sometimes it happens that way. The first time I write a scene, it may surprise me, and I get to have the same sense of discovery with it that a first-time reader will have.

If you like sinful heroes who fall hard for that perfect woman who pushes all his buttons, you should be reading Alexandra Hawkins‘ Lords of Vice series. The Notorious Lord is Vane, Earl of Vanewright, and he’s as sinful as they come, as Isabel is about find out once she engages him in a game she soon discovers can’t be won.

Vane has never been quite this fascinated with a woman before, he doesn’t know what hits him until it’s too late. Isabel finally acknowledges feelings for the man, even though he’s supposed to be someone else’s.

But fire and passion keep flaring between them, and they become lost in each other  – until secrets begin to unravel the dream that almost comes true.

Summary:

Christopher Courtland, Earl of Vanewright—known around London as “Vane”—is the very picture of a rich, handsome ladies’ man. Why shackle himself to just one lady when he’s free to sample them all? In spite of his own mother’s attempts at matchmaking, Vane has sworn to stay single. Until he has a chance run-in with Miss Isabel Thorne…

A modest and refined beauty, Isabel is a lot more brazen than she appears. When a pickpocket tries to make away with Vane’s bejeweled snuffbox, Isabel attempts to thwart his escape…and manages to steal Vane’s heart. But the harder he tries to seduce the sharp-tongued, strong-willed Isabel, the more she resists. Now it’s up to this tried-and-true bachelor to find a new way to play the game…or risk losing the one woman who’s ever captured his heart.

Enjoy the teaser of their banter, just to whet your appetite for more sin….

“Merciful heavens, what happened to you?”

Isabel smiled wanly at their housekeeper as Lord Vanewright carried her over the threshold and into the small front hall.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Allen.  It appears you were correct when you warned us that shopping on Bond Street was fraught with peril and unsavory characters.”

Delia focused on what mattered most to her.  “Oh, Mrs. Allen, you should have seen the lovely evening dress we found!  I vow I shall perish if it is sold before we have the opportunity to return to the shop.”  She gave her sister a side glance, disgusted that Isabel had ruined the afternoon by tangling with a pickpocket.

Isabel sighed.  There was no point in reminding Delia that they could not really afford the expensive dress.  Such details mattered little to her sister.  Isabel started when the earl murmured in her ear, “Shall I carry you to your bedchamber?”

A wordless exclamation was uttered by the housekeeper.  Surprised by the brazen suggestion, Isabel turned her face toward Lord Vanewright’s, resulting in her nose brushing against his chin.  “No you shall not!  The drawing room will suffice, my lord.”

Trailing after the trio, the housekeeper said, “Miss Thorne, forgive my impudence, but who is this gentleman?  And why is he carrying you about town as if he has the right to put his hands on you.”

“Not a word from you,” she warned him sternly.  With her arms wrapped about his shoulders, she could feel his body quaking with laughter.  “Mrs. Allen, allow me to present Lord Vanewright.  My lord, this is our housekeeper, Mrs. Allen.  She is looking after us during our brief stay in London.”

“Mrs. Allen, would you mind opening the door to the drawing room?  Miss Thorne had a terrible fright with a pickpocket and I want to see her settled comfortably before the surgeon arrives.”

“The surgeon?” Isabel echoed, struggling in the earl’s arms to be released.

Mrs. Allen stepped around the couple and opened the door.  “A pickpocket?  In a dressmaker’s shop you say?  Is no place safe, I ask you?”

“Isabel stumbled into the thief and rescued Lord Vanewright’s snuffbox,” Delia explained as she retrieved a pillow from a chair and placed it on the sofa.

Isabel marveled that the earl was not winded by his efforts.  He carried her to the sofa with an ease that suggested he appreciated the outdoors and had a casual familiarity with manual labor.  She was almost disappointed when he lowered her onto the sofa.

“When did you have time to summon a surgeon?” she demanded, annoyed by the unexpected expense.

“I ordered my coachman to fetch him.”  His look was inscrutable as it rested on her grim features.  “Are you in pain?”

“As I have told you over and over again, I am fine,” she said through clenched teeth.  “Ow!  Stop that.”  She slapped his hand away when he deliberately probed her wrapped ankle to prove that she was lying to him—again.

“Uh-huh,” he said, his tone suspiciously flat.  He glanced at the housekeeper.  “Mrs. Allen, would be so kind as to fetch a shallow basin of warm water for Miss Thorne’s ankle and a pot of tea to settle her nerves.”

Eyes blazing, Isabel glared at the presumptuous man.  “See here, Lord Vanewright.  You have no right to bully me or my staff!”  Before she said something that she would come to regret, Isabel cleared her throat.  “Yes, Mrs. Allen, I believe a cup of strong tea would benefit us all.”

Rudeness was clearly not the way to get rid of the man.  From the sparkling glint in his eyes, the earl was having too much fun baiting her.

“Nothing else to say, Miss Thorne?” he asked, sitting down in the chair to her left even though no one had invited the arrogant man to remain.

“Not at this time,” Isabel said haughtily.  “I am saving my strength for the surgeon.”

It’s funny how good intentions, routines, and healthy habits seem to fly right out the window when I’m on deadline.  I’d like to blame the sinus infection I was fighting last month when I turned in my latest manuscript; however, I don’t have much of an excuse for the other four books in the Lords of Vice series.  On New Year ’s Eve, I was reflecting on the pattern that always seems to emerge around deadlines.

1)   Slacking off at the gym.  It starts out innocent enough.  I begin to stress about the how much time I have left before I turn in a manuscript.  In those final weeks, every hour counts.  I calculate that I’m spending five hours at the gym a week.  Double that amount to factor in the time it takes me to drive to and from the gym and the shower afterward.  That’s ten hours a week I could be writing!  Forty hours in a month.  I finally convince myself that a brisk walk around the neighborhood a few times a week will suffice, but soon I’ll find a good excuse not even do that.  Last month, I had a pretty good excuse.  I was on antibiotics for two weeks and I had to reduce my exposure to the sun.  Even my husband couldn’t debate me on that one.

2)    Eating healthy is history.  Most of the time, my diet is very healthy.  Lots of fruits and vegetables and lean cuts of meat.  When I’m on deadline, I want carbs.  Bring on the junk food!  Chips, pretzels, sandwiches—anything that’s quick so I can get back to the keyboard.  I also get a weird craving for licorice.  I know I’m close to finishing a book when I have to buy Twizzlers.

3)    Sleep is optional.  When the story is flowing, I begin to cut corners on my necessary eight hours of sleep.  I find myself mentally writing scenes instead of sleeping, and insomnia kicks in because I don’t want to forget all that great dialogue.  I do keep a notebook next to my bed for random inspiration, but if I’m committed to an idea, I usually just get back up and write it.

4)    Pleasure reading.  This one is a difficult one to give up, and it explains why my TBR pile has turned into a small mountain.  When I’m on deadline, the only books I crack open are research-related.

5)    TV and movies.  This sacrifice tends to annoy the family because there are several shows we watch together.  Over the Christmas break, my youngest daughter and I finally made it to the theater to watch Breaking Dawn.  Naturally, when we stopped at the concession stand, the one candy she had to have was—you guessed it—Twizzlers!

Now that I have a little breathing room until my next deadline, I’ve returned to my healthier lifestyle.  I’m back at the gym.  Ugh, that first week was painful.  That should be incentive enough not to slack off again.  These days, I’m eating good carbs.  Twizzlers are off my grocery list.  The insomnia is gone, which is a relief.  I’ve missed my bed.  And over the holiday break, I was able to catch up on some of my pleasure reading and TV shows.

This has all the makings of a New Year’s resolution, doesn’t it?  I’d agree, but I know all my good intentions are going to slip away when that next deadline approaches!

[Ed. Alexandra is giving away two books today - first winner will receive a copy of Sunrise with a Notorious Lord and the second will get their choice of any other Lords of Vice novel - so be sure to leave a meaningful comment or question for her!]

A man and his dog. Both with a sense of humor. Both protective of those they love. Angus Wallace – the new Lord Ashby – has just crossed an ocean and half a continent to find his wife. The one who left him. Without a word. As he lay wounded, his military career now over.

A woman left alone in Scotland with a family who has never taken to her. Hardly a word from her soldier husband, a few letters, even fewer visits in years. Really alone after the death of her parents, Maddie Wallace takes destiny by the horns and carves out a life for herself in America, taking photographs of the Old West for English readers who will never experience the rawness and intensity of such a frontier.

Both still have feelings from the marriage they thought dead. But each has a different place in the world to be, a calling and a duty that distance cannot span. Will their reunion give them another chance at happiness? Will their love survive the differences pulling them apart?

This is another lovely story from Kaki Warner. Her characters are the kind of people you want to know. She gives them real issues, heartbreak, happiness, guilt, and through every emotion they follow their heart. We have the first chapter of the book for you today to meet Ash and Maddie. I think you will be thoroughly enchanted.

Summary:

After only three letters and one visit during her six-year marriage to a Scottish Cavalry Officer, Maddie Wallace decides to build a life without him. Accepting an assignment from a London periodical to photograph the West from a female perspective, she sails from England, determined to build a new life as an independent woman.

After injury ends his military career, Angus Wallace returns homes to find his wife gone, his family decimated by fever, and himself next in line to an earldom. His new mission is clear – find his wife and sire heirs. His search takes him across an ocean and half a continent, but he finally tracks her to Heartbreak Creek There his biggest challenge awaits – to challenge his headstrong wife to return home as his viscountess.

Prologue

Lister House, outside London
September 1868

Maddie turned the key in the lock at her parent’s small stone cottage, paused for a moment to gather her courage, then opened the door and stepped inside.
Silence greeted her. That oppressive kind of silence that came when a house has been left empty too long and the life and energy once trapped within its walls was slowly draining away. A fanciful notion. But funerals always made her melancholy.

Still wearing her coat and clutching her reticule in cold, numb fingers, she walked slowly through the rooms.

Everything looked the same, like a tintype frozen in time—her mother’s bonnet draped over the arm of the settee, the same array of photographs lining the walls, a book left open on the table beside her father’s chair. Even the air smelled familiar—a subtle blend of old smoke with a hint of her father’s pipe tobacco and her mother’s sachet. But beneath it, barely detectable, hung the damp mustiness of an empty house and the beginnings of decay.

And they had only been dead a week.

In the kitchen, she dropped her reticule on the table and stripped off her coat and gloves. Moving by rote, she set a fire in the cook stove and lit the lamp sitting on the table, then went through the rituals of preparing tea. Once she had the kettle heating and the tea caddy and sugar bowl on the table, she set out her mother’s favorite cup, a napkin, and a spoon.

Then she sat down in her father’s chair, dropped her head onto her folded arms, and wept.

An hour later, she was still sitting there, her tears long spent, nursing her third cup of tea and trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life. Her parents were dead. Her marriage was a failure. She would probably never have children or a home of her own. Even this house would have to be sold to cover the cost of her parents’ funerals. With no other family and no resources, her future stretched bleak and empty ahead of her.

So what was she to do? Go back to Scotland? To a father-in-law who couldn’t abide the English, and a mother-in-law who rarely left her room? Angus’s sister, Glynnis, was so busy running the Kirkwell lands she had little time for a husband, much less a friend, and his two older brothers were so involved with their own pursuits they were rarely at home, and when they were, they called her the English girl because they couldn’t remember her name. With her husband gone years on end, what reason had she to go back?

She looked down at the heavy signet ring Angus had given her before he rode off to rejoin his cavalry regiment almost a year and a half ago. She hadn’t seen him since. In almost four years of marriage, he had written her two letters and visited her once. Four years, languishing at the family’s remote Highland estate, the unwanted English bride of a Scottish earl’s son, while he played soldier in Ireland.

She had given up her dreams for that?

She almost yanked the ring off her finger and threw it across the room. But she hadn’t the energy for even that. After her hurried dash across half of England to get to the funeral on time, then standing in the icy drizzle as Vicar Collins presided over the small graveside service for her parents this afternoon, she was so emotionally drained just lifting her teacup took an effort of will.

It was all rather meaningless, anyway, if the target of her ire wasn’t even there to make note of it.

Beyond the window, the wind huffed and moaned. Tiny pellets of sleet rattled against the window panes. Gusts sent drafts back down the stovepipe to burp puffs of smoke into the still air.

Perhaps he had died. That’s what soldiers did, especially rash, high-spirited cavalrymen who took needless risks. But she had always thought Angus Wallace was too big, too headstrong, too fearless to die. Besides, if something had happened to him, his family would have been notified—if not his wife, then surely his father, the Earl of Kirkwell.

If not dead, then what?

Utterly indifferent.

The realization left her breathless with despair.

Fearing another onslaught of tears, she looked around the room, seeking distraction. Her gaze fell on the framed photograph hanging beside the door that led into the parlor. A calmness came over her as she studied the smiling faces of her parents, remembering that last holiday at Brighton, and how Papa had cajoled her mother into donning one of those scandalous bathing costumes and testing the waters. Maddie had tried to make them sit still all afternoon. Finally, when they stopped to rest on the wall overlooking the beach, she saw her chance.

It was one of her first attempts at portraiture, and a poor one at that. Blurred lines, misplaced shadows, shoddy composition—all marks of a novice photographer. But it was her favorite, because there was more to it than just an image on paper. For the first time she had captured not just form, but emotion.
There was a story behind those smiling faces. She had seen it, and coaxed it out of the shadows, and trapped it in tintype for all the years to come.

Perhaps she could do that again.

That notion burst into her head, half formed and elusive. But it grew with every heartbeat until it filled her mind. Dare she?

For the next two days, as she set her parent’s house to rights and packed away their things, that thought dogged her footsteps like a lost cat.

It was absurd. So far beyond reason and practicality it wasn’t worth pursuing. Yet, after her third restless night, she surrendered to the lure of possibility and resolutely climbed the stairs to the attic where her photographs and equipment were stored, determined to at least give it a try.

The Scottish had a saying: “Be happy while you’re living, for you’ll be a long time dead.” And Maddie intended to be happy. She deserved it, Angus Wallace be damned.

The next afternoon, she was sitting before Mr. Reginald Farnsworth Chesterfield’s desk at The Illustrated London News nervously clasping her gloved hands in her lap and growing more convinced by the moment that grief had robbed her of her senses.

Daughters of baronets and wives of third sons to earls did not seek employment. They did not set up shop, or peddle their wares, or go into business, especially such a male-dominated business as photography. They stayed at home and tatted and traded vague reminiscences about their absent husbands and childless, empty lives until God finally took pity and allowed them to die.

“Hmm,” the gray-haired publisher said as he pulled another photograph from the portfolio she had brought for his perusal.

Hmm? What did that mean?

She tried not to fidget. A chance. That’s all she wanted. She would work for a pittance—or at least enough to keep her parent’s house so she would have someplace to live. She would even take an assignment on speculation, just to prove she could do it.

Minutes ticked by. Maddie’s confidence dwindled to quivery jelly. After almost a half hour of silence, she was on the verge of snatching up her portfolio and fleeing the building.

This was all a horrid mistake. It was time to accept her fate and go back to Northbridge, and learn to speak Gaelic and eat haggis without gagging.

“I had to look at them one more time,” Mr. Chesterfield finally said as he slid the photographs and cartes de visite back into the heavy canvas folder. “Just to be sure.”

Maddie tried to keep her breathing even.

After tying the closure tabs, he tipped back his swivel chair and studied the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought, the forefinger and thumb of his right hand idly plucking at the gray hairs sprouting from his top lip. “It’s a rather forward-thinking notion,” he mused, more to himself than to her. “Revolutionary. Still . . . It just might just work.”

Abruptly he swiveled around and stared at her across his desk. “Have you seen the photographs of Matthew Brady?” he demanded. “Those he took in America during their recent rebellion?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice sounded like a mouse squeak, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “They are most evocative.” Astounding. Haunting. Compelling. Everything she wished her photographs could be.

“And those of William Jackson,” he pressed. “And Tim O’Sullivan?”

“The ones of the American West? They’re fascinating. Each image seems to tell a tale all its own.”

“Yes!” The elderly man beamed, showing small, crooked teeth beneath his gray muttonchops. “But they only present one side of the story, don’t you see.”

Maddie didn’t but nodded politely, her fixed smile starting to wobble. “One side.”

“The male side, as it were.”

“Ah. The male side.” She wondered if he was insane. And what he would do if she cast up her accounts on his desk. Perhaps she should leave before she did.

“But to see it from a whole new perspective, that’s the challenge. That would certainly catch your eye, would it not?”

“Indeed.” Clearly insane.

“Of course it would! So what do you think, madam?”

Maddie felt that thickness in her throat again. “About what, sir?”

“The female perspective!”

“Well . . . insomuch as it’s the only one I have, I rather like it.”

He gave a sudden bark of laughter that made her jump. “You misunderstand. I’m asking if you would like to travel to America, Mrs. Wallace, and photograph the West from the female perspective.”

Maddie was too astounded to respond. America?

“I have been wanting to send an expeditionary photographer over there for some time.” His voice grew more enthusiastic with every word. “But a woman! Now that would be unheard of. Revolutionary!” He startled her anew by slapping the flat of his hand down on her closed portfolio. “You have the talent for it, madam. But have you the will? What say you?”

She couldn’t say anything. Her tongue wouldn’t work.

“I would advance you travel expenses,” he added before she could form a response. “And those of your husband, of course, as I assume he will be accompanying you.”

“I . . . ah . . .”

“Unless you think he might object? Shall I contact him directly? I realize this is highly unusual, but if he—”

“There is no he,” Maddie blurted out, astounded by her own audacity and the lie she was about to tell. But how could she not do it? A new start. A new life. A whole new country, even. “That is to say, I’m”—forgive me, Angus—“a widow.”

“A widow?” The idea seemed to delight him. “Well, then, there’s nothing to hold you back, is there?”

“Not a thing.” And for all intents and purposes, she truly was a widow. Angus had left her in spirit almost two years ago. This physical parting was simply the final step in accepting the death of her marriage so she could begin a new life without him.

“Excellent. I’ll book passage for . . . shall we say, two weeks? That should give you time to gather what equipment and supplies you’ll need. Have the bills sent to my office.” He smiled, all but rubbing his hands together in glee. “Any questions?”

Dozens of them. Thousands. “No.”

“Excellent! Then we’re agreed.” Hopping up, he held out his hand.

Maddie rose on shaky legs and placed her fingers in his, hoping he didn’t feel the tremors in her hand. “Agreed.”

And as simply as that, it was done.

Two weeks to pack, put the house up for sale, restock her supplies, and send a note to Northbridge to inform them of her plans in case Angus ever inquired about her absence.

America. Just the thought of it made her giddy.

Chapter 1

Heartbreak Creek, Colorado Territory
September 1870

The Fifth Viscount of Ashby—or Ash, as his new London friends called him—rode slowly down the muddy street, Tricks padding wearily at his side, his rough coat dripping rain and mud.

A sad place, Heartbreak Creek. Judging by the faded store shingles hanging over the warped boardwalk, and the hulking structure perched on the bluffs above the canyon that sheltered the town, it had once been a prosperous mining community. But now the machinery sat silent, the mine dark, and few people walked past the unpainted wooden buildings with their sagging roofs and boarded storefronts. It looked no different from dozen other wee villages he’d ridden through in the last months.

He had seen worse in Ireland—which would probably never recover from the devastation of the potato famine—and in Scotland, where the Clearances had left a trail of empty huts and overflowing graveyards across his beloved Highlands. But it was always disturbing to see a town die.

Yet, despite the obvious decline, there were still signs of life in Heartbreak Creek. Two wagons stood in front of the Mercantile, Feed, and Mining Supplies store, and the hotel looked freshly painted and bore a fine new sign over the front doors. But without steady commerce from mining, timber, or the railroads, the town would soon die.

So why had she come to such a bleak place? To hide from him? He had once been a forward rider with the Rifles of the Light Division, and a man never forgot training like that. Dinna she realize that no matter where she went or how far she ran, he could still find her? She had led him a merry chase, so she had. The lass was as elusive as peat smoke, but he sensed that finally after twenty months of searching, he was getting close.

Reining in at the rail in front of the hotel, he stiffly dismounted, twisting as little as possible as he swung down. For the last hour, pain had been gnawing at his left side like the starving hounds of hell, and he knew he would pay a high price for riding so long in the rain. Cold dampness always made his slow-healing wound ache—the crossing had been a bluidy nightmare, made worse by the constant pitch and roll of the ship. But the dizziness had eased once he’d stepped onto solid ground in Boston Harbor, and he hadna suffered a single headache in well over a month.

“Stay,” he ordered Tricks as he looped Lurch’s reins over the rail.

The dog grinned up at him, tongue lolling, his bushy brows spiky with rain and clumps of mud.

“I mean it. You’re bluidy filthy, so you are. And since you willna allow a bath, you’ll stay out here. That’s an order.”

Ignoring the animal’s pitiful whines, Ash stepped through the double front doors and was pleased to see that Heartbreak Creek Hotel was as dapper inside as it was out. Dark paneling gleamed. Lush green plants rose out of tall clay urns. There were no patches or stains on the upholstered chairs gathered around a tufted hassock, and no dusty cobwebs dangling from the sparkling chandelier. Even the bald spot atop the head of the old man at the front desk looked polished, and the brass clasps on the braces worn by the freckled bellboy posted inside the doors would have satisfied the most demanding sergeant.

A well-run establishment. Ash nodded in approval.

“Hidy,” the clerk said as Ash crossed to the front desk. “Help you?”

“Aye. I need a room. One with a big bed.”

The old man’s grin showed a lack of teeth, and those that remained were marred by rusty stains. “Planning a party, are you?”

Ash looked at him.

The grin faded. “All our beds are the same size.”

“Then one without a foot rail.”

The clerk gazed past Ash’s shoulder. His faded blue eyes widened. “Great Godamighty! What is that thing?”

Ash dinna have to guess what had caught the old man’s attention. “A wolfhound. The room?”

Still staring toward the door, the elderly fellow said, “Dogs—assuming that hulking beast is a dog and not a starving, long-tailed bear—ain’t allowed inside.”

“I told him that but he dinna listen. You’re welcome to give it a go.”

Whirling, the old man fled through the open doors into what appeared to be the dining area. “Miss Hathaway! You better come quick!”

Bollocks. Ash felt a gob of mud hit his ear and turned to glare at Tricks, who was slinging water and mud in a ten-foot arc as he wagged his long, thin tail. “Now look what you’ve done,” he accused. “I should sell you to the Chinamen, so I should.”

“Sir!” A woman marched out of the dining area, the clerk hot on her heels. A blond woman, with eyes as green as Ireland and a look on her pretty face that would send the devil into retreat.

“Animals are not allowed in this establishment.” She waved a hand at the double doors. “Take him outside immediately!”

“He willna stay there without me.”

“Then I’ll bid you good day, as well.”

The old man snickered.

Ash sighed. “I’ve come a long way, so I have, and I’m in desperate need of a warm, dry room. One with a long bed, so my feet willna hang off the end. Can you make an exception this one time?”

Her pretty eyes narrowed in suspicion. “A long way from where?”

“Scotland.”

“I told you he wasn’t from around here,” the clerk muttered.

“Yancey, I’ll handle this!”

But Ash could see his answer had startled her, and he wondered why.

“What is your name, sir?” she asked.

“Ashby.”

“That’s it? No first name?”

Ash shrugged. “Some call me lord.”

Understanding came quickly—the woman was blade sharp. “Lord Ashby? Is that a joke?”

“Regretfully, no. I’ll pay double,” he added to distract her.

“Why are you here? In Heartbreak Creek?”

“I’m seeking a woman.”

The clerk snorted. “Aren’t we all.”

With a hiss of exasperation, she whirled on the old man. “Yancey, please assist Miriam upstairs. Billy”—she waved to the freckled boy watching with wide-eyed interest from his post by the front door—“fetch Sheriff Brodie, if you will. Now.”

After the boy dashed out the front door and Yancey stomped up the staircase that rose along the wall separating the lobby from the dining room, she returned
her attention to Ash. “What woman?”

Ash frowned, put off by the challenge in her tone. Not many would dare. Especially a female. But he had no wish to sleep on the ground again tonight, so he kept his tone pleasant. “Madeline Wallace.”

“Why?”

“I have news of her family.”

“What news?”

Bugger this. He started toward the door.

“Ah . . . double, you say?”

He stopped, debated, then thinking of the cold dampness that awaited him if he left, turned back. “Aye. But the bed canna have a foot rail.”

“You’ll bathe your dog?”

Ash thought of the last attempt. “Aye. If you have four stout men to aid me.”

“You can bathe him in the trough around back. I’ll send out Yancey and Billy with drying rags.” Her green eyes flicked over him. “You may use the tub in the washroom off the kitchen. But not the dog. And we don’t have stables here, so you’ll have to take your horse to the livery on the edge of town.”

It took Yancey, Billy, and two lengths of rope to get Tricks into the trough, but the deed was done without loss of limb. When Ash left the washroom an hour later, clean and freshly dressed with his pouting and mostly clean wolfhound at his heels, he found a man leaning against the wall beside the door, working at his nails with a penknife. By his expression when he saw Ash, it was apparent he had been waiting for him.

“Heard you were looking for Maddie Wallace,” the man said, studying Ash through dark eyes from beneath the brim of his black flat-crowned hat. He was even taller than Ash and solidly built, and he would have carried an air of authority even without the sheriff’s badge pinned to his vest.

Ash nodded. “I am.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Ash did, so he dinna respond. Tricks plopped onto his belly by Ash’s boot, his rangy body taking up most of the hallway, and began licking the dampness from his front legs.

“Impressive dog,” the man said as he folded the penknife. “Is he as dangerous as he looks?”

“Not to me.”

The sheriff nodded and slipped the penknife into his pocket. Bending down, he let Tricks sniff his open hand, then gently stroked the knobby head.

Ash was surprised. Like most of his breed, Tricks was standoffish with strangers. By accepting the sheriff so readily, it only confirmed Ash’s assessment of the man. A reasonable fellow who wore his position well.

The sheriff straightened. “See that table in the back corner?” He pointed across the hall to the open door that led into the dining room. “The one with the ladies?”
Ash followed his direction and saw the blond woman seated with a dark-skinned woman and a pregnant sandy-haired woman. All three were staring their way.

And frowning. “Aye, I see them.”

“The blond is Lucinda Hathaway,” the sheriff explained in a friendly tone. “Owns the hotel. Yankee. Smart. Carries a pepperbox pistol. Far as I know, she hasn’t killed anyone with it. The dark-skinned woman is Prudence Lincoln. She lives at the school the ladies set up for ex-slaves and anyone else who wants to come learn. Whether she likes it or not, she’s under the protection of a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Ever heard of them?”

Ash had. He’d never seen one, but he’d heard of their legendary fierceness in battle and admired them for it. He was Scottish, after all. But right now he was less curious about Indians than why the sheriff was telling him all this.

“Now that blue-eyed beauty,” the man went on, his voice softening as he looked at the sandy-haired woman. “She’s Edwina Brodie. She might fool some with her southern charm, but she’s pretty handy with a shovel and once even faced down a mountain lion with a bucket of salad greens. And if that’s not enough to give a man pause . . .” Swinging his gaze back to Ash, he gave him a hard look. “There’s me.”

Ash heard the challenge but gave no reaction. “And who are you?”

The sheriff touched the tips of two fingers to the brim of his hat. “Declan Brodie. I’m temporary sheriff here at Heartbreak Creek. And her husband.”

The warning was clear, although Ash had no idea why Sheriff Brodie had issued it. Maddie Wallace was the woman he had come to see, not these females. “Why temporary?” he asked.

“Because I’m a rancher,” Brodie explained, which explained nothing. “As you can see,” he went on, glancing back toward the women, “the ladies are upset. It’s not good when they get upset.”

“Which of us is in trouble?” Ash asked, although he had a fair idea.

Brodie flashed white teeth in a crooked grin that changed his austere face to one that women might find handsome. “Hell, I’ve got four kids and a pregnant wife. I’m always in trouble. But this time, it’s you.”

“What have I done?”

“That depends.” No longer smiling, the sheriff stepped toward Ash.

Immediately Tricks rose.

The sheriff paused, looked from the dog to Ash, but came no closer. He showed no menace, yet Ash sensed an unbendable resolve within the man. He respected that, since it was a trait they had in common.

“Why are you looking for Maddie?” Brodie asked again.

That was the second time the sheriff had casually used the shortened version of Madeline’s name. Ash dinna like the sound of it on another man’s tongue. “As I told the Hathaway woman, I have news of her family,” he said stiffly. “Is she here?”

Brodie remained silent. Ash suspected he was being assessed by the lawman, and although he dinna like it, he withstood it without showing his growing irritation.

The women continued to watch them and whisper quietly amongst themselves. Ash could feel the censure in their eyes and wondered what he’d done to cause it.

“She’s off making pictures,” the sheriff finally said. “Should be back in a week or so, then she’ll be leaving again for the big meeting up in Denver.”

“Meeting about what?”

“Political thing. Statehood. Delegates are coming from all over the territory. Promises to be quite a gathering.”

“She’s a delegate?” That surprised him. Despite her father’s leanings, she had showed no interest in politics before. But then, that she was here instead of Scotland where she belonged showed how little he knew her.

“No, I am. Part of the job. Or so I’ve been told.”

Ash heard the disgust in the man’s voice and guessed the sheriff wasna excited about the trip. But he’d heard enough to know this was the woman he sought, and his natural impatience caused him to speak more sharply than he intended. “I canna wait another week. Where is she now?”

The sheriff reared his head back and subjected Ash to another lengthy assessment.

Ash was weary of it. “It’s important that I speak to her.”

“You’ll not hurt her?”

“I dinna hurt women.”

After more scrutiny, the sheriff sighed, as if he’d come to a decision he might later regret. “She headed up to the Alamosa a month ago.”

“The Alamosa?”

“Alamosa River. Things are hopping up there since the strikes.”

Brodie must have seen Ash’s confusion. “Gold strikes,” he clarified. “Miners are pouring in from all over. She wanted to document it. Photograph it. She’s a photographer. Didn’t you know that?”

Of course Ash knew. It was through her photographs that he had tracked her this far. But he thought the woman had more sense than to go haring off to a place as dangerous as a wide-open mining town. “She dinna go alone, did she?”

“She’s got Wall-eyed Willy with her, not that he’d be much protection.”

Bluidy hell.

“You going after her?”

“Aye. I’m going after her.”

Creating the perfect romantic hero is not as easy as you think, mainly because no such creature has ever inhabited our planet.  So, how—in the odor-free, sweat-free, bodily-function-free realm of romance—does an author create the perfect male hero while still making him at least marginally believable?  Hell if I know.  But I’ve been thinking hard on it, and have come up with some guidelines that might help.

1.  The hero should NEVER indulge in digestive indiscretions of an auditory or olfactory nature.  Or any other nature.  EVER.  I know what you’re thinking.  In Pieces of Sky, a character does just that.  But he’s not the hero and gets killed off later, so it’s okay.  And sure, later in the same book, Brady belches on the heroine, but he does it on purpose to disgust her and run her off.  So that’s okay, too.

2.  The hero is allowed to perspire—odorlessly, of course—but he should have a darn good reason for doing so, such as exertion, nervousness, guilt, etc.  Of late I’ve seen an alarming trend to have the hero work himself into a substantial lather in the bedroom.   I think this is to show how intent he is on his task, and how valiantly he’s struggling to hold back his overwhelming ardor.  But, really.  A little surface glow is acceptable, but if he’s sweating like a farm animal during the love scenes, then maybe something’s wrong.  I know what you’re going to say.  In Open Country, Hank gets sweaty—but he has good reason.  He’s upset, exerting, nervous, and his feelings are hurt, so it’s okay that one time.

3.  Bathing—the hero should do it, even if such wasn’t the normal practice “back then.”   This is a romance, after all, and there’s nothing romantic about a man smelling like a slaughter house.  Granted, it’s not always practical, but even if he has to bathe in used water (like Declan does in Heartbreak Creek) and he comes out smelling like a rose garden, it’s better than the alternative (which in Declan’s case is smelling like rotting meat).  At least he’s clean.

4.  Drunkenness—not very heroic.  But there are times, I suppose, when it’s marginally acceptable, especially for medicinal purposes.  Like Jack in Chasing the Sun when Molly gets out her scalpel, and Ash in Colorado Dawn, when his old injury acts up.  But your characters probably shouldn’t drink to the point of horking.  However, if vomiting is an important plot point, please limit sounds, odors, and visuals.  Granted, in Open Country, the heroine, a reluctant nurse, vomits after surgery.  But who doesn’t?  And near the end of Heartbreak Creek Edwina has to carry a barf bowl around with her, but she had reason.  At least when they hork they’re quiet about it, and never heave hard enough to lift their heels off the floor, and only do it on an empty stomach.  So that’s okay.

5.  Cowardice—not a trait usually attributed to heroes.  I know.  In Heartbreak Creek, Declan was a basket case, but he still did what he had to do to save the day, so it was okay.  Besides, phobias aren’t exactly fears.  Not really.  And who can blame Brady, in Pieces of Sky, for being afraid of crying women?  We can be pretty scary.  Or his brother, Jack, for getting lightheaded at the sight of blood—especially his own?  These things happen.  So in those cases, it was okay to be a little afraid.

6.  And finally, using the bathroom.   This is another situation to avoid if possible.  We all know it happens—even to heroes—but we don’t need to see it, do we?  Yeah, yeah, I know.  In Open Country, there’s an entire scene when nurse Molly tries to help the injured hero relieve himself and they get into a wrestling match over a chamber pot (he wins, just so you know).  But neither the heroine nor the reader is required to be on hand (so to speak) when the deed is accomplished, so it’s okay.  As for any other potty situations, don’t even go there.  Ever.

So there you have it.  A few ideas for creating the perfect romantic hero while still staying within the bounds of quasi-reality.  Got any ideas of your own you’d like to share?

We enjoyed having Melissa Mayhue with us to remind us how important holiday memories are. Thank you, too, to those of you who stopped by for the day.

Without further ado, our winner for a copy of Melissa’s latest book in her Warrior series, Warrior’s Redemption, is:

#1 – Tammy VanScoy

Congrats, Tammy! Please send your snail mail addy to lighthousetagger at gmail dot com and we’ll let Melissa know to have your book on its way to you!

A huge thanks to Catherine Mann for spending the day with us recently to chat about how important memories are to us. And thanks to those of you who shared yours with us.

And now to our winners, who will receive a copy of Catherine’s latest in her Elite Force series, Hot Zone.

#9 – Kristy

and

#11 – Maureen

Congratulations, ladies! Please send your snail mail addresses to lighthousetagger at gmail dot com and your books will be on their way to you!

I have some very sad news.

Sometimes the writing community can keep a secret. Quite a few of us have been praying for Penny Jordan, who was taken into hospital over Christmas.

Last night, the last day of 2011, Penny died. She had terminal cancer and she’d been ill for some time.

That’s the official announcement. I’m unutterably saddened by this news. I didn’t know Penny well, but she was a stalwart of the RNA, a great writer and an example to us all. She never lost her sense of humou, or her kindnes, or her amazing elegance. The last time I saw her was at a distance, when she gave a talk to the RNA conference. That was when I learned she was ill, when she arrived and left in short order, where she’d usually have lingered and chatted.

The first time I met her was at an RNA chapter meeting, a convivial lunch. I had one book out with a tiny epublisher, and I’d scraped membership. I still felt like an interloper. She held her hand out, shook mine. “Hello, I’m Penny Jordan.” I felt like an honest-to-goodness writer for the very first time.

The last time we had a good chat, she told me about her Internet village, where she played and wrote stories. She had high hopes for it. Penny was always looking forward. She was kind and chatty with everyone she met and always encouraged new authors, never lost her sense of the new and the exciting.

She wrote for the Mills and Boon Presents line all her career, the one whose bedrock is millionaires and secretaries. That was where she started and she was still writing for the line when she died. She worried about her deadlines in hospital.

She also had books with Mira and a series of family dramas. She wrote under another name, too, Annie Groves. She was Caroline Courtney, who wrote historical romances, and she was Lydia Hitchcock and Melinda Wright. She clocked up an amazing total of 251 books in her career.

Penny was a career author. She started work as a secretary and worked for a number of years, so she knew what that area of work was like before she gave it up to write full time. She started out in the seventies, and she moved with the times, first writing the waif secretary/brutal boss books, and then softening the characters as the readership demanded. She never lost sight of what her readers wanted, and they loved her for it. She has a new book out this month, The Reluctant Surrender.

She never responded to bad reviews or good ones, setting an example many writers, including myself, should remember more often. As well as her work with the RNA, she had her own writing group, where she mentored writers and introduced them to agents and publishers. That’s paying forward in a big way and something she didn’t have to do, but she loved doing it. She also did a lot of work with local charities.

She sold more than 70 million books in her career, worldwide.

Goodbye, Penny. We will miss you.

Fae magic and guilt. Malcolm MacDowylt has both in his life much more than he wants. One he can ignore until a later time, the other he has to face day in and day out. Especially when that magic tosses Danielle Dearmon right smack into the middle of his world, which is now tilting every which way, forcing him to look at a future he never imagined.

Dani, on the other hand, is finally where she belongs. Despite Malcolm wanting her to return where she came from. All the years of trying the gain the good graces of the fae and now thrust seven hundred years into the past to a man who is her destiny is more than she could have ever dreamed of.

Together they must fight the evil that no knows no bounds in a war to conquer them. Is love enough to help them survive?

We have the first chapter of Warrior’s Redemption for you today. Get ready to trek down to your local bookstore after this! Or navigate over to your favorite online bookstore. Or enter the contest included with Melissa’s guest blog today. Good thing there’s a few options today. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Summary:

Will the magic of modern romance help him defeat an evil ancient power?

Malcolm MacDowylt sees himself a failed warrior, haunted by the death of the woman he married to become laird of Clan MacGahan.  Neither his Viking heritage nor his claim to descend from Norse gods can restore his confidence in his ability to protect his people.  His sister is held captive, her life in jeopardy, and his Magically powerful half brother wants him dead.  The last thing he needs is more responsibility, but that’s exactly what he gets when his Faerie mother-in-law arrives seeking justice for her daughter in the form of an enticing woman from seven hundred years in the future.

Danielle Dearmon has waited fifteen years to discover the life she is supposed to live.  She just never dreamed she’d end up in the thirteenth century with a handsome Scot bent on saving everyone but himself.

With the lives of those most dear to him hanging in the balance, Malcolm sets out to battle a powerful evil Magic, only to learn that the redemption he seeks exists only in the arms of the woman he loves.

PROLOGUE

Tom Green County, Texas
Fifteen Years Ago

Fairies absolutely were real. Dani didn’t care what her Aunt Jean claimed.

After Mrs. Palmer down at the new library had loaned her those wonderful books this past summer, she’d known it wasn’t just her imagination. Lots of people believed in them. She’d spent the entire vacation between fourth and fifth grades reading all about Faeries.

“Dani?” Aunt Jean’s voice carried all the way down to the chicken coops. “Dani! You better hurry up with those eggs, little girl, if you expect to get breakfast in you before the school bus gets here.”

Dani grabbed the one egg that had been laid already, dodging the grumpy old brown hen’s beak, and hurried back toward the farmhouse. She’d have to gather again when she got home from school, but at least Emma Hen had come through early, as usual.

A furtive glance to the empty corner next to the steps as she approached the house warned her of what was to come.

“Get your hands washed and sit yourself down.”

Aunt Jean’s no-nonsense expression was firmly in place and Dani quickly did as she was told, slipping into her spot at the old kitchen table as her aunt slid a warm plate in front of her.

“What did I tell you about setting a saucer of milk out by the steps?” Aunt Jean waited, arms folded in front of her.

“Not to,” Dani mumbled around her first bite of thick toast. “Draws snakes.”

“So it’s not that you forgot. You’ve just decided you’re not going to mind me, is that it? You’re just trying to be bad?”

“No ma’am, I’m not trying to be bad. I promise.” The Faeries liked milk and bread. It encouraged them to stay. “My book said –”

“Nuh-uh,” Aunt Jean turned back to the stove, scrambling Dani’s egg, her gray curls swaying with the stubborn shaking of her head. “I don’t want another word of that fairy nonsense, you hear me? There’s no such thing as a fairy, but rattlers are real enough. Those damn snakes will smell that milk a mile off and next thing you know, you or me one will be getting ourselves snake bit. And then what?”

“The Faeries would keep us safe, if you’d let me feed them,” Dani muttered, tearing a corner off her toast and dropping it into her lap. If her aunt would just believe, the Faeries would hear all their wishes and make them come true. “I read that in one of my books.”

“Danielle Faye Dearmon!” Aunt Jean turned around from the stove and leaned across the table. “I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense from you. Not everything in books is true just because somebody wrote it down. I’m serious as a heart attack about this, little girl. I want your promise right now that you won’t put any more milk out by the steps for these damned imaginary fairies of yours or else I’m going to have to paddle your butt, you understand me? I want your promise on it, Dani. I want it now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dani didn’t hesitate with her response. She had no choice. Her aunt was really serious this time. She almost never pulled out the ‘paddle your butt’ threat. “I promise.”

She meant to keep the promise, too. No more milk by the porch steps. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hunt down a new spot to feed the Faeries when she got home from school this afternoon. A better spot. One that Aunt Jean wouldn’t find.

Because no matter that Aunt Jean was the best substitute mama on the face of the planet, in this one thing, she was completely wrong.

Faeries were absolutely real and Dani meant to make sure she stayed on their good side.

CHAPTER ONE

Land of the Faerie
1294 [as calculated by Mortals]

Howls echoed through the forest of Wyddecol, so protracted and pain-ridden they tortured Elesyria’s eardrums. Like some animal in its death throes, the screams pitched from fury to terror and back again.

She ran faster through the trees, seeking in vain to escape the torment of those sounds. Knowing she could never outrun that which came from her own throat.

It was her agony, her torment that tore the screams from her lungs as if the pain were a living creature eating at her innards.

Her daughter, her only child, her beautiful Isabella had disappeared from the World of Man.

On she ran, unseeing, dodging by instinct the low-hanging branches and fallen limbs. On, deeper into the forest until at last she broke through into a clearing. Ahead lay the Temple of Danu, golden in its perpetual shaft of sunlight, encircled by its ring of massive stones.

Elesyria pushed herself harder, maintaining her pace up the long marble staircase. Not even at the doorway did she slow. No stopping to shed her sandals, no washing her feet, no bending low to show reverence at the doorway to the inner sanctum. Not this time. This time, for the first time ever, she simply didn’t care.

Her precious Isabella was gone from the World of Man.

“Show yourself, I demand it! How could you allow this to happen?” she accused, ignoring the hysterical echo of her own words in the cavernous rounded room. “You promised. She was to be cared for if I would but leave her with the Mortals and return to your service. You promised!”

She screamed the final words, her voice cracking as she sank to her knees. The until-now strangely absent tears at last found their release, rolling down her cheeks to splatter on the white stone floor at her knees. “You promised,” she accused one final time, her words no more than a whisper against the canvas of her grief.

“You would demand my presence in your world, Daughter of Danu?”

The words echoed off the arc of the room’s high ceiling, bouncing, tumbling in a harmonious melody of sound.

“I do,” Elesyria answered without hesitation. She had no care for the ancient protocols. No time to travel to the trance world. No desire to honor the bitch-Goddess who had betrayed her.

In front of her a pale green mist coalesced, writhing and bubbling, shifting from one form to another until at last a tall, beautiful woman emerged. The Goddess, the Earth Mother, had arrived.

“Then I can only assume these are the direst of times. What troubles you, my child?”

“The loss of my child.” Elesyria rose to her feet, well aware she breeched all acceptable behavior in doing so. Eye contact with the Goddess was too painful, so she fixed her gaze on the other woman’s chin. “Isabella is dead. You’ve broken your promise to me.”

The Goddess lifted her hand as if to catch a handful of air in the room before rubbing her thumb against her fingers, much in the way a merchant might sample the feel of a fine silk.

“Isabella lives.”

“Impossible!” Elesyria had been to the curtain between the worlds this very morning. She’d stood there as so often she did, stretching out her magic to caress the essence of the daughter she’d left behind. Only this time, there had been nothing. “She’s not in the World of Man. I felt for her myself. That which had been her is gone.”

“Nevertheless, Isabella’s soul has not returned to the Fountain. She lives.”

“How can that be?” Elesyria’s legs buckled, too weak to hold her weight and she dropped to her knees. “The place where I felt for her is as empty as my heart.”

The Goddess lifted both arms and the mist returned, swirling in a sphere between her hands. It moved as if alive, frantic with a billion life forms, its color shifting from the palest green to a brilliant emerald and back again. Then the Goddess clapped her hands together and the mist disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

“Not only does she live, she has joined with her SoulMate. Though, as you say, she is not in the time and place where you left her.”

“What does that mean?”

The Goddess shrugged, palms held upward. “I cannot yet say. I know only what I feel when I search the Myst.”

Elesyria’s mind reeled in confusion. Isabella’s space on the Mortal Plain was empty. She’d felt that for herself. And yet, the Goddess claimed her daughter lived. Lived and had found the one happiness every Fae sought: her own SoulMate!

“I need answers,” she whispered, as much to herself as to the Goddess standing nearby.

“Indeed you do. Go with my blessings.”

Her blessings? Not enough. Not by half.

Elesyria raised her head, coming as close to meeting the Earth Mother’s eyes as she dared. “After all the years I’ve dedicated to your service, Goddess, I want more than your blessings. I want to travel through the curtain with the power to punish any who harmed my child.”

“Crossing over with your Magic intact is forbidden by your High Council.”

If the Goddess thought to dissuade her with something so trivial, she was seriously mistaken.

“I’ve no more care for the politics of Fae than I have for those of Man. I care only for the child grown to woman who I left behind when I returned to my service in your temple. I must know the truth of her fate. I want to travel through the curtain. With my Magic.”

“And if you find your daughter has not been harmed? If you find it is as I have indicated?”

If, pray the Goddess, Isabella lived happily joined to her SoulMate as the Goddess insisted? “Then I want the power to reward those who aided her.”

The visage in front of her shimmered from green to gold and back again.

“In offering reward as freely as you threaten punishment, Elesyria, you demonstrate your wisdom. So be it. You may retain your powers to use for this purpose and this purpose only. Your years of faithful service watching over my followers have earned at least this much from me. As you go forth, I will set in motion what I can to assist. Travel to the place where your daughter should be. Seek out the Tinklers when you arrive. They are my eyes and ears in the World of Man. If any can guide you to the truth, surely it will be they.”

“Thank you, Earth Mother.”

Elesyria bowed her head, honoring the Goddess before her. When she lifted her eyes once again, she was alone.

Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders and hurried from the chamber, already seeing the spot she would cross over in her mind’s eye.

She would find the Tinklers the Goddess had spoken of and she would know the truth. She prayed the result would require her to use her Magic for the benefit of one who had helped her daughter, but if not?

Woe be unto any who had lifted a hand to bring harm down upon Isabella. They would feel her wrath even if it should shake the very foundations of the Mortals’ world.

I’ve been visiting blogs all over the place these past few weeks, preparing for the December 27 release of my latest book, Warrior’s Redemption.  [Yes, please go look at it!  Yes, please go buy it!!] And, because we’re in the holiday season, many people have asked me the same sort of question – “What’s your favorite holiday memory?” or some variation of what the holidays mean to me.

And though I’ve come up with a variety of answers, nothing made the REAL answer so clear to me as when I did something totally unrelated to writing or talking about my new book today.

Let me backtrack for just a moment…

In October my youngest son got married.   After the wedding, one of the first things he asked me to do for him was to make copies of recipes for some of his favorite dishes.  Once I recovered from the shock of his list (What?  Twenty-one years and you can only think of six things I’ve made for you that you like???), I decided to put together a small family recipe book as a Christmas gift for him.  Nothing fancy, no publishing and binding, just typed up recipes that have been in the family for a while, along with a few notes about where and who they came from.

I was so proud of myself.  What an easy gift idea! Make a few copies, put them in sheet protectors in a three-ring binder, voila!  Done.

Um…not so fast.

I should have known better.  Food, its taste, its smell, has always been a potent invoker of memories for me.  I spent the better part of the day pulling out old recipe files and cookbooks.  Yes, there was the challenge of finding the specific ones my son wanted – some of these things I’ve made so often over the years I don’t even use the recipe anymore – but what really slowed me down was flipping through recipes I haven’t even thought of for years.

I remember that!  I loved that as a kid!  I loved that as a grownup!  Why haven’t I made that in the last ten years?!?  Many of the recipes that I found myself lingering over were the ones that brought back the best memories.

The sweet pickled veggies my mother would can every summer… the ones I made only once because, wow, that was a LOT of work!

The Mexican Chocolate Cake recipe I must have made a thousand times after I was first married… but haven’t even thought of for fifteen years.

The Peanut Butter Fudge recipe I spent at least five years begging my aunt to share with me.  I always looked forward to driving out to the country to visit her because I knew she’d have a big plate of that fudge waiting for me.  Just reading over the recipe, it’s like I’m back there in her kitchen, feeling that pit-of-the-stomach excitement of the day she finally relented to my years of pestering.  If I shut my eyes, I can see her round wooden table, polished to a shine.  I can hear her voice… smell the food cooking.  I loved that fudge… and I loved my aunt.

So many beautiful memories of special moments and special people.  And that’s really the most important part of the holidays, isn’t it?  Those special moments we’re making.  The special people we get to spend time with now and the ones we’ll always remember.

What about you?  Is there some special dish you haven’t made or tasted in years that takes you back to a wonderful memory of someone or something special?

Oh!  And while I’ve got you answering questions, are you a Recipe Sharer or a Recipe Secret-Keeper?

Leave a comment and Sandy will pick one lucky person to receive a copy of that book I’m supposed to be here talking about. 

If you’d like to know more about Warrior’s Redemption, please stop by my website, where you can (if the web-gods have been kind) read an excerpt!

Wishing you all the Merriest Christmas ever, the happiest of holidays – and the best food memories ever!!!

Thanks to Heather Killough-Walden for joining us for a guest blog recently. A better day has not been had talking about angels and heros!

And now it’s time for our winner, who will receive a copy of Heather’s Avenger’s Angel, the first book in her Lost Angels series.

And that is…

#5 – Jeannine Klimt

Congratulations, Jeannine! Please send your snail mail address to lighthousetagger at gmail dot com and I’ll get your book out to you!

This just in…

Her fans never doubted it for one second!

International publisher Samhain Publishing® recently announced that author Lorelei James has been ranked on the New York Times Bestseller list and the USA Today Bestseller list.

~ She’s on the NYT list for eBooks (15), the combined New York Times print/ebook Bestseller list (29), and the USA Today Bestseller list (81) for eBooks and print books with her eBook romance, Cowboy Casanova. The novel is only available in eBook format at the present time.

~ “This remarkable achievement will come to no surprise to Lorelei’s passionate fan base,” said Christina Brashear, president of Samhain Publishing. “With this, her twelfth book in her Rough Riders series, Lorelei continues to appeal to both long-time and brand new readers. We’re proud to be a part of her success.”

~ The rank of 15 on the New York Times Bestseller list for eBooks is the highest ranking to date for a digital-first publisher.

~ The New York Times’ eBook bestseller lists in fiction and nonfiction are compiled from weekly data from publishers, chain bookstores, independent booksellers and online retailers, among other sources.

~ The USA Today Bestseller list is different from the NYT model, in that it combines both eBook and traditional print books in the same list.

~ Congrats, Lorelei!

Consider yourself flashed.

This just in…

Enjoy this early Christmas present from Jade Lee – a free copy of her 2003 ebook Almost an Angel.

~ Just head on over to this page at Jade’s website.

~ Fill in the required information. And be sure to read the quick instruction Jade gives you there.

~ Wait for your confirming email with a coupon code and links for your free book!

~ It’s that easy! Offer good until December 31, 2011. Be sure to pass the info on to all of your friends.

~ Merry Christmas!

Consider yourself flashed.

You’re really in for a treat now. This first chapter of Hot Zone pulls you right in, places you in the middle of the devastation after an earthquake tumbles the Bahamas every which way. You meet Hugh and Amelia under the worst of circumstances, when you see the best of them, what makes them the people they are today.

Catherine Mann has given readers characters who are, foremost, honorable, so very likeable but also flawed, and who make you emotionally invest in them from the start. I don’t think you’ll be able to walk away from this excerpt without wanting more of Hugh and Amelia, without wanting to know what happens to them and where they go from here.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Summary:

Days full of danger…
For Pararescueman Master Sergeant Hugh Franco, it’s all about saving other people’s lives. Then he moves on. But when he pulls beautiful Amelia Bailey and her adopted nephew from the rubble of a catastrophic earthquake, he finds himself entangled in their lives in ways he could never have imagined…

And desire-filled nights…
Amelia’s trip to the Bahamas to help with an international adoption has been no vacation, but the hardest part is yet to come. As Amelia and Hugh are pulled unawares into a deadly smuggling scheme, simmering beneath their growing need to protect each other is a compelling attraction they’re both determined to deny…

Get ready…

Chapter One

The world had caved in on Amelia Bailey. Literally.

Aftershocks from the earthquake still rumbled the gritty earth under her cheek, jarring her out of her hazy micro nap. Dust and rocks showered around her. Her skin, her eyes, everything itched and ached after hours—she’d lost track of how many – beneath the rubble.

The quake had to have hit at least seven on the Richter Scale. Although when you ended up with a building on top of you, somehow a Richter scale didn’t seem all that pertinent.

She squeezed her lids closed. Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling, she drew in slow, even breaths of the dank air filled with dirt. Was this what it was like to be buried alive? She pushed back the panic as forcefully as she’d clawed out a tiny cavern for herself.

This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her trip to the Bahamas when she’d offered to help her brother and sister-in-law with the legalities of international adoption.

Muffled sounds penetrated, of jackhammers and tractors. Life scurried above her, not that anybody seemed to have heard her shouts. She’d screamed her throat raw until she could only manage a hoarse croak now.

Time fused in her pitch black cubby, the air thick with sand. Or disintegrated concrete. She didn’t want to think what else. She remembered the first tremor, the dawning realization that her third floor hotel room in the seaside Bahamas resort was slowly giving way beneath her feet. But after that?

Her mind blanked.

How long had she been entombed? Forever, it seemed, but probably more along the lines of half a day while she drifted in and out of consciousness. She wriggled her fingers and toes to keep the circulation moving after so long immobile. Every inch of her body screamed in agony from scrapes and bruises and probably worse, but she couldn’t move enough to check. Still, she welcomed the pain that reassured her she was alive.

Her body was intact.

Forget trying to sit up. Her head throbbed from having tried that. The ceiling was maybe six inches above where she lay flat on her belly. Again, she willed back hysteria. The fog of claustrophobia hovered, waiting to swallow her whole.

More dust sifted around her. The sound of the jackhammers rattled her teeth. They seemed closer, louder with even a hint of a voice. Was that a dog barking?

Hope hurt after so many disappointments. Even if her ears heard right, there had to be so many people in need of rescuing after the earthquake. All those efforts could easily be for someone else a few feet away. They might not find her for hours. Days.

Ever.

But she couldn’t give up. She had to keep fighting. If not for herself, then for the little life beside her, her precious new nephew. She threaded her arm through the tiny hole between them to rub his back, even though he’d long ago given up crying, sinking into a frighteningly long nap. His shoulders rose and fell evenly, thank God, but for how much longer?

Her fingers wrapped tighter around a rock and she banged steadily against the oppressive wall overhead. Again and again. If only she knew Morse code. Her arm numbed. Needle-like pain prickled down her skin. She gritted her teeth and continued. Didn’t the people up there have special listening gear?

Dim shouts echoed, like a celebration. Someone had been found. Someone else. Her eyes burned with tears that she was too dehydrated to form. Desperation clawed up her throat. What if the rescue party moved on now? Far from her deeply buried spot?

Time ticked away. Precious seconds. Her left hand gripped the rock tighter, her right hand around the tiny wrist of the child beside her. Joshua’s pulse fluttered weakly against her thumb.

Desperation thundered in her ears. She pounded the rock harder overhead. God, she didn’t want to die. There’d been times after her divorce when the betrayal hurt so much she’d thought her chance at finally having a family was over, but she’d never thrown in the towel. Damn him. She wasn’t a quitter.

Except why wasn’t her hand cooperating anymore? The opaque air grew thicker with despair. Her arm grew leaden. Her shoulder shrieked in agony, pushing a gasping moan from between her cracked lips. Pounding became taps… She frowned. Realizing…

Her hand wasn’t moving anymore. It slid uselessly back onto the rubble strewn floor. Even if her will to live was kicking ass, her body waved the white flag of surrender.

**

Master Sergeant Hugh Franco had given up caring if he lived or died five years ago. These days, the Air Force pararescueman motto was the only thing that kept his soul planted on this side of mortality.

That others may live.

Since he didn’t have anything to live for here on earth, he volunteered for the assignments no sane person would touch. And even if they would, his buds had people who would miss them. Why cause them pain?

Which was what brought him to his current snow-ball’s-chance-in-hell mission.

Hugh commando crawled through the narrow tunnel in the earthquake rubble. His helmet lamp sliced a thin blade through the dusty dark. His headset echoed with chatter from above – familiar voices looking after him and unfamiliar personnel working other missions scattered throughout the chaos. One of the search and rescue dogs above ground had barked his head off the second he’d sniffed this fissure in the jumbled jigsaw of broken concrete.

Now, Hugh burrowed deeper on the say so of a German Shepherd named Zorro. Ground crew attempts at drilling a hole for a search camera had come up with zip. But that Zorro was one mighty insistent pup so Hugh was all in.

He half listened to the talking in one ear, with the other tuned in for signs of life in the devastation. Years of training honed an internal filter that blocked out communication not meant for him.

“You okay down there Franco?”

He tapped the talk button on his safety harness and replied, “Still moving. Seems stable enough.”

“So says the guy who parachuted into a minefield on an Afghani mountainside.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Somebody had needed to go in and rescue that Green Beret who’d gotten his legs blown off. “I’m good for now and I’m sure I heard some tapping ahead of me. Tough to tell, but maybe another twenty feet or so.”

He felt a slight tug, then loosening to the line attached to his safety harness as his team leader played out more cord.

“Roger that, Franco. Slow and steady man, slow and steady.”

Just then he heard the tapping again. “Wait one, Major.”

Hugh stopped and cocked his free ear. Tapping for sure. He swept his light forward, pushing around a corner and saw a widening cavern that held promise inside the whole hellish pancake collapse. He inched ahead, aiming the light on his helmet into the void.

The slim beam swept a trapped individual. Belly to the ground, the person sprawled with only a few inches free above. The lower half of the body was blocked. But the torso was visible, covered in so much dust and grime he couldn’t tell at first if he saw a male or female. Wide eyes stared back at him with disbelief, followed by wary hope. Then the person dropped a rock and pointed toward him.

Definitely a woman’s hand.

Trembling, she reached, her French manicure chipped, nails torn back and bloody. A gold band on her thumb had bent into an oval. He clasped her hand quickly to check the thumb for warmth and a pulse.

And found it. Circulation still intact.

Then he checked her wrist, heart rate elevated but strong.

She gripped his hand with surprising strength. “If I’m hallucinating,” she said, her raspy voice barely more than a whisper, “please don’t tell me.”

“Ma’am, you’re not imagining anything. I’m here to help you.”

He let her keep holding on as it seemed to bring her comfort—and calm—while he swept the light over what he could see of her to assess medically. Tangled hair. A streak of blood across her head. But no gaping wounds.

He thumbed his mic. “Have found a live female. Trapped, but lucid. More data after I evaluate.”

“Roger that,” McCabe’s voice crackled through.

Hugh inched closer, wedging the light into the crevice in hopes of seeing more of his patient. “Ma’am, crews are working hard to get you out of here, but they need to stabilize the structure before removing more debris. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.” She nodded, then winced as her cheek slid along the gritty ground. “My name is Amelia Bailey. I’m not alone.”

More souls in danger. “How many?”

“One more. A baby.”

His gut gripped. He forced words past his throat clogging from more than particulates in the air. “McCabe, add a second soul to that. A baby with the female, Amelia Bailey. Am switching to hot mic so you can listen in.”

He flipped the mic to constant feed, which would use more battery but time was of the essence now. He didn’t want to waste valuable seconds repeating info. “Ma’am, how old is the baby?”

“Thirteen months. A boy,” she spoke faster and faster, her voice coming out in scratchy croaks. “I can’t see him because it’s so dark, but I can feel his pulse. He’s still alive, but oh God, please get us out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, I’m going to slip my hand over your back to see if I can reach him.”

He had his doubts. There wasn’t a sound from the child, no whimpering, none of those huffing little breaths children made when they slept or had cried themselves out. Still, he had to go through the motions. Inching closer until he stretched alongside her, he tunneled his arm over her shoulders. Her back rose and fell shallowly, as if she tried to give him more space when millimeters counted. His fingers snagged on her torn shirt, something silky and too insubstantial a barrier between her and tons of concrete.

Pushing further, he met resistance, stopped short. Damn it. He grappled past the jutting stone, lower down her back until he brushed the top of her—

She gasped.

He looked up fast, nearly nose to nose now. His hand stilled on her buttock. She stared back, the light from his helmet sweeping over her sooty face. Her eyes stared back, a splash of color in the middle of murky desperation.

Blue. Her eyes were glistened pure blue, and what a strange thought to have in the middle of hell. But he couldn’t help but notice they were the same color as cornflowers he’d seen carpeting a field once during a mission in the U.K.

Hell, cornflowers were just weeds. He stretched deeper, along the curve of her butt, bringing his face nearer to hers. She bit her lip.

“Sorry,” he clipped out.

Wincing, she shrugged. “It was a reflex. Modesty’s pretty silly right now. Keep going.”

Wriggling, he shifted for a better path beyond the maze of jagged edges, protruding glass, spikes…

“Damn it.” He rolled away, stifling the urge to say a helluva lot worse. “I can’t reach past you.”

Her fingers crawled to grip his sleeve. “I’m just so glad you’re here, that everyone knows we are here. Joshua’s heart is still beating. He’s with us and we haven’t been down here long enough for him to get dehydrated, less than a day. There’s hope, right?”

Less than a day? Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the earthquake occurred, and while he’d participated in against all odds rescues before, he had a sick sense that the child was already dead. But alerting the woman to her own confusion over the time wouldn’t help and could actually freak her out.

“Sure, Amelia. There’s always hope.”

Or so the platitude went.

“I’m going to hang out here with you while they do their work upstairs.” He unstrapped the pack around his waist and pointed his headlight toward the supplies. “Now I’m gonna pull out some tricks to make you more comfortable while we wait.”

“Happen to have an ice cold Diet Coke? Although I’ll settle for water, no lemon necessary.”

He laughed softly. Not many would be able to joke right now, much less stay calm. “I’m sorry, but until I know more about your physical status, I can’t risk letting you eat or drink.” He tugged out a bag of saline, the needle, antiseptic swabs, grunting as a rock bit into his side. “But I am going to start an IV, just some fluids to hydrate you.”

“You said you’re here to help me,” she said, wincing at a fresh burst of noise from the jackhammers, “but who are you?”

“I’m with the U.S. Air Force.” Dust and pebbles showered down. “I’m a pararescueman—you may have heard it called parajumper or PJ—but regardless it includes a crap-ton of medic training. I need to ask some questions so I know what else to put in your IV. Where exactly did the debris land on you?”

She puffed dust from her mouth, blinking fast. “There’s a frickin’ building on top of me.”

“Let me be more specific. Are your legs pinned?” He tore the corner of a sealed alcohol pad with his teeth, spitting the foil edge free. “I couldn’t reach that far to assess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were checking on Joshua.”

“I’m a good multi-tasker.”

“My foot is wedged, but I can still wriggle my toes.”

He looked up sharply. If she was hemorrhaging internally, fluids could make her bleed out faster, but without hydration…

The balancing act often came down to going with his gut. “Just your foot?”

“Yes. Why? Do you think I’m delusional?” Her breath hitched with early signs of hysteria. “I’m not having phantom sensations. I can feel grit against my ankle. There’s some blood in my shoe, not a lot. It’s sticky, but not fresh. I’m feeling things.”

“I hear you. I believe you.” Without question, her mind would do whatever was needed to survive. But he’d felt enough of her body to know she was blocked, rather than pressed into the space. “I’m going to put an IV in now.”

“Why was it so important about my foot?”

He scrubbed the top of her hand with alcohol pads, sanitizing as best he could. “When parts of the body are crushed, we need to be… uh… careful in freeing you.”

“Crush syndrome.” Her throat moved with a long slow swallow. “I’ve heard of that. People die from it after they get free. I saw it on a rerun of that TV show about a crabby drug addict doctor.”

“We just need to be careful.” In a crush situation, tissue died, breaking down and when the pressure was released, toxins flooded the body, overloading the kidneys. And for just that remote possibility, he hadn’t included potassium in her IV.

Panic flooded her glittering blue eyes. “Are you planning to cut off my foot?” Her arm twitched, harder, faster until she flailed. “Are you going to put something else in that IV? Something to knock me out?”

He covered her fingers with his before she dislodged the port in her hand. “There’s nothing in there but fluid. I’m being honest with you now, but if you panic, I’m going to have to start feeding you a line of bullshit to calm you down. Now you said you wanted the unvarnished truth—”

“I do. Okay. I’m breathing. Calming down. Give me the IV.”

He patted her wrist a final time. “I already did.”

Blinking fast, she looked at the tape along her hand. A smile pushed through the grime on her face. “You’re good. I was so busy trying not to freak out I didn’t even notice.”

“Not bad for my first time.”

“Your first time?”

“I’m kidding.” And working to distract her again from the rattle overhead, the fear that at any second the whole damn place could collapse onto them.

She laughed weakly, then stronger. “Thank you.”

“It’s just an IV.”

“For the laugh. I was afraid I would never get to do that again.” Her fingers relaxed slowly, tension seeping from them as surely as fluid dripped out of the bag. “The second they uncover us, you’ll make Joshua top priority. Forget about me until he’s taken care of.”

“We’re going to get you both out of here. I swear it.”

“Easy for you to claim that. If I die, it’s not like I can call you a liar.”

A dead woman and child. He resisted the urge to tear through the rocks with his bare hands and to hell with waiting on the crews above. He stowed his gear, twisting to avoid that damn stone stabbing his side.

“Hey,” Amelia whispered. “That was supposed to be a joke from me this time.”

“Right, got it.” Admiration for her grit kicked through his own personal fog threatening to swallow him whole. “You’re a tough one. I think you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m a county prosecutor. I chew up criminals for a living.”

“Atta girl.” He settled onto his back, watching the hypnotic drip, drip. His fingers rested on her wrist to monitor her pulse.

“Girl?” She sniffed. “I prefer to be called a woman or a lady, thank you very much.”

“Where I come from, it’s wise not to be nitpicky with the person who’s saving your ass.”

“Score one for you.” She scraped a torn fingernail through the dust on the ground. Her sigh stirred the dust around that shaky line. “I’m good now. So you should go before this building collapses on top of you and keeps you from doing your job for other people.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He ignored a call from McCabe through his headset that pretty much echoed the woman’s words. “The second they give the go ahead, I’m hauling you out of here, Amelia Bailey.”

“And Joshua. I want you to promise you’ll take care of him first.”

“I will do what I can for him,” he answered evasively.

Her wide eyes studied him for seven drips of the IV before she cleared her throat. “You don’t think he’s alive, do you? I can feel his pulse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not imagining it, damn it.” Her hand flipped and she grabbed his arm, her ragged nails digging deep with urgency. “I can feel his pulse in his wrist. He’s a little chilly, but he’s not cold. Just because he’s not screaming his head off doesn’t mean he’s dead. And sometimes, he moves. Only a little, but I feel it.” Her words tumbled over each other faster and faster until she dissolved into a coughing fit.

Ah, to hell with it. He unhooked his canteen. “Wet your mouth. Just don’t gulp, okay? Or they’ll kick my butt up there.”

He brought the jug to her lips and she sipped, her restraint Herculean when she must want to drain it dry. Sighing, she sagged again, her eyes closing as she hmmmed, her breathing evening out. He freaked. She needed to stay awake, alert.

Alive.

“Tell me about your son Joshua.” He recapped the canteen without wasting a swallow on himself.

Her lashes fluttered open again. “Joshua’s my nephew. I came with my brother and his wife to help them with the paperwork for their adoption. They don’t want any legal loopholes. What happens to Joshua if they’re…?”

She bit her lip.

His brain raced as he swept the light along the rubble, searching for some signs of others. Although there hadn’t been a helluva lot of survivors in the vicinity. All the same, he made sure they heard upstairs, by speaking straight into his mic as he asked her, “Where were your brother and sister-in-law when the earthquake hit?”

“They were in the street, outside the hotel. They left to buy lunch. They waited until Joshua was asleep so he wouldn’t miss them.” Her voice hitched. “I promised I would take care of him.”

“And you have.” He pinned her with his eyes, with his determination, the swath of light staying steady on her face. “Keep the faith. Hold steady and picture your family in one of the camps for survivors right now going nuts trying to find you.”

“I’ve read stories about how babies do better because they have more fat stores and they don’t tense up or get claustrophobic.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “He’s just napping, you know.”

The force of her need pummeled him harder than the spray of rocks from the jack hammered ceiling. The world closed in to just this woman and a kid he couldn’t see. Too clearly he could envision his wife and his daughter, trapped in the wreckage of a crashed plane. Marissa would have held out hope for Tilly right to the end too, fighting for her until her nails and spirit were ragged.

Shit.

The vise on his brain clamped harder, the roar in his ears louder, threatening his focus. “I’m changing your IV bag now, so don’t wig out if you feel a little tug.”

She clenched her fist. “You must get pretty jaded in this line of work.”

“I’ve got a good success rate.” He didn’t walk away from tough odds. Every mission was do or die for him.

“About my foot,” she started hesitantly, “am I imagining that it’s okay? Be honest. I won’t panic. I need to be prepared.”

“The mind does what it needs to in order to survive. That’s what you need to focus on. Surviving.”

Not that any amount of determination had mattered in the end for Marissa or Tilly. They’d died in that plane crash, their broken bodies returned to him to bury along with his will to live. A trembling started deep inside him. His teeth chattered. He dug his fingers into the ground to anchor himself into the present. Amelia Bailey would not die on his watch, damn it.

But the trembling increased inside him. Harder. Deeper. Until he realized… The shaking wasn’t inside, but outside.

The ground shuddered with another earthquake.

We authors tend to have varied backgrounds and degrees.  And it just so happens, I have an MA in Theater from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, as well as an undergrad degree in Fine Arts: Theater from the College of Charleston.

Lately, interviewers have been asking about my background in theater and how it influences my writing.  So I decided perhaps it’s time to delve into that deeper, devoting an entire blog to the subject of how acting classes affect the way I build characters in a novel.

In the early twentieth century, acting styles were revolutionized by a Russian actor and theater director named Constantin Stanislavski.  He stressed the importance of accessing a memory that would evoke/relay an emotion on stage.  (That’s vastly oversimplifying his work, but I don’t want to put you all to sleep!  So hang with me here.)

I particularly enjoy digging deeply into the childhoods of my characters to find those memories that defined who they became.  Tapping into those memories can make them vulnerable and more emotionally accessible to the reader, even when they are keeping themselves closed off from the other characters in the story.

For example, in Hot Zone, our big, bad ass, invulnerable hero Hugh is an Air Force pararescueman.  He has crawled between layers of collapsed concrete to save earthquake survivors, in particular our heroine Amelia and her one-year-old nephew Joshua.  Hugh is superhero material to the nth degree.

But what makes him accessible?  Vulnerable?  Heart tugging?

Here’s a brief excerpt where Hugh is trying to calm Amelia by keeping her talking:

“Hugh, what makes you do something like this for a living? I can’t imagine anybody willingly coming down here.”

“What can I say?” He settled onto his side, stowing his gear. “I was the kid who climbed trees to rescue stranded cats.”

“No kidding?” She grasped at the piece of normalcy.

“When I was seven, the neighbor’s Siamese got stuck in a big old oak. The family called the fire department, but it was going to take a while for them to get there because of a three-alarm blaze on the other side of town.”

His smooth-as-bourbon smooth bass voice filled the cave with an intoxicating calm. “The neighbor girl was bawling her eyes out. So I figured, why wait? I’d climbed that tree a hundred times.”

His story wrapped around her, sinking into her pores and transporting her to the world beyond this murky gray hell, a world with leafy green trees and fuzzy kittens.

“I’ll bet the neighbor girl was glad to have her pet back.”

“Oh, I didn’t save her Siamese. The cat climbed down on its own.” He chuckled softly. “I got stuck when my jacket snagged on a branch and the fire department had to rescue me.”

She laughed with him—how could she not?—until her eyes stung with tears and she choked on the thick air. “You’re making that up to distract me.”

“Not a chance. I was scared to death up there. Cried like a baby, when I got to solid ground again.” A half smile dug a crease into the dirt on his rugged face. “The little kid had her cat back and looked at the firefighter like he was a god.”

“Ahhh,” she smiled, realizing…. “You had a crush on the neighbor girl.”

He didn’t answer right away.  The dull throb of distant engines filled the void.

“Yeah.” His voice went flat, the smooth bourbon tones turning gravelly.

The kicker here?  This memory is about the woman the hero eventually married, but now the hero’s wife and daughter are dead.  From that memory he shared to try and calm the heroine, we (the readers) have accessed a lot of information and vulnerability from a hero who keeps himself closed off from the world.

And so, that concludes my Memories 101 blog for today!  Thanks for hanging out with me here.  It’s always a pleasure to hear from readers and other writers.

The holidays in particular bring back memories for many people.  What’s one of your favorite holiday memories?

[Ed. Be sure to leave a meaningful comment for Catherine today - two copies of Hot Zone are up for grabs! US and Canada only, please.]

Beautiful scenery, white water rapids, and long-limbed models yours for the taking. What could be better than that for a sexy and single adrenaline junkie with a soft spot for kids? How about a Goth chick sporting skull and crossbones and who can’t resist the latest Jimmy Choos?

Oh, yeah, there are a few such dichotomies in this book, and they all add up to one heck of a good time.

Robin Kaye has written one of those feel-good books that makes you laugh, then sizzle, and then grin till it hurts. Think you know whether it’s Hunter or Toni who’s Wild Thing? Don’t count on that cover helping you out!

Summary:

Whitewater-rafting guide Hunter Kincaid lands his dream job–guiding sportswear models through Idaho’s rugged wilderness for a week-long photo shoot. When he meets Toni Russo, the goth New York manager of Action Models, there are enough sparks to set the forest ablaze.

When Hunter finds Toni’s book on how to marry the man of your choice, he studies it as a joke. Before long Hunter realizes he’s never cared enough for a woman to bother working this hard to get her. But the last man in the world this city girl wants is a Survivor Man wannabe…

Now for some real fun…

Chapter 1

Toni Russo stood on the porch of the Sawtooth Inn ignoring the mountains cutting the bright blue sky, concentrating instead on Hunter Kincaid’s very confused, very green eyes. She recognized him from the photos on the River Runners’ website. They didn’t do him justice, probably because there was no way to transmit the pheromones rolling off the man onto an image.

Hunter stared at her the whole way from his old Land Cruiser to the porch. He stopped, tipped his baseball cap back, and then put his hands on his hips. “You’re not who I expected to see.”

Well, no shit. “Yeah, I guess you’ll have to learn to live with the disappointment. I know I have.”

“Toni?” A look of relief flashed across his face then a smile ticked up the right side of his mouth as he made a slow perusal of her from head to feet and back again.

She waited, knowing it would take awhile. Ever since she’d landed in Boise, she’d experienced the same thing. No one quite knew what to make of her. Holding her clipboard to her chest, she wondered if it would have been better to have spent her time in Boise shopping for less interesting clothes. She mentally shook her head and knew it would never have worked. You could put her in a sack, and she’d do something to stand out. She’d long since given up trying to rein herself in. As Catherine Aird said, “If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll just have to serve as a horrible warning.” So far, it had worked for her.

Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Toni looked down at her outfit. The short, red plaid kilt wasn’t too offensive. She pulled her clipboard away to see she had on her Stay Away T-shirt. Maybe he had something against the collage of pistols, brass knuckles, knives, and bullets. But really, he didn’t look like a pacifist, not that she wasn’t—it was a T-shirt for goodness sake, not a personal manifesto. The kitty-face Mary Janes and red skull-and-crossbones knee-socks were a bit busy. Okay, Hunter’s thirty seconds were up. She fingered the D-ring on the studded collar around her neck and cleared her throat. “Do you mind?”

Hunter took a sip of whatever was in the travel cup he held. “Not at all—just wondering if you were going for that naughty-schoolgirl-fantasy look.”

“No, I was going for my not-quite-sure-what-to-wear-for-a-meeting-with-Davy-Crocket look. How’s it working for you?”

Hunter’s mouth worked its way into a full smile. Great teeth. She had a thing for nice teeth, and yeah, his mouth was full of them.

“Really well, thanks. Over the phone, it sounded as if you wouldn’t be caught dead out here. When Bianca came to scout for photo shoot locations, she said something about you having a phobia. What changed your mind?”

Toni took in the rustic porch wrapping around the log cabin lodge and decided to sit on a rocking chair. There was nothing else to sit on except the steps, and they needed a good sweeping. “You asked Bianca about me?”

Hunter leaned against the rough-hewn post holding up the corner of the porch. “I didn’t know it was a federal offense.”

“Bianca was involved in negotiating a big deal so she sent me.” Toni placed her clipboard on her lap and clicked her pen a few times in rapid succession. “I had no choice.”

Hunter’s big hiking boots filled her line of sight. Her gaze wandered up to where neatly rolled, rag-wool socks met hard, tanned calf muscle with just the right splattering of leg hair—not so much you’d be tempted to take a brush to it, and not so little you’d wonder if he routinely waxed. He wore khaki shorts low around the hips, his green River Runners T-shirt pulled tight against his chest and abs. She’d seen him without a shirt thanks to the picture on the website, so she knew if she poked him it would feel like poking a brick wall. She’d bet dollars to doughnuts he didn’t get that hard body in a gym.

When her eyes hit his stubbled chin, she encountered another full-toothed grin. Damn, she hadn’t meant to be so obvious.

The slap of an old-fashioned screen door broke the tension. “Sorry.” James, Bianca’s right-hand man, appeared with two cups of coffee. He handed Toni hers. “That’s decaf. Maybe you’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

Not likely. The woods seemed to inch closer and closer to the lodge. God only knew what roamed out there. She took a sip of bad coffee as James, an ex-model and now her partner in managing the series of shoots, shook Hunter’s offered hand. James’s dark hair glittered with silver at the temples, his bright blue eyes were full of intelligence and humor, and his build was still trim and muscular, but not like Hunter’s. Hunter’s muscles were brought about by his life’s work, James’s by a trainer, weight machines, and a strict diet.

“James, this is Hunter Kincaid. Hunter, James Ness.”

“Hunter, good to see you again. Do you want coffee?”

“No, thanks, I brought my own.” Hunter’s handshake turned into a guy hug, which was weird considering James’s sexual preference was in direct opposition to the one Hunter oozed.

Toni caught James’s eye with a raised brow. A quick shake of his head confirmed Hunter was, in fact, straight. She’d forgotten James had accompanied Bianca on the scouting trip. The guys had obviously bonded.

Hunter set his travel cup on the table and sat. She finally saw what was written on the side of the cup: “The Way to a Fisherman’s Heart is Through His Fly” along with a picture of what looked like an insect with a hook up its butt. Nice.

“I was surprised to find Toni here,” Hunter said as he eased back on the chair.

James let out a laugh that grated on her nerves. “No more than she, I presume. Bianca didn’t give her much notice. Or should I call it warning? Still, Toni can run the show with one hand cuffed behind her back. We won’t have a problem.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Hunter watched her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee, no decaf for him. He slept like a baby every night, no matter how late he drank coffee, but he wouldn’t mind spending a few sleepless nights with a beautiful woman.

He’d wondered what Toni looked like since the first day she’d called River Runners in January. Her deep, husky, raspingly sexy voice brought to mind an unbidden picture of a young, blonde, long-legged Kathleen Turner. The New York accent was all wrong, but that do-me voice was right on. Man, was he ever way off base. He found himself eye-to-eye with the polar opposite of the woman he’d pictured. Toni wore her jet black, shoulder-length hair in pigtails. Instead of making her look like a schoolgirl, it made him wonder what kind of underwear she wore, if she was into bondage, or just dug the whole collar-and-cuff thing for fashion’s sake, and had him searching all exposed skin for ink. When he didn’t see any, he thought about putting himself in the position to do a full body search.

Checking his dive watch, Hunter looked around for the models he’d promised his brothers they’d be working with when they signed on as guides. That was an ingenious idea if he did say so himself. By bringing Trapper and Fisher along, he not only got free guides and someone to distract Bianca, who, on their week-long outing, had been determined to share a sleeping bag with him, but supplied a physician and legal help if necessary. Since his brothers had plenty of vacation time racked up, they jumped at the chance to spend a week escorting ten models through the mountains and down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in the Sawtooth Recreation Area. Hunter could have gotten his brothers to pay for the privilege, but he hadn’t pushed it since Bianca Ferrari, the owner of Action Models, had paid top dollar for his services. “My guides, Trapper and Fisher, will be here any minute for the barbeque and to meet your group.”

Toni flipped through the pages stuck in her skull-and-crossbones stenciled clipboard, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was shaped like a coffin. The clasp was a bat forged from what looked like pewter with onyx stones for eyes. “I’ve called a 9:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow then the models can spend the rest of the day getting acclimated.”

Hunter stopped staring at the clipboard and shrugged, trying not to envision what that bat would look like tattooed on Toni’s lower back, its wings spanning her small waist. “We can take a short rafting trip and have a picnic down by my cabin. Bianca had planned a shoot there. There’s a nice beach with plenty of space for sunbathing and a regulation sand volleyball court. It’ll be an easy trip and will give your group a chance to have a lesson on the rafts.”

James nodded. “That sounds great. I’ll make arrangements to have a lunch packed for everyone. It’s gorgeous, Toni. You’re going to love it.”

Toni paled, which was hard to do since the girl without makeup was pale enough to qualify for a vampire casting call. She was definitely a candidate for skin cancer. Hunter made a mental note to make sure she wore plenty of sunscreen—he’d be happy to help with the hard to reach spots.

She shook her twin ponytails as her lips drew into a deep frown. “I’m sure you’ll have fun. I’m going to stick close to my cabin. I brought plenty of reading material.”

Hunter crossed his arms. “You really need the lesson on the raft, and the only way to do that is to get you on the river.”

Still shaking her head, Toni backed away. Not a good sign.

“If you want to get out of the sun and hang out in my cabin and read, you’re more than welcome to. Put your book in a Ziploc, and bring it along.”

Toni held her clipboard tight against her chest. “I won’t be joining you.”

Hunter moved toward her like he would a spooked horse. “You’re not going to supervise the photo shoots?”

“Of course I will. That’s my job.”

It took him a moment to compute what she’d said since she’d spoken so fast. He tried his most encouraging smile. “Then you’ll want to come tomorrow. If not, you’re not going to be able to do at least two of the shoots Bianca planned.”

Toni stared at James as if she expected him to jump in and save her.

Hunter watched the silent argument going on between them. When no words were spoken, he cleared his throat. “It’s perfectly safe. Everyone wears PFDs and even lightweight helmets. We teach you everything you need to know in case you fall in. We show you how to get back into the raft, how to paddle, and what to do if we get stuck. We’ll be running down a lazy part of the river tomorrow. I promise there will be no class-five rapids.”

When James did nothing more than shrug, she tossed her clipboard on the table and turned on Hunter with both hands on her hips. “What the hell is a PFD?”

“A personal flotation device.”

“And why would I need a helmet?”

“The helmet protects you in the rare instance you should fall and hit your head on a rock in the river.”

Toni blinked twice and looked as if she needed to sit down and put her head between her legs.

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. She just stood there, wide-eyed, looking as if she wasn’t breathing. Really not good.

The purr of Trapper’s Sequoia broke the silence. The engine died as doors opened and shut. Hunter looked for help from James who suddenly found his shoes very interesting. Great.

When boots hit the steps, Hunter turned. “Trapper and Fisher, this is James Ness. He’s working with Toni Russo, the manager of Action Models in New York.” Hunter turned back toward Toni only to find she’d disappeared, coffin clipboard and all.
***
Trapper watched Toni slip around the corner of the inn and then run down the path toward the cabins. He whispered to Fisher, “Did you remember to wear deodorant today? I know it wasn’t something I said since I didn’t say a thing.”

Fisher did a sniff test. “Deodorant, check. I even brushed my teeth before we left, but I didn’t get close enough to breathe on her, which, when you think about it, is a real shame.”

Hunter said something to James then chased after the hot, Goth chick.

Trapper leaned closer to Fisher. “Looks like Hunter has dibs on Toni. That means you owe me a twenty. Didn’t I bet you that he’d go after the first model he set eyes on?”
Fisher opened his wallet and pulled out a Jackson. “I’m not sure I actually owe you this since Toni isn’t a model. Hunter said she was the manager of the modeling agency—if the manager is that hot, just imagine what the models look like.”

“Stop being cheap, and hand over the money.”

Fisher did, and Trapper stuffed it in his pocket before his baby brother changed his mind. “You know what this means, right?”

Fisher smiled wide. “We get first dibs on the rest?”

“Exactly.”

James seemed awfully interested in Hunter and Toni. When they were out of sight, James whistled, “Brave brother you have there.”

Trapper leaned against the porch rail. “Toni doesn’t look that scary to me.”

James sat and curled his hand around a steaming mug of coffee. “Oh she’s not. She’s all bark and no bite, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a handful. Hunter has an uphill climb, that is, if he can talk her into ever coming out of her cabin.”

“Agoraphobic?”

James shook his head. “Nah, just not a fan of the great outdoors. Well, the great outdoors without paved streets, high rises, and a Starbucks on every corner.”

Trapper tipped his straw cowboy hat back. “At least it wasn’t personal. Fisher and I were wondering.” He sat beside James, who stared at the cabin Hunter had followed Toni into. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

James pulled his gaze away from the cabin. “I’m not worried.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Trapper sat back and made himself comfortable. It could be awhile. “Hunter is great with anyone skittish, be it people or horses.”

Fisher dragged a rocking chair over and took a seat. “Oh yeah, Hunter’s used to it in his field of work. Hell, he specializes in it. He spends a few weeks a couple of times a year running a camp for abused kids.”

Taking off his hat, Trapper twirled it on his finger. “It’s amazing how he can reach out to kids who are afraid of their own shadows and have enough baggage to fill a freight train. After a week with Hunter, you wouldn’t recognize them.”

Fisher nodded. “He’s a real miracle worker, my brother.”

Trapper couldn’t agree more. “Toni should be a walk in the park compared to some of the kids he’s worked with.”

James nodded but didn’t look convinced.

“You’ll see. I’ll bet you the twenty I just won from Fisher that Hunter has her out of that cabin inside a half hour.”

James smiled. “You’re on.”

***

Toni knew running away in the middle of introductions was rude. Still, it was less embarrassing than hyperventilating and passing out in front of three completely gorgeous strangers.

She’d fought to keep the panic at bay ever since she’d climbed out of the van that had taken her and the Action Models crew through vast mountain wilderness for the three-hour trek from Boise. With each mile they’d driven deeper into the wilderness, the panic increased exponentially.

She ran into her cabin, throwing herself on the bed before the door slammed shut behind her. Toni buried her face in a feather pillow, concentrating on taking deep, slow breaths.

The door to her cabin opened and closed quietly. She didn’t raise her head. She thanked God James was there and that he understood. He was the closest thing to a father she had. Not that her father was dead or anything—he’d just never been interested in the job.

“I know. I made a complete fool of myself. But believe me it was better than what would have happened if I’d stuck around. At least I didn’t pass out.”

She focused on her breathing. Nothing was said, but nothing needed to be. It was just nice to have James close by. The creak of the cane chair next to her bedside table told her he’d sat. When she finally had her breathing under control, she rolled over and shot up in bed. “Hunter?”

Hunter sat perusing the book she’d set on her bedside table. He Comes First: How to Find Your Perfect Man and Marry Him.

She didn’t know which was more mortifying, her behavior, or the fact that he knew she was reading that book. “It’s not mine.”

Hunter peered over the top of the book and raised an eyebrow. He must have practiced that look since he was a kid. It bothered her that it worked.

“Okay, it’s mine, but I didn’t buy it. My mother sent it to me. She believes in marriage—she must since she keeps trying it, over and over and over. After number five I thought she’d give up, but apparently she hasn’t.”

The man said nothing.

“Some girls might find the strong, silent type attractive. I don’t.”

He turned the page and kept reading.

“Just so you know, I’m not looking for a husband, but I would like to have a healthy, long-term relationship. So I thought, what could it hurt? You know? It stands to reason you’d look for the same thing in a long-term relationship as you would in a spouse. I mean, really, marriage is nothing more than a long-term relationship with a license attached and a divorce in the making. Since I’m not into doing paperwork or being legally bound to anyone, I plan to forgo the whole wedding thing.”

When he didn’t comment, she blew her hair off her face and crossed her arms. “Are you always so talkative?”

“With you it’s hard to get a word in edgewise.” Hunter closed the book and held his finger in it as if not wanting to lose his place. He’d gotten farther into it than she had. “I thought I’d let you finish.”

“I’m done.”

He set the book on the table and slid the chair around to face her. The tall bed put them eye-to-eye. “No, you’re not.”

Toni took a deep breath. She wasn’t known for her patience, but dug for it, since pissing him off on their first day was probably not a good idea—especially since she’d have to work with him for the next week. God help her. “I think I would know when I’m finished babbling. I usually don’t babble. I may talk to myself or mumble on occasion, but I never babble. You caught me off guard. I thought you were James. He’s the only one brave enough to come into my cabin without an invitation. This begs the question, what made you think it’s okay to waltz in uninvited?”

Hunter threw his ankle over his knee as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’m not much of a waltzer. Walking usually works for me.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Though there have been times I’ve found running effective. I told James I was going after you, and he didn’t try to stop me.”

“The charm is so not working on me. I deal with beautiful men on a daily basis. I’m immune. So since James didn’t stop you, you assumed you had permission to invade my personal space? Why?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “It wasn’t as if you stopped me either.”

“I would have had I known it was you.”

“But you didn’t, and I’m here. Why don’t you tell me what you’re so afraid of?”

Toni shook her head. “That’s personal.”

“And your mother’s five marriages aren’t? Not to mention your low opinion of the institution of marriage and your interest in hooking up with someone.”

“I’m not interested in hooking up.”

His eyebrow rose again.

“Not hooking up the way most people think of hooking up. I’d just like to have a normal, stable relationship with a normal, stable man.”

She snapped her mouth shut, not sure why she was even talking to him about this, especially since it didn’t look as if he was buying it. Since it was the God’s honest truth, his cynicism ticked her off. She pulled her pillow onto her lap, hugging it to her chest. “What?”

“Maybe our definition of normal is different. I can’t see you going out with anyone boring enough to be defined as normal.”

She sat up a little straighter. The guy certainly knew how to get under her skin, and not in a good way. “You don’t know anything about me.”

His low, sexy chuckle grated on her nerves. “Toni, I’ve learned more about you in the last half hour than I know about most of my best friends.”

“You don’t know much about your friends then, do you?”

“I know how long their skis are, how much they weigh, their favorite beer, what kind of flies they tie, and who they’re married to or dating—all the important stuff. Now why don’t you tell me what’s got you so spooked you almost passed out at the thought of taking a raft down a lazy river?”

“No.”

“Afraid of the water?”

Damn, the man could have been a cop. All he was missing was the bare light bulb. “Not particularly.”

“Then what is it?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I own River Runners, which makes you one of my guests. Everything about you that affects the quality of your experience is my business.”

“Nice try, but no cigar. The only thing you’re responsible for is following the schedule I emailed you last week and keeping my models safe. The rest is my business and mine alone.”

He stood and inspected the living area of the small cabin as if he expected to see something more than the rustic couch, coffee table, chair, TV, desk, and a few lamps. He returned to the bedroom section against the far wall, peeked into the bathroom, and then opened the closet, which served as a partition separating the two spaces. “Did you get everything on the packing list?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you can’t wear a get-up like that on the raft tomorrow.” He reached into her closet and pulled out her checkerboard, slip-on, canvas Vans.

He was going through her closet? She got off the bed and pulled her sneakers from his huge hands. “Do you always invade everyone’s personal space and property, or am I just special?”

“These will work fine. You might want to put on a bathing suit or at least swap that skirt for a pair of shorts. Oh, and don’t forget your sunscreen, sunglasses, and a hat tomorrow. I’ll be here at 9:00 a.m. sharp.” He grabbed a hoodie out of her closet. “Everyone’s meeting up by the lodge for the barbeque. You might think about changing into a pair of jeans. And I’m sure you’ll need this.” He tossed the hoodie to her; she caught it with one hand. “Once the sun ducks behind the mountains the temperature drops. I’ll wait outside for you to change.”

“You ignored my question.”

Hunter turned and looked her up and down again. “I didn’t ignore it. I don’t know the answer yet.”

“You don’t know if you invade everyone’s personal space?”

“No, I don’t know if you’re special, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”
***
Hunter stepped outside. He leaned against the closest tree, pulled his sat-phone off his belt, and dialed his sister. God, this was going to kill him.

“Speak.”

“Great phone manners, Karma.”

“Ha, you’re just jealous you can’t answer the same way, Mr. Businessman.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I need a favor.” He could almost hear her deciding how to make him pay. “I need you to buy me a book and bring it up here tomorrow.”

“Oooh, this is gonna cost you. What book and where?”

“You have a pen handy?”

“Do I need one? It’s not one of those boring treatises on history or literature you’re so fond of, is it? If it is, I’m going to charge you twenty bucks a pound to lug it all the way up there. And why the urgency?”

“It’s a paperback, and no, it’s nothing like my usual reading material. You have to promise you’ll keep this a secret.” Man, he was going to be paying for this forever.

“This is just getting better and better. What is it? The Joy of Sex or something?”

“Worse. It’s called He Comes First: How to Find Your Perfect Man and Marry Him.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow on his forearm. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Spill.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“It is if you want to get your hands on a copy in the near future.”

“Fine.” He held back a groan. “A woman I know is reading it. I just thought it was something I could use—”

“To become her perfect man?”

“No… well, maybe for a little while. I thought it could be fun to screw with her.”

“Literally, figuratively, or both?”

“Not your business.”

“And what about that whole ‘men come first’ thing? I thought the woman was always supposed to come first, sexually speaking, of course. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“I’m not talking to you about this. Are you going to bring me the book or not?”

“Okay, I’ll bring it, but you owe me big. What’s her name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“The usual reasons. I’m a nosy little sister, and I want to meet the woman who would incite you to call me and ask me for something you know you’ll never live down.”

“Karma, how about this? If you don’t bring me the book, I’ll tell Trapper who backed into his brand-new Sequoia.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Fine. I’ll bring you the damn book, and I’ll find out on my own who the lucky lady is. Heck, I’ll probably know more about her than you do before I’m halfway to wherever it is you expect me to deliver your package.”

“Doubtful.”

“Which reminds me, where are you?”

“I’m up at the Sawtooth Inn now. Tomorrow morning we’re taking a raft trip to my place. When can you come?”

“Lucky for you, tomorrow’s my day off. I guess I can meet you at the cabin. Want me to bring anything else since I’m making the trip?”

“Has Mom made any cookies lately?”

“I’m sure she will if she knows you want some. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Call me if there’s a change of plans.”

“Will do… and Karma? Mum’s the word, okay?”

“Sure, but it’ll cost you.”

“Believe me, I know.” He ended the call and waited. He’d give Toni another three minutes, and then he was going in after her.

Hunter checked his watch and called Emilio, one of the campers he worked with and wished he could have kept longer. Emilio had begun to show progress just in time to go back to the streets. “Emilio, it’s Hunter.”

“Hey.”

Street sounds came blaring through the phone. “What’s up?”

“Just hangin’.”

“Pat said you missed curfew last night. What’s up with that?”

“Dude, I had my girl with me. I wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout no curfew.”

“You should be thinking about your curfew, but more importantly—be safe. Real men protect themselves and their girls.”

“I hear ya. Hey, I gotta go. Later.”

“Emilio, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” The phone went dead.

Hunter cursed under his breath. Emilio didn’t believe him, and why should he? He had absolutely no reason to think that Hunter would follow through on his promises. No one else in his life ever had.

Hunter slammed the phone back onto his belt and felt like punching the tree he leaned against. Emilio was slipping away, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. It was a good thing he had another problem to concentrate on.

Just as he turned toward the cabin, Toni stepped out wearing skintight black pants with what looked like black leather suspenders hanging from the waistband. The pants were tucked into tall, high-heeled black boots that laced up the front and had four black straps hanging from hooks and draping around the calf. Hunter swallowed hard as his gaze moved up to the black-and-white-striped top that fit her like a second skin. She wore the same wrist cuffs she’d sported earlier, but she’d changed collars; this one sported studs and rings with silver chains draped between them. Her hair was down and so straight and shiny, it looked fake. She caught her bright red bottom lip between her teeth and watched him with wide eyes. She looked like something out of a steaming hot sexual fantasy. He’d never had a sexual fantasy of the Goth variety before. He was pretty sure that was about to change.

The shadows lengthened, and although it didn’t get dark until after ten at night in high summer, the first hint of the evening chill had settled. Hunter cleared his suddenly dry throat. “You forgot a jacket.”

“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not going to stay long.” Her gaze skittered to the edge of the clearing and back to him.

“We’re having a bonfire after the barbeque. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He took her arm and walked her toward the barbeque.

“Yeah. Fun is subjective… obviously.”

He wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, but whatever it was, it had her wound tighter than a duck’s ass. The farther they got from her cabin, the slower she walked, and the more often she glanced back.

Maybe she was reconsidering going back for her jacket or possibly rethinking the outfit choice. She looked fine to him. Mouth-wateringly so. But he figured Karma would probably think Toni was overdressed. He didn’t know what they wore at barbecues in New York, though if the few episodes of Sex and the City he was forced by assorted girlfriends to watch were accurate, they dressed a whole lot different for just about everything. In Idaho, shorts or jeans and T-shirts were good for every occasion except weddings and funerals.

She stopped dead in her tracks, and Hunter almost stumbled over his own feet.

“You know, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day, and I’m still on Eastern time.” She backed away. “I think I’ll just go back to my cabin and crash.”

“You’re not even going to eat?”

She shook her head and bolted.

Since Toni looked more terrified than tired or angry, Hunter didn’t take it personally. He just wanted to know what had her so upset.

When he arrived at the barbeque, James was deep in conversation with Trapper.

Trapper shook his head, dug a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket, and handed it to James. “Little brother, I’m disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, and why is that?”

“I just lost a bet to James that you’d have Toni out of her cabin in under a half hour.”

“I had her out of the cabin and halfway to the barbeque before she made up some excuse about being tired and bolted. What’s going on with her?”

James let out a sigh. “That, my friend, is Toni’s story to tell. If she chooses to share it with you, she will. I’ll fix her a plate and make sure she’s okay.”

Shit. Hunter had wanted to do the same thing, but then barging into Toni’s cabin uninvited twice in one day might not be the best idea. “I need to know what’s going on James. I can’t do my job if I have to be afraid of Toni freaking out and disappearing. This isn’t New York.”

“I believe Toni is painfully aware of that. I’ll talk to her, and we’ll see you all in the morning.”

James made his way to the buffet that had been set up and piled two plates with food before moseying off in the direction of Toni’s cabin.

Trapper handed Hunter a cold one. “James said she’s not into the great outdoors.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious, not to mention an understatement. She’s terrified. Why is a mystery—she’s told me everything but.”

“Everything?” Trapper speared Hunter with the look he had that makes everyone spill his guts. Everyone but Hunter, that is.

“Nice try, Trap, but that hasn’t worked on me since I got caught under the bleachers with Jeannie Coleman in the sixth grade.” Hunter took a draw off his beer before going to get some grub, leaving Trapper to give up on the idea of an inquisition. Hunter wasn’t about to say anything that might incriminate himself. He knew better.
***
James knocked on the screen door to Toni’s cabin with his foot. “Toni, it’s James.”

“Come on in. Everyone else does.”

His girl sounded disappointed. She must have expected Hunter. “I can’t get the door. My hands are full.”

The door opened a crack, and Toni looked out before opening it fully.

“Did you think I’d bring the paparazzi?”

“As if, I was just making sure Hunter wasn’t lurking.” She moved aside to let James in. “Hunter just walked right in here earlier as if he owned the place. I thought he was you. I was shocked when I found out who it was.”

James handed her a plate. “Oh, so I was right. You are disappointed.”

Poor Toni was completely flummoxed. “Now or then?”

“Both.” But she was definitely disappointed now.

Toni gave him a confused look, and avoiding both the table and the subject, took her meal to her bed and crawled up, sitting cross-legged in her vintage cabbage rose, blue, and white cotton pajamas. She’d taken off the collar and wristbands. With her hair down, she looked like every other pretty twenty-six-year-old woman. Unfortunately, he was the only one who ever saw the softer side of Toni. She wore her Goth clothes like armor. James understood why. He just wished she did.

Toni took a bite of a barbecued chicken leg. “Thanks for bringing me dinner. I was getting hungry. I tried to go…” She licked her finger and then waved her hand. “I just couldn’t.”

“You’re welcome.” James sat at the end of the bed and leaned against the footboard facing her. “I’m sure if I hadn’t thought of it first, Hunter would have brought you something. He’s a good guy, not to mention single and gorgeous.”

“He makes me nervous. He looks at me as if he’s trying to read my mind.”

“Maybe he can. I hear he’s great with troubled youths—he has a way with them.”

“I’m hardly a troubled kid.”

James gave her his “get real” look. “You used to be. Hunter’s observant—maybe too observant.” He held a chicken leg and pointed it at her. “You’re going to be working closely together. He’s smart. He’s going to figure you out on his own, so you might as well just tell him why you’re afraid and get it out in the open. It’ll save us all time and trouble.”

The expression on Toni’s face said she wasn’t buying it—her and her damn walls.

“I spent a week with him, Toni. Believe me, he’ll understand and help you out.”

“James.” She nudged him with her foot. “You swore you wouldn’t say anything.”

“And I won’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you should. You should give him a chance.”

“Why?”

“Because for some reason, he seems to have taken a shine to you.” James ignored Toni’s eye roll, moved over to sit beside her, and smiled when she leaned back against him. “He went after you, didn’t he?”

“To my eternal embarrassment. He found me with my face buried in a pillow trying not to hyperventilate. I’m sure I made a real strong impression—just not the kind that makes a man want to peel my clothes off.”

“I guess that depends upon just how much of your butt was showing when your head was buried in that pillow. You were wearing a really short skirt.”

Toni laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “Thanks so much for pointing that out. As if I didn’t have enough to be embarrassed about.”

James threw his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “I live to serve.”

“Even if Hunter is understanding, how am I supposed to get the models’ respect if I’m falling apart?”

“Exactly. The only way they’re going to respect you is if you do your job, and you can’t do your job if you don’t figure out a way to deal with your phobia. All I’m asking is to let me and Hunter help you.”

“I’ll try, but you’re the only one I’ve ever talked to about it, I would never have bored you with my own personal nightmare if you hadn’t been with me when I found out about this trip.”

“Yes, but I was, and there’s no way you’re going to pull the wool over Hunter’s eyes. You don’t have much choice but to accept his help. Everything he gives you beyond that will be a bonus.”

“James, having one mother giving me dating books is bad enough. I don’t need two. Sheesh, you’re turning into a regular yenta.”

James watched Toni toy with her food.

“He found the dating book my mother sent me.” She nodded toward her bedside table. “He was reading it and probably thinks I’m out to hook up with the first man I set eyes on. I was so mortified I babbled like a lunatic.”

“No, he probably thinks you’re quirky. Guys like quirky.”

“Somehow I doubt that—especially when the quirky girl is surrounded by beautiful models. Not that I’m even interested. Could you see me and Survivor Man? I don’t think so.”

***

Hunter didn’t have much of an appetite but took his plate and sat with his brothers.
Trapper moved over to make space at the picnic table. “Thanks for striking out again. You cost me twenty bucks.”

Hunter decided to ignore him. It was Trapper’s own fault for betting. He never seemed to learn. “Have either of you talked to Ben and Gina lately?”

Trapper’s gaze wandered from one beautiful model to the next. “We’re surrounded by gorgeous women, and you want to talk about family?”

Hunter shook his head and picked up a barbecued rib. “I was just wondering if that private detective found out anything more. I’ve been working twenty-four—seven all summer and haven’t had a chance to talk to the newlyweds.”

Their cousin, Ben, his wife, Gina, and the whole family had been searching for Gina’s brother Rafael who’d been put up for private adoption when Gina was six years old. The only thing they had to go on were the memories of a terrified child, which wasn’t much.

Fisher stopped gnawing on his corn-on-the-cob. “I think they’ve found seven possibilities. Dick Sommers is following up on them.”

A red-headed model wearing goose bumps and an oversized bandana disguised as a dress sat next to Hunter. “Hi, I’m Yvette. You must be our fearless leader.”

He wiped his hand on a napkin before shaking hers. “Your fearless leader is Toni. I’m just the guide—Hunter Kincaid.”

“Nice to meet you.” Yvette didn’t let go of his hand. “I thought I’d come over and break the ice.”

Fisher leaned in, practically knocking over Hunter’s beer to shake the woman’s hand. “I’m Fisher. I’m a guide and a doctor.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “We couldn’t get him to stop watching ER when he was a kid.”

Fisher took an awful long time to let go of Yvette’s hand. “Yeah, like you weren’t glued to Grizzly Adams.”

“It was better than those stupid law shows Trapper always watched. Remember the Susan Day poster he hung over his bed?”

Trapper set his beer down with a thunk. “Hey, watch it. She was hot.”

Yvette scooted closer to Hunter. “Who’s Susan Day?”

“Never mind.” Hunter shook his head wondering what planet she was from. “You’re probably too young to remember.”

Trapper kicked him under the table. “I’m Trapper. There’s a bonfire after the barbeque. Are you going?”

“Of course, James said it was a meet and greet.” Yvette touched the inside of Hunter’s leg, and he jumped. “I can’t wait to get better acquainted with you.”

Hunter removed her hand and set it on top of the table as he rose. “I can use another cold one.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Trapper slid into Hunter’s spot. “A beer or a shower?”

When Hunter returned with three more bottles, he made sure to sit next to Fisher. As soon as he settled, a set of twins straddled the bench, sandwiching him between them.

“Hi.” The pair said in stereo.

“I’m Candace, but you can call me Candy.”

Fisher leaned forward and caught Hunter’s eye. “Sweet.”

“And I’m Randy.”

Trapper took a swig of his beer and grinned. “Even better.”

Hunter cleared his throat as he looked from Candy to Randy, feeling like a piece of meat slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread—bleached with no nutritional value. Not that he had a problem with that, but at the moment, all he wanted was to have a private conversation with his brothers. “If you ladies have finished eating, you should go put on some layers. It gets really cold up here at night.”

One of the male models strolled over, sat beside Trapper, and gave him the once-over. “Looks like the party’s here. I’m Ari.” He scooted closer to Trapper. “And who might you be?”

Hunter enjoyed watching Trapper squirm. He wondered how PC his big brother would be if Ari ended up on his lap, which seemed to be the model’s objective.

Trapper stood. “Trapper Kincaid, Judge Trapper Kincaid.” Taking advantage of his full six-foot-four height he looked down at Ari. “Hate to break it to you, Ari, but we don’t bat for the same team, and I’m not a pinch hitter either.”

“A judge, huh? I always wondered what they wore under their robes.”

Trapper sat his hat on his head and adjusted the angle. “Clothes.”

Fisher snorted beer out of his nose, and Hunter tossed him a napkin. “Don’t mind Fisher. He’s just learning to eat in public.”

Yvette laughed. “I gathered that.” She gestured at Fisher. “You uh… have a little corn stuck in your teeth.”

Ari stood locking in on his second target. “I have dental floss back in my cabin if you need some. It’s Oral B.”

Fisher laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got some fishing line back in the truck.”

Hunter stood and collected the plates. “It’s getting cold. I’m going to get my jacket. You might want to do the same.”

He moseyed toward the trucks with his brothers. “Finally, before we get interrupted again, tell me what Dick Sommers found out. You said he had seven possibilities?”

Fisher took out his Swiss Army knife, pulled the toothpick from its sheath, and poked it between his teeth.

Trapper took the last swig of his beer and tossed it in a waste barrel. “He’s checking them out.”

“Which sucks.” Fisher ran his tongue over his teeth.

Trapper stopped and looked over. “Why? At least we have something to go on.”

“Sure, but what are we doing? Nothing. I thought this was a family thing.”

Hunter nodded. “Fisher’s right. We should all be more involved. After I finish up the season, I’ll fly to New York and see what I can hunt down. We can’t let Dick Sommers have all the fun.”

Trapper raised an eyebrow to that. “And I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Toni Russo or the models who were just plastered to you, does it?”

Hunter just smiled at Trapper. “Jealous, older brother?”

“Hardly.”

“Trapper, get real. I’m free from September through mid-November, and I want to help Ben and Gina find Rafael.”

Fisher laughed. “Sure, okay. But let me just say, if I were going back to New York anytime soon, I’d sure as hell look up any number of the models at this shindig. Look at them all.”

Trapper chucked him on the arm. “Ari would love that. I’ll make sure he gets your number.”

“No thanks. He went after you first. I don’t like playing second fiddle.”

“But Hunter’s throwbacks are okay?”

“Damn straight—the operative word being straight, which, unfortunately for Ari, we both are. Right?”

Trapper laughed. “I know I am little brother. Is there something you want to tell us?”

Hunter opened the back of his Land Cruiser. “Are you two done yet, and do I have to remind you that these people are our clients? You can explore your sexuality later. We’ve got work to do.”

Trapper rocked on his heels. “Lord knows we’re going to have our hands full just keeping them out of the bonfire tonight.”

Fisher reached into the truck and pulled out a fire extinguisher. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

***
The next morning Hunter was up with the birds. At a quarter to nine, after a nice breakfast at the lodge, he knocked on Toni’s cabin door. She answered wearing a big, black straw sun hat, its brim almost concealing her face, a black fishnet, see-through cover-up over a bathing suit that was… something completely unexpected.

The black one-piece suit was right out of a 1940s pin-up calendar—plain, save for a little ruffle on the sweetheart neckline, held up by wide straps, and a small ruffle at the leg where it ended like those boy shorts his old girlfriend wore all the time. He suddenly knew why those photos stayed on the walls for years and years. Her suit barely hinted at cleavage, but was so damn sexy he had to shake his head to clear it.

“What is it now?” She stuck her hands on her hips and spread her legs as if she was getting ready to fight. She had long, powerful legs, not the sticks some girls walk around on. Toni’s were cut without being bulky. Damn, even in those checkerboard Vans, she looked hot.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention that seeing her in an old-fashioned bathing suit scrambled his brain. “One good breeze, and your hat will be history. Do you have a baseball cap?”

“I thought we had to wear helmets.” She was cute when she was exasperated.

“We do when we’re on the raft, but this is for the hike to the river and the time we’re off the raft. Believe me, as pale as you are, you’ll need a hat. I have one you can wear if you want.”

She took a step back. “Hike?”

Damn. In a tenth of a second she went from mad to scared. He preferred mad—it was kind of a turn-on. He imagined she was always sexy, but anger made her go from hot to scorching. When she was scared though—shit, he had no defenses. “We’re about a quarter of a mile from the river. It’s an easy hike.”

“Nothing about this trip is easy.”

“Why is that?”

Toni shook her head and mumbled something that sounded like, “I can’t do this.”

James, Trapper, Fisher, and a pack of models chose that particular moment to join them. No matter how many beautiful women surrounded him, Hunter couldn’t take his eyes off Toni. She had all the signs of being terrified of something; he just didn’t know what. On that subject, her mouth was shut, which seemed out of character.

James slid beside her, threw his arm over her shoulder, and pulled her close. “How you holding up?”

“Just peachy, thanks. I have to get my other hat.” She took off her floppy hat and gave it a wave. “Survivor Man said this one won’t cut it. Everyone go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Hunter didn’t move. “I don’t mind waiting.”

She stepped into his personal space. A tough New Yorker replaced the terrified woman. “I don’t need an escort. I’m a grown woman. I think I can find the river on my own.” Not that she was planning to. As soon as she could get back inside the cabin, he was sure she’d slam the door shut, slide the bolt home, and shove a chair under the doorknob.

Hunter didn’t need reminding that she was a woman grown. He knew that in every fiber of his being. He had a sudden urge to make use of the collar she wore around her throat, whether to pull her closer or make sure she stayed, he was unsure. He didn’t have to be Einstein to know she was past ready to bolt. He wanted to know why. “I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will.”

With a toss of her head, she had James clapping his hands. “Okay, let’s get down to the rafts everyone. Toni and Hunter, play nice, and don’t be too long.”

My dream writing space is on the deck of an 80-foot sailboat designed by my friend, Kevin Dibley, called the Knight Commander. I fell in love with this boat when I was working on my first writing project. I emailed Kevin—a total stranger—and asked if I could use his boat in my book. He emailed me back from New Zealand saying, “Well, that’s not one I’ve heard before.” He also offered to check my sailing sequences for me, and we’ve been great friends ever since. One of my goals in life is to own one of Kevin’s boats. He’s one of the most talented Marine Architects in the business and a really great guy.

In a perfect world, I’d do most of my writing on the deck of my sailboat while sailing the South Pacific with a full crew—like the guys who raced the Hugo Boss Boat in the Rolex Sidney-to-Hobart race a few years ago. The Hugo Boss crew sailed out of Sydney Harbor dressed in black Hugo Boss suits and shades.

They were very hot, literally and figuratively. (grin) Kevin told me they’ve since repainted the boat white because the black hull absorbed so much heat everyone below decks practically roasted.

Unfortunately, my true writing space is at one of two Starbucks. There is one a mile from my house, which I’ve been frequenting lately, but my favorite place to write is at the Carlisle Crossing Starbucks in Carlisle, PA—90-miles away. My daughter used to study ballet in Carlisle dancing with The Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet—one of the best pre-professional ballet schools in the country. For two years I home schooled her, drove to Carlisle where she danced 40+ hours a week, dropped her off at dance, and then headed to Starbucks to write. I spent more time there than most of the baristas. She eventually moved to Carlisle and lived with a host family (the mother of one of the regular customers I got to know at Starbucks) so she could attend high school and dance, but I still made the trip a few times a week. I’ve written four books at the Carlisle Crossing Starbucks and everyone from the district manager to the regular customers have become some of my dearest friends. I always thank them in every one of my acknowledgements. They’re the absolute best and have kept me in coffee and laughter for four years. No other Starbucks could compare. Since my daughter stopped dancing due to injury, I’ve really missed them. It’s time to make another trip to get my Carlisle Starbucks fix.

I also have a beautiful home office with a TreadDesk. My TreadDesk is a desk with a treadmill beneath the hydraulic desktop. The desktop will go from sitting height to standing height with the push of a button. But after having written for so long at a Starbucks, I’ve found it almost impossible to write at home. Go figure. Still, I do a lot of my email and busy work at home while walking 1.4 miles per hour, and then I head over to Starbucks to write my books. I’ve found that at home, I can’t turn off my Mommy Ears. It’s much easier to go to Starbucks and tune out people I’m not related to. I get a whole lot more done – plus, the coffee is much better!

We have a terrific excerpt for you today from Heather Killough-Walden‘s Avenger’s Angel, the first book in her new Lost Angels series.

Meet Uriel, the Archangel of Vengeance. The former Archangel, that is. He and his brothers have been on Earth for millennia waiting to find their Archesses, the soul mates made for them and then thrown into the far reaches of the world when dissension comes between angels.

Eleanore has enough problems keeping her ability to control weather and heal people secret from the masses, so who needs a wickedly handsome actor, who turns out to be an angel, causing more havoc in her life? Well, there’s the other side of that problem, he causes plenty of pleasure too.

Together they fight to save Ellie from a very powerful enemy. Together they learn who they truly are. Together they find a destiny that has been decreed for eons.

Summary:

When four female angels were created for the archangels Michael, Gabriel, Uriel and Azrael, a chaos spurned by jealousy erupted, and the archesses were secreted to Earth. The four favored archangels followed, prompting a search that has lasted millennia. But for Uriel, the former Archangel of vengeance, the search ends the moment he lays eyes on Eleanor Granger, his one true archess. Can he protect her from the danger lying in wait for her – and win her heart?

They were there for a signing. The movie Comeuppance had been such a hit with vampire fans around the world, it had been turned into a book – and then a series of books – and cast members from the movie were signing autographs in bookstores across the globe. It was late in the afternoon and Uriel’s signing as “Christopher Daniels,” the actor who had played Jonathan Brakes, the gorgeous vampire in Comeuppance, was about to begin.

They’d pulled up to the back of the bookstore in order to prepare. Across from him in the back of the limousine sat Max, Uriel’s manager. He was also Uriel’s guardian – and guardian to his three brothers, Michael, Gabriel and Azrael. Max was good at the job; he was an ace at donning the multitude of different hats it took to deal with four very strong male spirits in an ever changing world.

Just as Max was reaching his hand through the break in the separation glass to signal to the driver that they were ready to go to the front of the store and meet Daniels’s fans, a harsh shrieking sound drew Uriel’s attention to the limousine windows.

His vivid green eyes grew very wide. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I’m afraid so,” Gillihan replied.

“They’re blocking the exit,” Uriel said, his tone laced with shock. A throng of teenage girls had amassed on the Tarmac that ran around the side of the bookstore and were racing toward the limousine at break-neck speed.

There was no time to formulate a plan. He could either stay inside the car indefinitely and wait for the cops, or he could escape from the car and run. Fast.

Uriel threw open the door of the limousine and bolted out of the backseat. Behind him, he heard Max calling, but he ignored the guardian and headed directly for the bookstore.

Later, and in retrospect, he would realize that heading toward the bookstore instead of away from it was, at the very least, a bizarre decision. Especially considering that the slew of fans now racing toward him like a medieval village mob was coming from said store.

However, there was little thought involved. The girls were coming around the corner from the front of the store, which gave him a clear shot at the back door. It was mostly instinct that propelled Uriel across the lot to the locked back exit of the establishment. And it was superhuman strength that then allowed him to wrench the door open against the lock and rush inside.

He sensed that the alarm wanted to go off. He used his powers to silence it and pulled the door shut behind him, making sure to yank it in tight enough that it warped a little and held.

The girls outside reached it just as it shut and their fists pounded furiously on the metal of the barred exit. They were getting soaked out there. He was more than a little damp himself.

He wondered if they were also hurting one another as they shoved toward the door. He sincerely hoped not. But whatever was happening, the sheer number of them suggested that the door wouldn’t hold for long. All they had to do was work together and it would come open.

Uriel passed the restrooms on his left and strode toward the science fiction section of the store just beyond the exit foyer. There, he stopped and grimaced. Another mass of girls, nearly as large as the first, was grouped around the front of the store. There must have been a hundred of them. . . . Maybe more.

The door behind him creaked and then scraped.

Uriel thought fast and ducked into the women’s restroom. Once inside, he closed his eyes, pressed his back to the wall beside the door, and listened. The exit door of the bookstore gave way beyond and he could hear the group of girls rush into the hallway. They raced by, their Converses squeaking with rain water on the linoleum tile.

“You have to memorize a script to act, and the movie you starred in was also turned into a book, so I assumed that you could read.”

Uriel’s eyes flew open to find a woman and a little girl standing a few feet away, beside the door of the first stall.

“I was obviously wrong,” she continued. “Because you’ve mistaken the women’s restroom for the ridiculously famous sex symbol restroom—which is next door.”

Uriel’s heart stopped beating. His jaw dropped open.

He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing in that moment. He couldn’t be feeling what he was feeling. Not now. Not here, in a bathroom—after two thousand years. Maybe he’d slipped in the rain outside and hit his head.

No, that was impossible. He was relatively invincible. Being hit on the head would do nothing to him but make him a little cranky.

She was really standing there before him. She was real; he could see her, hear her—he could even smell her. She smelled like shampoo and soap and lavender.

Jesus, he thought, unable to refrain from letting his gaze drop down her body and back up again. She was everything that he had ever imagined she would be, from her tall, slim body to her long jet-black hair, and those indigo blue eyes the color of a Milky Way night. Her skin was like porcelain. Her lips were plump and pink and framed perfect, white teeth. She was an angel.

She was his archess. And she was . . . scowling at him?

He frowned.

The door to the bathroom had shut firmly behind Christopher Daniels, and he clearly had heard what she’d said, but he still just stood there like he was frozen and Eleanore could not figure out why. “Mr. Daniels, is there something I can help you with?” Eleanore asked.

She had to admit to herself that when Daniels had first entered the women’s restroom, she’d been taken completely and utterly by surprise. First of all, he was even more handsome in real life than he was in his plethora of press photos. And that wasn’t supposed to be the case at all. Wasn’t there supposed to be loads and loads of makeup involved? Tricks of the light? In real life, didn’t actors have acne and scars and wrinkles and undyed roots for miles?

In real life, an actor’s eyes didn’t seem to glow the way they did in the movies. But Christopher Daniels’s eyes did. It was nearly eerie, they were so intense. They instantly called to mind the dreams she’d had of him. It was always his eyes she saw just before she woke up. All of the pictures he had plastered across the nation didn’t do them justice. His eyes were the color of arctic icebergs, so very, very light green that they seemed . . . more than human. They were incredibly beautiful.

She was standing in a restroom, face-to-face with a famous actor who was, quite literally, the most attractive man she had ever seen. And yet he was looking at her as if she were the gorgeous movie star instead.

And so she was more than a little surprised at herself when, instead of feeling faint and falling all over him like all of the other girls in the world seemed to do, her first instinct had been to stand up to him. For what, exactly, she had no idea. For coming into the girls’ restroom, she guessed. Of all things! What kind of crime was that, exactly?

Eleanore’s subconscious mind knew the truth. She wasn’t mad at him for coming into the wrong restroom, of course. She was mad at him for being who and what he was. Gorgeous—and famous. It was an old brain kind of thing.

He was obviously hiding. That was clear. And from the sound of the giggling schoolgirls beyond the door, she would wager a guess that it was his fans he was hiding from. The nerve! First, these guys fight tooth and nail to climb their way into fandom and then they balk at being loved by the masses.

What was up with that?

Meanwhile she’d forgotten Jennifer, the little girl she’d come into the bathroom to help in the first place. But Jennifer had clearly noticed Daniels as well. Her hand slipped out of Eleanore’s own as she spoke up. “Miss Ellie made my stomach feel better!” she chimed in, completely out of the blue. “I was throwing up, but she touched my tummy and made it stop.”

Eleanore paled. Oh no, she thought. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet—don’t say any more!

“Which is a good thing,” Jennifer went on, nodding emphatically, “because the throw up made me want to throw up some more.” Jennifer was only about five, but she wasn’t shy. She grimaced and seemed to want to push the memory away with her little hands. “It was so gross.”

Eleanore felt herself blanching further. She pulled her gaze off the famous actor and looked at the wall. She needed to compose herself. She needed to get a handle on the situation—take control.

Finally, she rolled her shoulders and looked back up at him.

She blinked. He was still staring at her in abject fascination. That was fascination, wasn’t it? Not amusement? Maybe he just thought she was mental. . . .

“Mr. Daniels, I’m going to find Jennifer’s parents and then I would be happy to announce your arrival over the intercom, if you’d like—”

Daniels pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward her. His motorcycle boots made a heavy thud on the linoleum floor. It sounded dangerous. A warm, erotic warning thrummed through Eleanore’s body.

“You’re the reason it’s storming,” he said. “Now it makes perfect sense.”

Eleanore’s world tipped on its axis, and fear gripped her. Her vision began to tunnel. “P-pardon me?” she asked. Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.

What is he talking about? He can’t know.

She almost shook her head against the possibility. She thought about taking a step back, suddenly needing space. But there was a tiny hand in hers, squeezing tight, and she couldn’t escape.

“You’re a man and this is a girls’ bathroom,” little Jennifer said.

Christopher Daniels glanced down at the child. Jennifer’s nose was scrunched up and her gaze was reprimanding. The actor seemed to be considering the girl for a moment and then he looked back up at Eleanore.

“Ellie,” he said softly.

Eleanore swallowed hard. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. “It’s—it’s Eleanore,” she stammered. And then, realizing that she’d just given out her name and that perhaps she shouldn’t have, she looked away from him and shook her head. “Mr. Daniels,” she tried again. “Excuse me. I really do need to find Jennifer’s parents. She’s just been pretty sick.”

She brushed past him to push open the door and as she did, the air seemed to thicken around her; it suddenly felt cloying and confusing. It took forever to get by the actor; she could feel him watching her as she came near and he made virtually no move to get out of the way. His nearness was electrifying and disarming, his body tall and hard and very real. Time seemed to slow down as she opened the door and stepped out into the store.

But once she was past him, she walked as quickly as she could with a five-year-old tethered to her arm, which wasn’t very fast at all. She heard footsteps behind her and glanced back to see that Daniels was following her. He kept pace easily, a small, determined smile playing about his lips.

Christopher Daniels is behind me, Eleanore thought. The famous actor, Christopher Daniels, is behind me! He’s probably looking at my ass. She tried not to groan out loud at that thought. As if it mattered!

She wasn’t sure what her bottom looked like from his vantage point; she never bothered with the mirror that much in the morning. And she was nearly as horrified by the fact that she cared what she looked like to him as she was by the fact that he seemed to be looking at her. Was he looking at her butt?

Of course he’s looking at my butt, she thought. He’s a guy! That’s what they do!

She berated herself for the internal monologue of Clueless-worthy concerns and once more wondered what he’d meant by his storm comment. Did he know that she’d caused the storm? If he did—how?

There’s no way, she thought. He must have meant something else.

Eleanore stopped beside the customer service desk and bent to whisper into Jennifer’s little ear.

“This is our secret, okay?” she said, hoping against hope that the child would catch the urgency with which she made the request.

Jennifer looked up at her and then glanced over at Daniels, who was leaning against a bookshelf a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression both bewildered and amused. Then she nodded and smiled up at Eleanore, and Ellie’s fear dropped down a notch.

Eleanore straightened and picked up the phone at the customer service desk. She saw Daniels peek over the racks at the crowd by the front doors. A woman dressed in a suit with a name tag glanced nervously at her watch and then stood on her toes as if to look for someone. They were wondering where their star was.

There was a tall man in a suit with them. He was pushing his way through the women—and a few men—to the front of the store. Eleanore wondered vaguely who he was, but let it go as she made a “lost child” announcement over the intercom to get the attention of Jennifer’s parents.

When she’d finished, she put the phone back in its cradle and turned to face a harried-looking couple who instantly knelt before Jennifer to console her. Jennifer’s mother scooped her up into her arms and with a quick thank-you to Ellie, they were on their way out of the store.

Now Ellie turned to face Daniels, who was still leaning against the bookshelf, watching her. In the next split second, he straightened from the shelf, closed the distance between them with two purposeful strides, and pinned her to the customer service desk, one strong arm braced against the counter on either side of her.

Eleanore inhaled sharply and her heart did a somersault in her chest.

“I have to go to a big party Thursday night. Come with me,” he said. He was so close, his breath whispered across her lips—it smelled of licorice and mint.

“W-wha  . . .” she stammered. Then she dry swallowed and tried again. “What?”

She heard a faint cracking sound and glanced down to see that his grip on the desk behind her had tightened. She turned back to face him and watched as his gaze flicked to her mouth and back.

“Ellie,” he said, as if testing her name out on his tongue. “Here’s the thing,” he continued softly. “I need a date to a big promotional party in Dallas. A gala. I don’t know anyone in Texas. You were kind enough to let me hide in the women’s restroom.” He smiled an incredibly charming smile. “And I appreciate it,” he added. “So I would be honored if you would consider being my date next week on Thursday.”

Eleanore took a few seconds to digest this. There was a part of her that simply couldn’t believe her position at that moment. She was being cornered by Christopher Daniels, against her own customer service desk, and asked out on a date. But despite the impossibility of it all, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. This felt too real.

He was so big. So tall and . . . he looked hard—everywhere. And his nearness was doing strange things to her. He smelled good. The leather of his jacket and whatever aftershave or shower gel he’d used were a heady, highly tantalizing combination. There wasn’t an ounce of him that wasn’t pure masculinity, from the set of his jaw to the smooth, determined sound of his voice.

“You’re not answering,” he said, once more glancing at her lips as he’d done before. He seemed to be leaning in closer now, and Eleanore was finding it more difficult to breathe. “Does this mean you’re considering it?”

Christ, I’m falling for this jerk. I’ve barely met him and I’ve already got it bad.

She tried to swallow past a spot in her throat that had gone dry. She wondered then, as she gazed up into those impossibly colored eyes, how many women he’d done this to lately. He was good at it.

He’s an actor, she told herself. Of course he’s good at it.

That was a sobering thought. She blinked and felt her own gaze harden. He seemed to notice, because something flashed in his eyes and his gaze narrowed in response.

“You’re serious,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t know anything about me and you want me to just agree to go out on a date—in another city—with you.”

“I know enough,” he told her plainly. “And yes. I want you to go out on a date with me.” He paused and then added meaningfully, “Very much so.”

She stared back at him for several more hard beats, and then, before she realized what she was doing, she had the customer service desk phone to her ear and was pressing a button behind her on the carriage.

Daniels seemed as surprised as she was and only watched as she put the speaker to her mouth.

“Attention guests! It is my pleasure to announce to you all that the star of the evening, Mr. Christopher Daniels, is here with us now and is making his way to the front of the store to begin signing autographs for all of his much-appreciated fans.”

The sound of cheering rose from the front of the store and spread through the aisles. Daniels glanced up, not moving from where he had her ensnared between his arms.

Eleanore glanced behind her to catch frantic movement at the front of the store.

When she turned back to face him, it was to find Christopher’s jaw tensed and his teeth clenched in obvious irritation. But his ice-green eyes returned to Eleanore’s face and once more trapped her gaze in his. He took a deep, calming breath and seemed to ponder the situation.

Then he smiled and straightened, stepping away from the desk. Eleanore stayed where she was and watched him warily. For a moment, his eyes flicked to her neck, her shoulders, and back up again. She could have sworn she saw a troubling indecision cross his handsome features. He looked as if he were tempted to grab her, throw her over his shoulder, and abscond with her.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ellie,” he said instead, locking gazes with her a final time. “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

With that, he turned and strode down the aisle toward the front of the store.

Eleanore was too stunned to move. She watched him go, and as he disappeared, she listened. The ecstatic greetings started up almost immediately. They were crazy about him.

And now she could see why.

He asked me on a date, she thought. The gorgeous, famous movie star from Comeuppance asked me on a date.

A part of her wanted to be thrilled at the thought. But there was another part of her that knew better. It was that other part that had forced her to cut their exchange short by announcing his arrival. Because that part of her had a feeling that Christopher Daniels was not who he pretended to be. Not just on the screen—but in real life.

He knows something, she thought.

She didn’t know how it was possible; even the very idea was unfathomably weird. But somehow, Christopher Daniels seemed to know that Eleanore had caused the storm. He’d told her as much. You’re the reason it’s storming, he’d said. She was willing to bet a dollar that he even suspected her healing powers after Jennifer’s untimely exclamation in the bathroom.

And now he also knew her name and where she worked.

Several more long, tense seconds passed and Eleanore’s body finally relaxed a little and she slumped against the desk. She closed her eyes and ran a somewhat shaky hand through her long hair.

Life had just gotten a little too interesting for her taste. Maybe it was time to move again.

Readers sometimes come to me, utterly head-over-heels in love with one or more of my heroes and wanting to know why they are suddenly obsessed when they’ve never been obsessed with anyone else’s characters before. “It’s only a story!” they tell me. “Why can’t I get him out of my head?”

I’ve got a good idea as to why this is.

I’ve never written a hero who strictly follows the rules. I’ve never breathed life into a character who was afraid to break the speed limit if he felt he had to or get into a fight to defend what was important to him. The men in my stories are the kinds of men I sometimes wish every male on the planet was: smart, strong, kind, deep-down good, tough as nails, empathic, and sexy as hell.

The world is not colored inside the lines. It was created in chaos, and entropy more or less rules. It takes a constant, exhausting kind of vigilance to carve out any kind of meaningful existence on this planet. It takes someone willing to go the distance – someone who will never give up, no matter how tough the going gets. Women are really intelligent. We know that for a romance to survive, it will take a man capable of carrying his own weight and sometimes carrying ours as well. Hell, life gets hard.

So when my readers crack the spine of one of my books (or power up their Ereaders, as the case may be) and find themselves learning about tall, physically strong men with a high tolerance for pain but an empathy for the pain in others, they are understandably intrigued. They continue reading to learn that these men are fast on their feet, quick-thinking, capable, and dependable. Reading further… the men smell good – like leather and aftershave. They never have bad breath. They notice the little things and realize how important they are. But best of all – and this is the kicker – these heroes, these good guys, are willing to be bad.

They’re rule breakers, hell raisers, and “fallen angels.” They’re three-dimensional, fathomless personalities with detailed histories, bone-deep desires, and individual tastes that speak to our own hearts. They feel strongly about what is important to them – and for these men, who are all about inner strength and power to the core – that sometimes means pushing the envelope, breaking boundaries, and doing what needs to be done. Rules be damned.

That’s why my men are so attractive. That’s why we get hot chills when their eyes burn into the women they love. It’s why we fan ourselves when one of them grabs his girl’s wrist, walks her to his bike, and tells her to get on and hold tight. It’s why our breath catches when he fists his hand in his soul mate’s hair to expose the pale column of her throat. No one likes a goody-two-shoes. There’s no place in this world – or our hearts – for men who are wimps. Our heroes must move through the night, silent and deadly. They need to strike fast and bite deep. The men we lust over are wicked warriors.

And our good guys always wear black.

[Ed. I have a copy of Avenger's Angel for someone who leaves a meaningful comment or question for Heather today!]

After five books in her Darcy Saga, Sharon Lathan has changed tactics and given us a look at the younger sister of the very intimidating but lovable Fitzwilliam Darcy, Georgiana. Named for her Uncle George, she’s a quiet, shy young lady, but her in own book, Miss Darcy Falls in Love, Georgiana blossoms into a beautiful woman and brilliant musician on the journey of a lifetime.

But don’t think for a moment that Georgiana will have an easy time of it. As women our emotions and feelings are always front and center, and Miss Darcy is no different, as we find out when she’s faced with not just one but two handsome gentlemen who vie for her affections. Some problem, you say? Well, maybe, maybe not. You have to meet them all to find out who she chooses and all the whys and wherefores that go along with such circumstances.

Summary:

Noble young ladies were expected to play an instrument, but Georgiana Darcy is an accomplished musician who hungers to pursue her talents. She embarks upon a tour of Europe, ending in Paris where two very different men will ignite her heart in entirely different ways and begin a bitter rivalry to win her. But only one holds the key to her happiness.

Set in post-Napoleonic Empire France, Miss Darcy Falls in Love is a riveting love story that enters a world of passion where gentlemen know exactly how to please and a young woman learns to direct her destiny and understand her heart.

Chapter 1 – Overture in Lyon

Miss Georgiana Darcy was written on the outside flap of the folded parchment envelope in fine calligraphy. The addressee fingered the dried ink before turning the envelope and noting the imprinted, wax seal. A bold M circled by what appeared to be holly.

Interesting, Georgiana thought.

Not too long ago the concept of receiving what was undoubtedly an invitation addressed directly to her by people unknown would have flabbergasted her. Half a year of traveling through Europe had altered her expectations and such invitations were so common an occurrence that she barely noted the absurdity of it. Furthermore she was actually rather surprised that this was the first as yet conveyed since she had arrived in Lyon three days ago.

Her smile deepened, a low chuckle escaping as she shook her head. How Fitzwilliam would laugh at me, she mused, the thought rising unbidden and causing a sharp pang that pierced her heart. The smile faded, but she rapidly smothered her homesickness, walking to the wide, cushioned seat recessed into the window alcove where the stunning view would lift her spirits. She sat, taking a moment to gaze over the perfectly symmetrical rows of grapevines that stretched in an unbroken sweep to the distant river. All were currently barren of growth and she fleetingly wished it were spring or summer rather than deep winter, but then she squelched that ridiculous notion, thankful that her excursion abroad would encompass all four season ere her return to England in April.

Yes, I am a little homesick. The smile returned as her attention was given to the missive held in her hand.

The Marquis and Douairière-Marquise de Marcov request the presence of Miss Georgiana Darcy for dîner de gala at the Château la Rochebelin on 21, January of 1820 at hour seven.

As she suspected, the Marcovs were unknown to her. She shrugged, certain that her aunt and uncle would be familiar with the family. She was  under their jurisdiction for this leg of the journey and trusted them explicitly. Thus far, there had been no cause for doubt or dismay, every partaken entertainment delightful. She rested her head against the cold wall, her thick plaited coil of golden hair acting as a cushion. Her reflection shimmered on the polished surface of the glass, her densely lashed large eyes so vividly blue that they mocked the dull sky of winter. Not the tiniest wrinkle of unhappiness marred the smooth perfection of her high forehead, honeyed brows arching delicately over the round eyes that surveyed the landscape stretching before her. The chilled air infused rosiness in her cheeks, it the only hint of color on her creamy skin, and she drew the wrap closer about her arms.

The Château Plessis-Rhône, home of the Vicomte de Valday, sat on a gentle rise surrounded by fertile fields. Even in the winter the countryside was verdant with enormous evergreen trees and bushes randomly distributed amongst the dormant vines, leafless trees, and dulled lawns. The waters of the Saône glittered turquoise in the muted daylight of what was a typically sullen day, the residuals of misty fog lingering in places. The intermittent rain from the day before continued to threaten, lurking darkly in the patchy clouds that obscured the sun. Georgiana much preferred the warmth and brightness of a summer day, but the play of grays and shadows amid the nimbostratus clouds mixing with the colors on the ground was beautiful in its own way.

Sunshine or gloom, the joy of being stationary and surrounded by stout walls was priceless.

Georgiana had discovered during the Channel crossing from England the previous spring that sea voyages did not disturb her as they did her unfortunate brother. Therefore, as difficult as it was to say arrivederci to Italy, she had relished the complication-free voyage across the Mediterranean. Unfortunately, the inclement weather that had not plagued them during the voyage had beset them once on solid terra firma. Crossing the Alps of Switzerland last June was as easy as a country stroll compared to the rigors of the overland journey from Genoa to Lyon. Incessant rains and wind-blown debris required frequent halts and accommodations in less than luxurious coaching inns. The cold was unrelenting, their sturdy carriage and piles of blankets and furs seemingly worthless against the chill. The bedraggled travelers arrived at the massive estate owned by the de Valdays never before experiencing such joy to see a house!

Simply being warm and clean had lifted Georgiana’s sagging spirits immeasurably. Now if she could only ease the ache in her heart.

Georgiana sighed, gazing at the cloud formations suspiciously. A sudden flurry of activity to the right captured her attention and brought a laugh to her lips. A dozen birds had burst forth from a copse of low bushes with dead leaves flying crazily, the agitating predator unseen but the squawks indicative of some sort of fright. It was a simple thing, of course, and nothing she may not have witnessed at Pemberley, but the landscape was so unique and served to remind her of how fortunate she was – and how amazing the journey was, in spite of the pangs of homesickness and grief.

A clamor in French from the hallway broke her reverie, seconds later the door bursting open and three figures tumbling into the parlor.

“Dearest Georgiana, finally! Hiding away already, are you? Frédéric insisted that we hunt you down and rescue from your solitary daydreams!”

The speaker was a young woman of nineteen. She was short, barely reaching Georgiana’s shoulders, with a voluptuous figure finely accentuated by an exquisitely tailored gown of purple velvet. Her lavender-tinted eyes blazed vibrantly amid a round face. Mischief and impertinence were etched upon her entire countenance from the tiny tapping foot to the mass of tightly coiled ebony curls audaciously escaping jeweled pins. She was in all ways a vision of supreme, sensual loveliness that could wrest the breath away from everyone who beheld her, male or female. Her name was Zoë, and her lush beauty was so ineffable that it was impossible to imagine that another could match it.

Yet the woman standing beside her was indeed a match.

Her twin, Yvette, was nearly a duplicate. It was only the small mole located just to the right of her upper lip that easily revealed her unique identity. The combined essence of these two extraordinary creatures was a captivating assault upon one’s senses. The blessing from the Maker in allowing the creation of two entrancing offspring would presumably then exhaust any hope of further divine favor upon their parents, but this was not the case.

Frédéric, nearly eighteen, was as stunning and forceful a presence as his elder sisters. With his curls styled foppishly about his face, his enormous deep-blue eyes, and his plump mouth, he had a slight feminine air to his look that was aided by his shorter stature and stout fleshiness. But this was only at first glance. As soon as he moved or spoke a word, the effeminate vision was swept away by a personality, voice, and bearing that exuded confident masculinity. The three de Valdays were bewitching and somewhat exhausting, but Georgiana adored them already.

Frédéric bowed gallantly, spearing Georgiana with an unconsciously sensuous gaze. “Rescuing damsels is a gentleman’s sworn duty, is it not, beautiful lady? Especially those whom are fated to be one’s love for all eternity?”

Georgiana laughed, shaking her head as he kissed her hand.

“Foolish child!” Yvette declared, shoving her brother aside. “How many women have you declared undying, passionate love to this week?” Frédéric merely shrugged, his grin brilliant and unrepentant. Yvette sniffed, turning to Georgiana and opening her mouth to speak, but Zoë beat her to it.

“I see you have your own invitation to the de Marcov’s gala. Magnifique!” She fluttered the parchment paper addressed to her in the air while performing a sequence of graceful pirouettes about the room, gleefully singing, “Dancing, dancing, dancing! Until dawn! With endless parades of handsome men!”

“Shall you save one dance for me, sweet sister?”

“I said ‘handsome men,’ dear brother, not ‘homely child.’” She continued to dance about the room, Frédéric laughing and fluidly twirling toward her, engaging in an elegant pas de deux.

Yvette sat onto the window seat beside Georgiana. She held her invitation in her hand, face alit with the same sparkling joy as her sister’s. “Is it not marvelous? You shall meet dozens upon dozens of men, the finest noble gentilshommes of the Rhône-Alpes. Perhaps you shall fall madly in love and never wish to return home!”

“That is doubtful, my dear Yvette.”

“I shall not give up hope, my friend. Why return to dreary England?”

Georgiana laughed. “You have never been there, and should be hesitant to call any other place dreary considering the weather here.”

Yvette shrugged and then suddenly gasped, eyes wide as she grasped Georgiana’s hand. “They say the grand ball is in honor of Lord de Marcov’s betrothed, an Englishwoman! Perhaps you know her!”

“Highly unlikely. Dreary England is a vast continent. Do you know all in France?”

Yvette laughed gaily, deep dimples flashing, rising to commence her own sweeping ballet across the room. “Not as yet, mon ami, but someday I shall. Famous I will be! An actress or prima ballerina or wife to the greatest duke in the Empire!”

“Come, Georgiana! Practice the dance with us!” Zoë dragged her from the window seat, Georgiana blushing and shaking her head, but swiftly getting caught up in the frivolity of the moment. One could never maintain a dour attitude for long when surrounded by the de Valday siblings.

“I deduce the invitations have been delivered.”

The gay voice, accented English in a melodious tone, interrupted Georgiana’s silliness. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but the three de Valdays continued to twirl.

“Yes, mother dearest! Dancing and flirting and dancing!”

“Will there be handsome Englishmen, Mama? Men with exotic accents and clear blue eyes like Georgiana?”

“Not every man in England has blue eyes,” Georgiana explained with a laugh, but the girls ignored her.

“With luck the mysterious Englishwoman will have a dozen sisters for Frédéric to flirt and fall in love with.”

Frédéric grinned at Yvette, but declared emphatically, “My heart has been lost to the glorious Miss Darcy and I shall never gaze upon another!”

The Vicomtesse de Valday waved her hand airily, winking at Lady Matlock as the two of them entered the room and crossed to the sofa. “Of course, Frédéric,” his mother said with exaggerated conviction, sitting onto the cushion before answering her daughters. “I do not know if there shall be dozens of English men or women for you three to charm. Nevertheless, I am sure there shall be dozens and dozens of eligible French dance partners since the Marcovs never celebrate by halves.”

“Pish!” Yvette pouted, lower lip protruding becomingly. “We have charmed all the available men in Lyon. None are remotely interesting, are they, Zoë?” Her twin nodded, curls bobbing and pout as adorable. “We must travel to Paris or Vienna or London for fresh conquests.”

Zoë fell in a graceful heap at her mother’s feet. “Oh yes, Mama. Lyon is so dreadfully dull! Surely you saw hundreds of gorgeous Englishmen when you lived in England?”

“Perhaps,” Lady de Valday responded with a secretive smile, “but if you remember, silly girl, I met your father while dwelling in England, at Lady Matlock’s home, in fact, soother handsome men vanished from my memories.”

“Oh yes!” Yvette joined her sister in a pool of skirts at their mother’s feet. “Tell us the story of how you and Papa met and fell so desperately in love!”

“Oh so romantic!” Zoë added with a dramatic clutch to her heart and a feigned swoon.

The vicomtesse laughed and shook her head. “You have heard the tale a million times and yet still add your own flourishes to a mundane meeting. Silly girls!”

The chorus of pleases rose to the gilded ceiling, but it was Georgiana’s softly spoken reminder that she had not heard the story that prompted the two older women to jointly recount how they first met.

“It was in the years prior to the Revolution,” Lady de Valday began, her voice serious and sad. “My father was a loyal royalist and refused to leave as the terror grew. It would prove to be an unwise choice as there was no halting the blood thirst of the masses and his efforts to spread rationality only earned him an appointment with the guillotine.”

She paused, wiping a tear from her eye before able to put aside the endless grief. “He was not, however, completely foolish or trusting. He secured our wealth, secreting the bulk of our family heirlooms, and then he sent us away to England. My mother cried and refused to leave him, but he insisted. It saved us all.”

Her voice broke, the memories still raw. Lady Matlock squeezed her friend’s hand and took up the tale. “I was a young wife then, living at Rivallain with my husband, and we opened our home to French refugees. Inès and her family came to us, her mother and mine related distantly. They dwelt with us for nearly four years, Inès and I growing close.”

She smiled affectionately at Lady de Valday, who smiled back as long ago memories washed over them. “It was a wonderful experience,” Lady Matlock resumed, gazing at her friend. “I perfected my French, learned many new musical techniques and compositions as well as artistic talents since Inès is brilliantly accomplished. We became dearest friends.”

“What Madeline does not say is that she is an incredible painter who could never teach me to hold a brush the correct way, let alone actually create an image of worth, and that she soundly beat me at every sport we engaged in! Her archery skills are incomparable.”

“I shall concede the truth of that, although we were equal equestrians and a generous portion of our days were spent exploring on horseback. But of course the most memorable time was when Césaire, your father, came with his family.”

Inès blushed, much like an adolescent with her first crush, and took up the narrative. “He was so handsome. He still is, of course, but then? Ah, magnifique! His grandfather knew the previous Lord Matlock, I cannot quite recollect how the connection originated, but it did not matter. My heart was instantly captivated.”

“And Papa? Was he as captivated?” Yvette asked breathlessly, as if she had never heard the story.

“Alas, no. He was intrigued, but far too capricious to willingly settle based on a summer acquaintance.”

“But you were persistence, oui, Mama?”

“A huntress determined to capture the man of your dreams! Your will firmly set to acquire what your heart needed to survive!”

Lady de Valday laughed at her girls’ exclamations, shaking her head as she replied, “To a point, I suppose. We females can be quite tenacious. But in truth, it was our parents who finagled matters. Unbeknownst to us, they agreed the match was to be. All your father and I knew was that once the war ended, with Napoleon restoring a semblance of order so we could return to France, our families were suddenly the best of friends!”

“It took nearly a year, Inès’s letters to me filled with her romantic machinations.”

“Poor Papa never had a chance,” Frédéric declared. “How could he resist your charms, Mama?”

“How could he indeed!” Yvette agreed. “He merely needed time as all men are pathetically obtuse in matters of amour.”

Frédéric huffed derisively, Zoë speaking before he could counter that assertion. “It is a wonderful story. So full of love and longing, romance and drama.” She sighed. “And because of your friendship with Madame Countess de Matlock, forged via the fires of war and heartbreak, we now have our own refugee to harbor…”

“I am not a ref–” Georgiana began, Yvette’s breathless oui interrupting her protest.

“Oui! Thus it is our sworn duty to entertain our lost friend, and, as fate is destined to be repeated, lead her to finding her true love!”

“Oh, how delicious a tale it will be,” Zoë squealed, her curls bouncing with her emphatic nodding. “Mademoiselle Darcy’s heart succumbs to deep, passionate love while dancing in Lyon, or” –she suddenly gasped– “better yet, Paris!”

“Please!” Georgiana laughed. “I assure you my heart is perfectly safe and not intending to succumb to anyone, in Lyon or Paris.”

Frédéric groaned, pantomiming a dagger to the heart, his death taking a dreadfully long time as he staggered about the room. Georgiana merely shook her head at the dramatic display.

“Surely you do not mean you will not dance or flirt?” Yvette asked, her eyes wide with astonishment at such a bizarre concept.

“I will dance, yes, but I do not flirt.”

Yvette remained incredulous, but Zoë waved her hand dismissively. “Every girl flirts. It is natural. As is falling in love, especially in Paris where love is tangible in the very air you breathe.”

“Well, I did not fall in love while in Paris last summer, nor have I become even remotely smitten while in Austria or Italy, so I fear I shall disappoint, my dear Zoë.”

Zoë shrugged, clearly not convinced. In fact, she wore a rather devious expression that caused Georgiana no small amount of alarm!

Yvette recovered from her amazement, springing up from her knees. “I certainly shall flirt. Flirt and dance, dance, dance! We shall teach you how it is done, my friend.” She grabbed her “dead” brother, where he laid draped over a chair, and the heartbroken lover was instantly resurrected and began gaily waltzing with his sister.

Georgiana was yanked from her chair by Zoë, the latter apparently deciding that the woefully ignorant Georgiana needed lessons in coquettish behavior begun immediately. Within minutes all three de Valdays encircled their protégé, the eyelash fluttering, simpering smiles, and seductive gazes only causing Georgiana to laugh.

Lady Matlock and Lady de Valday shared a glance, the unspoken communication inherent in most long-term relationships easily comprehended. With nods of silent agreement it was decided not to share what they knew of Lord de Marcov’s fiancé, his “English Rose” as he called the lovely Lady Vivienne.

Indeed, it would be much more fun to have the connections discovered at the ball.

Like all authors, I love creating characters. In my particular case and with my previous novels, the main characters were created by Jane Austen. Of course, I expanded on most of those characters and tweaked their personalities as time passed, so they are quite altered in many respects from how Jane originally wrote them.

Certainly this is true for Georgiana Darcy, she being the Darcy who is the subject of Miss Darcy Falls in Love. As I thought about Georgiana and characters in a general sense, I decided it would be entertaining to write a character study for some of the unique persons who inhabit the pages of my latest novel. Just to make it really fun, I am going to start with the contributing players first and lead up to the stars.

Zoë and Yvette de Valday: 19-year-old identical twin daughters of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Valday of Lyon, France. Zoë and Yvette befriend Georgiana while she visits their home, the friendships lasting for their lifetimes.

Frédéric de Valday: 17-year-old brother to Zoë and Yvette. He too will befriend Georgiana and remain a lifelong friend.

An excerpt is best to describe the three de Valdays. This is how they are introduced to readers in Chapter 1:

A clamor in French from the hallway broke her reverie, seconds later the door bursting open and three figures tumbling into the parlor.

“Dearest Georgiana, finally! Hiding away already, are you? Frédéric insisted that we hunt you down and rescue from your solitary daydreams!”

The speaker was a young woman of nineteen. She was short, barely reaching Georgiana’s shoulders, with a voluptuous figure finely accentuated by an exquisitely tailored gown of purple velvet. Her lavender-tinted eyes blazed vibrantly amid a round face. Mischief and impertinence were etched upon her entire countenance from the tiny tapping foot to the mass of tightly coiled ebony curls audaciously escaping jeweled pins. She was in all ways a vision of supreme, sensual loveliness that could wrest the breath away from everyone who beheld her, male or female. Her name was Zoë, and her lush beauty was so ineffable that it was impossible to imagine that another could match it.

Yet the woman standing near her was indeed a match.

Her twin, Yvette, was nearly a duplicate. It was only the small mole located just to the right of her upper lip that easily revealed her unique identity. The combined essence of these two extraordinary creatures was a captivating assault upon one’s senses. The blessing from the Maker in allowing the creation of two entrancing offspring would presumably then exhaust any hope of further divine favor upon their parents, but this was not the case.

Frédéric, nearly eighteen, was as stunning and forceful a presence as his elder sisters. With his curls styled foppishly about his face, his enormous deep-blue eyes, and his plump mouth, he had a slight feminine air to his look that was aided by his shorter stature and stout fleshiness. But this was only at first glance. As soon as he moved or spoke a word, the effeminate vision was swept away by a personality, voice, and bearing that exuded confident masculinity. The three de Valdays were bewitching and somewhat exhausting, but Georgiana adored them already.

Aren’t they fascinating? Wait until you get to know them. Magnifiqué! I tend to veer toward writing flamboyant characters. What that says about me I refuse to acknowledge! And speaking of flamboyant, or more like eccentric, allow me to introduce you to….

The Marchioness of Warrow: Born Beryl Darcy, Lady Warrow is the sister of James Darcy, Sr., the grandfather of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, and therefore Georgiana Darcy’s great-aunt. Thrice married and widowed, her second husband was the Earl of Essenton. Their son is the current Earl of Essenton and Mr. Sebastian Butler’s father. Are you with me so far? This means that there is a familial connection between Georgiana and Sebastian (the hero of this novel), although the cousins never met until adults. Lady Warrow’s third husband was a marquis, obscenely wealthy, childless, and so enamored with his wife that he ensured his possessions passed to her and that she held her title suo jure, or in her own right. Lady Warrow is elderly but spry, captivating, lushly beautiful, charming, sensuous, and more than a little naughty! She is on intimate terms with everyone from the Prince Regent and Archbishop of Canterbury to dignitaries in many European countries. Widely traveled, morally challenged, fiery, and fiercely loyal to her family, she is a woman to be admired and adored, but never to be crossed!

Baron Caxton: The man who vies for Georgiana’s affections is the quintessential alpha male taken to extremes. Nephew to the Duke of Grafton, Baron Caxton is rich and highly esteemed amongst the English elite. A graduate of Oxford, his choice to teach violin at his alma mater and then the famed Conservatoire of Music in Paris is purely out of a desire to travel and share his mastery with other great musicians. Morally upright, decent, honest, and severely straight laced, the baron has a pristine reputation. He is also rawly male, supremely handsome, and blessed with a charisma that is overwhelmingly sexual and mesmerizing. Women – all women – fall instantly under his spell. Yet until Georgiana Darcy he has never wanted a woman enough to tap into his magnetic power. How can she resist?

Here is another brief excerpt to convey what I mean:

Georgiana was bemused. Yes, she thought, that is the word for it: bemused. Or maybe bedazzled was an apt description for how she felt. The lights seemed brighter, the music especially melodious, the dancing more enjoyable, and the food ambrosial. Everything was exquisite as never before. The air surrounding her sparkled magically and tingles bounced over her skin.

Yet there was an unreal quality to the sensations within and perceptions without. It was not disturbing exactly. It was merely strange. Strange and wonderful, she amended as her silk-clad hands brushed over the baron’s gloved palms, his thumb miraculously managing to squeeze and caress her knuckles in the seconds before the steps of the quadrille pulled them apart. Flawlessly, he sidestepped to engage the lady next in line, executing a fluid chassé while never looking away from Georgiana. She could not claim to be an adept judge of a man’s behavior nor did she possess the vanity to assume men were instantly attracted to her; nevertheless, if asked, she would be forced to blushingly agree that Lord Caxton appeared to be as bemused as she.

This was their second dance together since arriving at the ball. The first, a waltz, had left her breathless and dazed. A portion of that response may have been a result of lively dancing on a crowded floor with lights blazing overhead. Undoubtedly the steady stream of conversation and questions while twirling at a fast pace augmented the breathlessness. Lord Caxton appeared relentless in his pursuit to learn as much about her as possible. This was quite flattering, of course, as was the intensity of the dark eyes that rarely left her face unless it was to scan over her figure—a fact she pretended not to notice even as heat flooded her skin—and the way he drew her closer to his body than was strictly necessary for a proper waltz. The latter greatly shattered her typical composure, and it was with some relief that she greeted the dance’s conclusion.

Now you have been introduced to a handful of the more colorful characters in Miss Darcy Falls in Love. There are a host of characters equally marvelous, but Sandy may balk at the length of this post if I talked about all of them! So, I am going to continue the analysis on other blogspots in the days to follow. Tomorrow I will be at Reviews By Molly talking about Georgiana Darcy, among others. Visit my website for the details and to learn more about all my novels.

Thanks for having me today, Sandy. I will be checking back for any comments and to say hi. One lucky commenter will receive a copy of Miss Darcy Falls in Love. (U.S. and Canada only, please) Good luck in the giveaway!

Sandy M’s review of Miss Darcy Falls in Love (Darcy Saga, Book 6) by Sharon Lathan
Historical Romance published by Sourcebooks Landmark 1 Nov 11

With this sixth book in Sharon Lathan’s Darcy Saga series, she takes a turn from the loving couple who started her writing career for her and gives us a look at Fitzwilliam’s sister, Georgiana. We’ve watched her grow from a quiet and shy girl into a confident and intelligent young lady, as well as a brilliant musician. It’s a nice change of pace, and Ms. Lathan does Georgiana proud.

On the trip of a lifetime meeting new friends, seeing exciting places, and gaining more experience and knowledge in her music, Georgiana’s whirlwind journey gets another jolt when she comes face to face again with Sebastian, an interested beau we met in the last book. They share a love of everything music and immediately begin to meet to discuss that passion, play each other’s compositions, and leisurely explore museums and conservatories to their hearts’ content. For Georgiana it is a blessing to have someone who understands her desire to immerse herself in nothing else but melodies and lyrics. She does, however, become a bit homesick now and again in the midst of these very exciting times. Knowing she will eventually return home to marry and start a family as all young women her age do keeps her will strong to continue her journey.

Sebastian has had a more difficult time of it, having to deflect his father’s attempts to bring him home to be further groomed to take over the family estates when the time comes – and to start his own family as soon as possible. A prospective bride has already been chosen, though Sebastian wants nothing to do with the woman. Coming to an agreement with his father gives Sebastian three years to gain what he can at the Conservatoire de Musique in Paris, a dream he thought never to live. And the time he’s spending with Miss Darcy beforehand has also been a dream, one unexpected and enlightening. The woman is beyond ingenious.

Both Georgiana and Sebastian view their relationship as friends. It definitely starts out that way, but slowly, without them realizing it, their feelings become deeper and more meaningful. However, they each keep silent, not wanting to interrupt the other’s life path. Georgiana knows Sebastian’s heart is set on attending the conservatory and he knows her desire to return to England is growing with each passing day. Should they go their own way and leave behind a love that may last a lifetime or should one of them sacrifice their wants for the sake of the other? Neither is willing to test their options for fear of the hurt and heartache that may result.

But when Georgiana meets Baron Caxton, she’s taken by his masculinity and charm. She’s also torn now between two men who she’s grown to care for. While she paints the town with the baron, it’s Sebastian who seemingly bows out of her life, which causes both of them to reflect much deeper into their feelings and to make decisions that may come too late to halt lives changing directions they might never recover from.

There are a variety of secondary characters who throw fun and laughter into the story, most notably the de Valday twins, Yvette and Zoe, along with their brother, Frederic. All three are the typical flamboyant French and always out for a raucous good time. Sebastian’s grandmother, Lady Warrow, is also an interesting character. I love the scenes where she vexes her son over his continual fuss about Sebastian’s life choices and refusing to see the man he’s become. I have only one slight nitpick, which is near the end when Sebastian asks for Georgiana’s hand. I would rather have been shown that scene rather than being told about it. We’ve seen over the course of the series how protective Darcy has been of Georgiana all her life, so some emotions from him about this momentous life change for her would have added so much, especially since she’d been gone so long from home during her journey.

One scene I really enjoyed is when Georgiana is on her way to Sebastian and is constantly having her progress impeded. She finally takes matter into her own hands – time is of the essence! – and her flight toward him is well done, fraught with tension, longing, happiness, devastation and so much more, as is the immediate following scenes when life now looks bleak and without color for Georgiana. Also, the prologue brings surprises. I love the way Ms. Lathan gives this couple an afterlife, so to speak. Very inspired! And Dr. George Darcy gives those of us who follow this series a huge surprise. Is there more to come with him and his new-found happiness? Only time will tell…..

Grade: A

Summary:

Noble young ladies were expected to play an instrument, but Georgiana Darcy is an accomplished musician who hungers to pursue her talents. She embarks upon a tour of Europe, ending in Paris where two very different men will ignite her heart in entirely different ways and begin a bitter rivalry to win her. But only one holds the key to her happiness.

 

Set in post-Napoleonic Empire France, Miss Darcy Falls in Love is a riveting love story that enters a world of passion where gentlemen know exactly how to please and a young woman learns to direct her destiny and understand her heart.

Read an excerpt.

Other books in this series:

We’d like to thank Lisa Renee Jones for joining us recently, instigating a good discussion about book covers, an important issue in the process of publishing a book and buying one. Thanks for a fun day, Lisa!

And now to our winner, who will receive a goodie bag filled with books, some bath and body works Vampire Blood that Lisa swears you will love and any one of her backlist books she currently has in stock.

Mairee (#4) …. come on down!

Congrats! Send your snail mail address to lighthousetagger (at) gmail (dot) com and we’ll pass it on to Lisa for you.

I have been a fan of Helen Scott Taylor since reading the first book in her wonderful and magical series, The Magic Knot. I knew then we have something special in this author, one who weaves spells to pull a reader into her characters’ world and entertains them on every page – good, bad, happy, evil, lusty, loving, romantic, and everything in between.

With this third book in the series, The Ruby Kiss, she surpasses all of that, bringing her writing to a new level, pulling on the heartstrings more than ever, showing us wishes and dreams do indeed come true, faith in others is necessary, family is where your heart is, and to never give up what you know is right.

Nightshade and Ruby discover all of this in stages as their world is turned upside and torn apart. But what comes to them in the end just may be worth a wee bit of heartache.

Summary:

A Powerful Nightstalker: Nightshade hungers to bring the strong and beautiful to their knees beneath the ecstasy of his bite, but he has never known sexual lust–not until he meets Ruby McDonald. The curvy redhead wields attitude and strength like an ax and she would be the perfect mother of his children. Caught in a clash between the Seelie and Unseelie courts, he battles not only for her survival but also for her heart.

A Mortal with a Secret: Plagued by magic inherited from a father she never knew, Ruby wants answers. Nightshade has them. But when he crashes into her bedroom late one night, the Fairy’s silvery eyes, dark intensity, and striking black wings tempt her with a whole lot more: a mysterious world waiting to be explored, a dangerous love that binds her in body, mind, and spirit, and the children she thought she could never have. The future offers her a choice between freedom and a power some would kill to possess. Should she deny her desires, or succumb to the seduction of…THE RUBY KISS

Now take a wild ride with Nightshade and Ruby:

Chapter One

Ruby Macdonald woke to a frightful bang and the rattle of roof tiles. Something crashed onto the skylight above her bed, knocking the window wide. She instinctively ducked beneath her bedcovers, and a huge heavy object thudded down on the mattress beside her, making the bedsprings bounce and strain under the impact. Downstairs her two dogs started barking.

After a second’s shock, Ruby yanked the covers away from her face. A dark figure crouched on the comforter near her feet. She recoiled against the headboard, a scream searing her throat. The streak of light coming through the bedroom doorway from the hall silhouetted the creature’s naked, heavily muscled chest and widespread black wings.

Her mother had carted her all over the place, searching for supernatural creatures. Ruby had met many strange beings, including tiny leprechauns in Ireland and beautiful people who could breathe underwater, but after everything she had gone through back then and her mother’s horrible death, she had tried to forget. She hadn’t wanted to believe her mother’s claim that Ruby was the result of a nocturnal seduction by a beautiful winged angel, even though she knew she wasn’t like other people.

Ruby’s blood thundered in her ears. Was her father really an angel? And was history about to repeat itself? Although the intruder’s gleaming black skin and leathery wings suggested he was more demon than angel. She had never seen anything like him in her travels, but she vaguely remembered seeing his likeness in a book.

The creature spat white stuff at her. Ruby dove to the floor and grabbed out from under her bed the baseball bat she’d hoped never to have to use. She jumped up, getting a firm two-handed grip on its wooden handle.

“Keep away from me or you’re dog food.”

Instead of pursuing her, the winged man clambered off the other side of the bed and dragged a hand over his mouth.

“Bloody bird,” he bit out in a deep British accent. “Closed my eyes for half a second and the damn thing hit me in the face.” He spat out something else that Ruby realized was a feather. At over six feet tall, his powerful body dominated the room. Yet his cultured voice was so at odds with his appearance that Ruby had the crazy urge to laugh. Without taking her eyes off him, she bent to snap on the bedside light.

She had wondered if he was completely naked, having noticed his bare chest, but he wore black jeans and boots. His eyes shone an unnerving silver in a savagely beautiful face. He swept aside his long black hair with a careless hand and folded his wings against his back.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his head angled arrogantly as he pinned her with his gaze.

“Oh no, laddie.” She pointed at him with the bat. “You’re going to tell me who you are first.”

He ruffled his wings against his back, looking disgruntled. “I’m Nightshade.”

In her experience, these supernatural beings usually had strange names. “What are you?” Ruby demanded.

His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. “I don’t appreciate that tone of voice.”

Despite his fierce expression, she didn’t sense any real malice in him, and she had always been very perceptive about the nature of “supernaturals,” as her mother had called them. “Tough. You land on my bed in the middle of the night; you answer my questions.”

He narrowed his eyes. Ruby held his gaze and tightened her grip on the bat. As they stared each other down, a tingle of excitement ran up her spine. She had thought she never wanted to see another supernatural after what happened to her mother, but there was something about this one’s vibrant male energy that set her nerves singing.

He gave a hiss of reluctant surrender. “I’m a nightstalker.”

Yes, that did ring a bell. She wished now she hadn’t burned all her mother’s supernatural books. “Is that some type of demon?”

He bristled. “I’m not a bloody shadow elemental, woman. I’m a fairy.”

“A what?” The bat sagged in Ruby’s hands while her brain scrambled to process. She had thought fairies were tiny with translucent wings. A slightly hysterical giggle burst from her lips.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“I thought fairies were small.” At his scowl, she had to stop herself from grinning. He was so easy to get a rise out of. “Don’t fairies wear sparkly dresses and have bells on their slippers?”

A growl broke from the back of his throat. She raised her bat again, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. Time to change the subject.

“To answer your first question, I’m Ruby Macdonald.”

He grunted, his gaze tracking down her body, then back to her face. “And this place is?”

“Glenskelly Lodge. I suppose you realize you’re in Scotland?” She watched him take stock of his surroundings, absently ruffling his wings against his back. Ruby stabbed a finger toward the ceiling and added, “It sounded as though you damaged my roof.”

The nightstalker glanced up, his nostrils flaring. “It wasn’t my fault. The damn bird should have looked where it was going.” He flexed his shoulders before raising a hand to rub one. “Bathroom?” he demanded.

“You use bathroom facilities?” The leprechauns who had helped her and her mother when she was small had lived in caves. But, come to think of it, some of the others supernaturals they’d met had seemed very civilized. Still, she couldn’t imagine a man with wings sitting on the toilet

or lying in a bath.

“Of course, woman. This is the twenty-first century.” He tapped the cell phone on his belt. “Where I come from we make use of modern technology and live among humans. Although most do not know what we are.”

Ruby pointed the bat at the door of her en suite. Nightshade strode inside, leaving the door open. He washed his hands and face, then wiped himself dry on her towel before dropping it over the side of the bath.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Ruby said under her breath.

The nightstalker wandered back into the room, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. His hand went to his shoulder again, and he looked exhausted. With a sigh, he glanced at the open skylight. “Sorry about the intrusion,” he offered reluctantly. “Don’t often get birds flying at night.”

“Looks to me like you were asleep at the wheel,” Ruby retorted. “So to speak.”

He pinned her with a belligerent gaze but didn’t deny the accusation. His gaze roamed more slowly over her body, as if he were really noticing it. The tension between them shifted subtly. The annoyance melted from his face and he licked his lips.

A prickle of awareness skittered across her skin, making her nipples peak beneath the tight jersey tank top, which she belatedly realized left little to the imagination. And her pajama shorts made her thighs look fat. She tossed the bat on the bed, hurried across the room to grab her dressing gown off the back of the door, and put it on.

She considered him for a moment and remembered the kindness of many supernaturals whom her mother had intruded upon in her relentless search for Ruby’s father. Although the last thing she wanted to do was get tangled up in that weird world again, she strongly believed that what goes around comes around and it was time to reciprocate. “When it’s lighter out, you can check my roof’s not damaged where you hit it. First I think you need to sleep. Before you fall over.”

Winged ebony brows rose in surprise. “You’ll let me stay in your house?”

“You can go outside and sleep in the dog kennel if you’d rather, but I think you’re too big.”

He scowled—an expression with which Ruby was fast becoming familiar. She’d always been good at sensing the energy of people and animals, she’d been told it was a gift, and she was certain this stranger didn’t pose any danger to her. He was exhausted and he could hardly check into the nearest hotel. And, now he had dropped in on her, she might as well take the opportunity to question him. She was determined to rid herself of the annoying power she’d inherited from her supernatural father. Perhaps Nightshade could help.

***

Nightshade narrowed his eyes on the woman’s back while she made up the bed in her spare room. He couldn’t pick up her psychic signature in the way he would expect if she carried fairy blood, yet she wasn’t completely human. The house resonated with strange energy. It was as though he could feel her in the wood beneath his feet.

She turned and bent over the bed to tuck in the sheets, and her breasts swung forward and made the dressing gown gape. All thought of psychic signatures disappeared from his brain. Excitement raced through him at the thought of standing behind her and catching those breasts in his hands. She was no slender creature like the Cornish pisky women from the troop with whom he lived; she was only just over five feet tall but with buxom curves. He’d never seen a full-bodied woman like her. And although his fangs burned within his gums with the desire to taste the sweetness of her blood, they did not slide out over his lower lip. Instead, the tight heaviness in his groin dominated his awareness. For the first time in his life, his instinct to mate was stronger than his desire to bite.

“One bed ready for occupation.” She straightened and put her hands on her shapely hips with a long exhalation of breath, then flashed him a quick smile, her hazel eyes twinkling. The small diamond stud in her nose glinted in the overhead light. She was so different from other females he knew, with her short spiky red hair and the many piercings in her ears.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, uncomfortable with being in her debt. He wouldn’t have blamed her for tossing him out after he’d crashed onto her bed in the middle of the night. She had a sharp tongue, yet she must have a kind nature to have offered him a place to rest.

“Would you like a cuppa before you turn in?” Then, without waiting for his answer, she bustled past, leaving a trail of sweet floral fragrance in her wake.

This healthy well-built woman would produce big strong babies. Could she be the right woman to give him the son he longed for?

***

“Come on. You’re dead on your feet,” Ruby said, beckoning Nightshade into the guest room after he’d silently drunk his cup of tea. She’d been hoping he’d be chattier. As she stood aside to let him pass, she noticed scratches marring the smooth skin of the shoulder he’d been favoring. The impact with her roof must have injured him, but his black skin hid the damage.

He slanted her a sideways glance through his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots. “Thanks.”

“Want me to look at your shoulder?”

“No.” He made to lie down.

Ruby hurried across to the bed and caught his wrist. “Yes, you do.”

Sinews flexed beneath her hand like tensile steel cables, and a shock of response burst through her at contact with the leashed power of his body. Drawing an uneven breath she released him and leaned over to examine his injured shoulder. A sticky trail of blood had seeped from a nasty gash to run down his back beneath one of his wings. He must be in pain but she would never have guessed. The smell of blood mingled with the unusual scent of almonds and the musky male fragrance of his skin.

“Leave me be, woman. Let me get some rest.”

He turned his head toward her, and she stared into the brilliance of his silver gaze, looked so close she could see every hair in his dense ebony lashes. His face was a study of masculine beauty, his strong jaw and brows giving a rugged cast to his otherwise fine features. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, then she pulled back and rested her hands on her hips, determined not to show he affected her.

“Sit tight for a few minutes. I’m going to dress that wound or you’ll ruin my sheets.”

Ruby grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom and returned to find Nightshade sitting with his head in his hands. To see this huge über macho creature looking vulnerable did something strange to her insides.

“I’ll be quick,” she assured him.

She climbed onto the bed behind him and started wiping the blood off his skin. When she eased aside his wing, the stretchy skin was strong and soft as kid gloves. She had a crazy urge to rub her cheek against it and decided she must be lightheaded with tiredness. She smoothed away the thick silk of his hair before she cleaned up his wound and covered it with gauze.

“There you go,” she said in a brightly efficient voice. “Ready for bed.”

He didn’t move. She went around in front of him and squatted down. His eyelids were lowered, his lashes thick ebony crescents against his cheeks.

“Nightshade,” she whispered, and silver slivers appeared beneath those lashes. “Lie down, laddie.”

He eased onto his side, and she threw a duvet over him, then watched while he went back to sleep. His guarded expression relaxed and he looked even more beautiful. His lean dark fingers gripped the edge of the pillow, and she clenched her hand as she imagined running her fingertips up his sinewy forearm to the bulge of his biceps. He must be casting some kind of magic over her; she could hardly tear her eyes away. She had thought that only a mad and irresponsible woman like her mother would succumb to a supernatural man who appeared in her bedroom in the middle of the night.

Perhaps she had inherited the same madness.

***

Nightshade woke to stillness. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then he recognized Ruby’s light floral fragrance on the air.

He stared at the clock beside the bed and puzzled over the fact that, although he felt well rested, he’d apparently slept for only fifteen minutes. After more thought, he worked out that he’d slept round the clock. As it would soon be dawn and he couldn’t be seen flying during daylight, he would have to wait another day before he went on to the fairy Gathering of Kith and Kin in the Scottish Highlands. At least that meant he would have time to check Ruby’s roof for damage.

He listened for her, heard the steady beating of her heart on the other side of the wall. Guilt flickered within him at how he’d dropped in and frightened her; he should never have flown all the way from one end of the country to the other when he was out of practice. Normal nightstalkers who lived a solitary life got used to flying all the time. But he’d grown soft living his comfortable life in Cornwall, with the modern-thinking pisky troop, being driven around in cars.

Longing ticked in his chest. Only two days away from home and he already missed his brother. He imagined Rhys sleeping peacefully in the nursery at Trevelion Manor with the Cornish pisky king and queen’s children. His beloved baby half brother. To protect Rhys, he would find their evil father Dragon and make him swear a blood oath to give up all rights to the boy. He would never let Dragon injure the child again, as he had in the past.

Nightshade’s stomach rumbled in protest. Heaving himself out of bed, he ripped the dressing off his healing shoulder and went downstairs to find the kitchen. When he snapped on the lights, they gleamed off the contemporary white-fronted units. The house was a strange combination of rustic wooden hunting lodge and modern styling. He preferred old houses, like Trevelion Manor where he lived, that breathed history from every seasoned-oak beam and floorboard.

He opened cupboards at random until he found a loaf of bread, then dropped two slices into the toaster before making a cup of tea. That would have to tide him over until Ruby prepared him a proper breakfast.

While he ate, he sat at the pine kitchen table, scrolling through the photos of Rhys saved on his cell phone. The Gathering of Kith and Kin where he hoped to find his father would last five nights, and he had already missed the first. He must arrive tonight in order to get his bearings and plan his strategy.

After he finished eating, Nightshade looked for a calendar to check his dates. One hung beside the fridge, each full moon highlighted in orange. The Cornish pisky wise woman kept just such a moon calendar in her room at Trevelion Manor, but Nightshade couldn’t understand why Ruby would be interested in lunar cycles. Maybe she was a wise woman or witch. That would explain the strange power he’d sensed in the house. He stared at the calendar for a few seconds, frowning, then noticed the wall clock showed it was getting-up time. So he went upstairs, impatient for Ruby to wake and cook for him.

Her bedroom door stood ajar, the bed visible through the gap. Early sunlight glowed through the thin white curtains, illuminating her. She lay in a state of abandon, arms flung above her head, one leg protruding from beneath the covers. Without him making a conscious decision to go inside, his feet carried him to the foot of her bed.

He had never noticed how women smelled before. Her floral scent mingled with an enticingly musky feminine fragrance that stirred an unfamiliar hunger. The covers rode lower as she moved, revealing the ripe swells of her breasts. Nightshade clenched his teeth to hold in his fangs.

This woman did things to him he’d never experienced. He might be a vampire, but for him taking blood was a pleasure rather than a necessity. He’d only ever wanted to bite men, and the idea of mating rarely entered his head. Now his body ached to mate with Ruby’s while he sank his fangs into her soft pink curves and formed a blood bond so that he could control her. He would only be able to take blood from her a couple of times a week, assuming he didn’t want to hurt her, but that could be enough to satisfy him. She was the woman he needed to complete his life. He would make her scream with pleasure and start his baby growing in her belly. Then, after he’d secured the blood oath from his father, he would collect Ruby and bring her home with him to Cornwall.

***

The sound of her name dragged Ruby up from the depths of sleep. She groaned when shafts of early morning sunlight fell on her face, then blinked sleepily and met determined silver eyes.

“Hey, shut the damn curtains and get out of my bedroom.”

“It’s time to get up,” Nightshade replied.

“Go away.”

“I’m hungry,” he announced, as though that was a momentous statement.

“I’m not surprised. You were comatose for a day. Was I supposed to drip-feed you while you slept?”

Ruby watched his gaze cruise slowly down her body beneath the sheet, and that made her heart do a funny little jig. For a moment she imagined that his hunger was for something other than food, but then she dismissed the thought. He was a spectacular example of masculine beauty. There wasn’t much chance he’d be attracted to a short and overweight human. He probably only went for lady nightstalkers, whatever they were.

“Kitchen’s downstairs,” she said.

“I’ve already had toast. I need something more substantial, please.”

When he tapped impatient fingers on the footboard, Ruby gave him a threatening look. “You touch my bed once more and all you’ll get is dog food.”

He ruffled his wings against his back, disgruntled. “I need to replenish the energy I used flying up here!”

“You’ll have to wait till seven-thirty. That’s when I get up.” Ruby glanced meaningfully at her alarm clock, which read six fifty-four.

With a sigh Nightshade turned to stare out the window. The rising sun hung over the glen. “You get used to early starts when there are small children in the house.”

Small children? Ruby stared at his neatly folded wings. Did that mean he had a Mrs. Nightshade at home? What sort of a house did he live in? And why did she even care?

“Okay, I’m getting up.” She was already too wide awake to go back to sleep. Climbing out of bed, she trudged over to fetch her dressing gown off the door. Then she realized: “Are you telling me you can’t cook anything but toast?”

His chin hitched up. “The kitchen is a female’s place.”

Ruby’s step faltered. “Your wife must be tolerant to put up with an attitude like that.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“But you’ve got kids?”

“A three-year-old brother,” he replied.

“Ah.” Ruby stared at him, unmoving, an unwanted flash of relief tingling through her.

Fifteen minutes later, a full Scottish breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, haggis, and oatcakes was in preparation, while Nightshade paced back and forth across the kitchen speaking into his cell phone. He was questioning someone about a little boy called Rhys—presumably his brother, although Nightshade sounded more like a concerned father. When Ruby imagined a tiny version of him with small wings, she found herself smiling.

She placed two plates on the table, and Nightshade snapped his phone shut and sat down. He mumbled a thank-you before tucking in as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Ruby picked at her scrambled eggs. She didn’t feel hungry this early, but she’d wanted to sit with him. He cleared half his plate in record time.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“Eloise, my brother’s mother.”

“Not your mother?”

He shook his head, forking food into his mouth. She so rarely cooked for anyone that it was gratifying to see him enjoy what she’d prepared.

“Eloise is human, but my mother was a Cornish pisky. That’s why I live with them.”

“A Cornish pisky?” She remembered them from her mother’s books. “Aren’t they small?”

“No. Our size.”

Ruby’s heart rate doubled as she realized this was the ideal moment to ask about her father. “Do you know any angels?”

He wiped his mouth and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “They don’t exist. Humans probably muddle them up with some sort of fairy.”

Could her father be a fairy? The idea made her snort with disbelief. She was about as unfairylike as it was possible to get. “So, there are beautiful glowing fairies with wings?”

Nightshade sniggered. “The only beautiful glowing individual I know doesn’t have wings, and he definitely isn’t angelic…but I suppose a human might think he was an angel.”

Disappointed, Ruby sagged back in her seat. Even if he didn’t know her father, he might know something about the strange magical affliction that had plagued her at full moon since puberty. “Have you ever heard of anyone who makes plants grow when they touch them?”

“You mean a nature spirit? You don’t want to mess with them. They’re strange. I met a dryad once and his skin looked like leaves.”

“So none of them look like angels?”

“Not that I know of, but the Cornish piskies keep to themselves and live an almost human life because the pisky queen is half human. There are different fairy courts in different parts of the country, but I’ve only visited a few. If you ever go to Ireland, steer clear of the Wicklow Mountains. The Irish fairy queen has her court there, and she’s a psycho.”

Ruby didn’t need that advice. She’d discovered the Irish fairies were dangerous years ago when her mother was searching for Ruby’s father. If not for the leprechauns’ help, she and her mother probably wouldn’t have escaped alive. And, as usual, her mother had blamed Ruby for not sensing the Irish fairies were dangerous. Whenever things went wrong it was always her fault, just because she had the stupid power.

Nightshade patted his stomach. “That breakfast was good, Ruby.”

She ignored the ridiculous flash of pleasure his words gave her. “So, does your father live in Cornwall?”

“No!” His expression darkened and his jaw clenched. “I would not allow Dragon within ten miles of Rhys.” For the first time she saw the threat of violence in his eyes. With his cell phone and his love of her cooking, Nightshade had lulled her into a false sense of normality, but his civilized veneer only thinly disguised the powerful male beneath. She would do well to remember that he wasn’t human. Whatever he said about living a human-style life, the rules and conventions nightstalkers lived by were likely different from her own.

Ruby busied herself loading the dishwasher before washing up the griddle. Yet, while she worked, Nightshade’s potent presence dominated her senses. She’d dated a few men she met at art exhibitions, but no human man emanated such raw masculine power. She would definitely paint a picture of his energy if she got the chance.

She tensed when she felt him approach behind her. His hands landed on her upper arms in a firm but gentle touch that sent tingles racing across her skin, and she tried to concentrate on the dishes as he bent close to her ear.

“You’re a strong and beautiful female, Ruby,” he whispered in a velvet voice. He made a little noise in his throat that sounded like a growl. Then his lips brushed the side of her neck.

The griddle slipped from Ruby’s hands, splashing greasy water up the front of her dressing gown. Where had his sudden interest in her sprung from? She cast a sideways glance at his strong black fingers gripping her arm, and her knees felt weak.

“I want you, Ruby,” he whispered. The tip of his tongue stroked her skin, and a pulsing knot of heat tied low in her belly. “You taste so good.”

She should pull away from him, but her feet were glued to the floor. The tiniest scrape of teeth against her skin nearly made her legs give way. His hands gripped her waist to steady her as if he sensed her weakness.

“I’ve never met a female who makes me feel like this,” he said in a low sexy growl. “I want to mate with you.”

Ruby should say no and push him away. She’d only known him for two days, and she knew supernaturals could be trouble. Yet there was something about Nightshade that resonated with her.

Actually, it was an advantage that he would be a one-night stand. The guys she dated were rarely invited home, in case they discovered her secret affliction. Such a discovery wouldn’t be a problem with Nightshade. And, this way, she would never become obsessed with him like her mother had been with her father. When darkness fell that night, he’d just leave. She had a chance for passion with no strings.

Even as the idea pleased her, it also made Ruby sad. She felt a natural affinity with him that she couldn’t explain. He might be the one man who wouldn’t be freaked out by her affliction.

Before she had the chance to make a decision, Nightshade turned her to face him. Although he didn’t hurt her, his grip was so assured and controlling that she realized how much stronger he was. If he forced himself on her, she couldn’t resist. His arms slid around her, pulling her flat against his hard chest while his mouth came down on hers, and by the time he broke that claiming kiss, she was disoriented and gasping for breath. He swept her up into his arms and heat rushed to her face. She struggled to get down before he noticed how much she weighed.

“Stop wriggling, woman,” he said as he carried her upstairs. Then, with a satisfied male smile, he deposited her in the center of her bed.

He flicked open the button on his jeans. Languorous heat flooded Ruby’s body as he lowered the zipper. Hard, sleek muscles rippled with every movement, and when he pushed his jeans down over his hips, every other thought fled her mind. Little flickers of heat raced through her, making her so hot she thought she might melt.

“Strewth,” she whispered. “That’s one for the record books.”

Nightshade had a tadger the size of a rolling pin.

“Ruby, you’re special,” he whispered.

He eased down onto the bed at her side, then leaned over and stroked his fingers across her cheek. He pressed his lips against her neck, and the scrape of his teeth made her tremble with a deep primeval excitement that had an edge of fear. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her she shouldn’t be doing this; her mother had come to a terrible end over her dalliance with a powerful supernatural. But, heck, Ruby was a woman with needs. And this was a one-time deal. When would she ever get a chance like this again? Her hands went to Nightshade’s chest. For a moment she paused; then her fingers slipped over the firm contours of his pectorals to his shoulders and dragged him close.

His hand swept up her body to cup a breast through her dressing gown. He gave a little grunt of displeasure at the clothing in his way, reared back and untied the belt of her robe before pulling the offending garment off her and tossing it away. Then he buried his face in her breasts. Ruby’s eyelids closed on a burning wave of sensation.

She ran her hands over his back to the hard ridge where his wings joined his body and let her fingers play over that unfamiliar structure. His breath hissed in and he raised his head to stare at her.

“I love being touched there,” he whispered.

He threw a leg over her, and the impressive length of his arousal pressed against her thigh, sending wicked little whirls of heat swirling through her. His mouth came down on hers again, hot and hard, almost desperate. He trailed kisses along her jaw. His teeth nipped her neck and spikes of pleasure pierced her.

“You’re my ideal woman,” he whispered in a sizzling purr. “We’ll make a beautiful son together.”

His words shattered Ruby’s rapturous haze like a hand grenade. “What!” She turned her face away and pushed at his shoulders.

Nightshade raised his head, his smooth ebony brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ll have a beautiful son,” he repeated, in a tone that suggested he was paying her a huge compliment.

“Are you freaking mad?” Little slivers of pain sliced through her: He didn’t want her at all. He wanted a baby. She shoved at his shoulders, raised one leg and managed to wedge a foot against his thigh. She should have known it was a mistake to even think about getting mixed up with a supernatural, especially when her father had done the exact same thing, left her mother with a baby.

“Oomph.” Nightshade rolled away. With a snap of his wings, he retreated from the battlefield the bed had become. “What is wrong with you, woman?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Ruby grabbed the covers and pulled them over herself. “I’m not having a baby with you.” The fact the doctors said she was infertile and couldn’t have a baby was irrelevant. He’d already ruined the mood.

He blinked, looking genuinely puzzled. “But you were happy to mate with me.”

“That doesn’t have to mean a baby,” she shouted.

A frown creased his forehead. “Why else should we want to mate?”

Ruby let her head drop back on the pillow with a thump and threw an arm over her face. They’d obviously hit a major cultural difference. She fought to control her fractured breathing and calm down. The fact he’d called it mating should have warned her that something was off. It wasn’t his fault if nightstalkers only made love when they wanted children; she was human, he was not.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” she said, striving for a level tone. “I am not having a baby.”

His lip curled with disdain. “You mean you don’t want to bear a nightstalker boy.”

“No. That’s not what I mean. Well, it is, but…” Blast. Now she’d hurt his feelings, although why she cared after this fiasco she didn’t know. “Listen, Nightshade. I’m not prejudiced against nightstalkers, if that’s something you’re worried about. I won’t have any man’s baby.”

He stared at her as though she blasphemed. “I thought females wanted babies. My friends’ women all have babies.”

“Two misunderstandings there: I’m not your woman, and I definitely do not want a baby right now. Surely you’ve had other lovers who didn’t want babies?”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, managing to look intimidating even in the nude. “The situation has never arisen. I usually prefer men.”

Ruby’s mouth dropped open. For long seconds she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Then blood rushed to her head. “Get out of my bedroom. Now!”

“What have I done to anger you?” he demanded. He looked even more confused.

“Do you want a bloody list?” she screeched, the last shreds of her self-control shot to pieces. “Get out!”

With a grunt of disgust, he snatched up his jeans and headed for the door.

When he’d left the room, Ruby closed her eyes and dragged in steadying breaths. How the hell had she gotten herself into such a mess? With a slight twinge of regret, she realized she had probably been unfair to him, but babies were a sensitive subject and her emotions had flared out of control.

Downstairs, her dogs barked like mad and the back door slammed. He was gone. An ache of missed opportunity hit her. Too late she feared she might have ruined something special.