Simply Romance Television!!
Fresh Fiction's Buy the Book segment is back on
GOOD MORNING TEXAS!! YAY!!
This week the wildly talented Author
NIKKI DUNCAN'S book ILLICIT INTUITIONS is going to be featured
MONDAY @9AM CENTRAL!!
Nikki is one of the nicest people you will ever know and her books are sensational!!
Nikki along with Author Candace Havens will be outside the taping throwing a party of their own and I hear their will be swag and possibly Arcs laying around ;) So if you live in the DALLAS area you don't want to miss this fun event. Here is what Nikki had to say about it on her blog.
If you’re in the Dallas area, we would love to have you come hang with us in Victory Plaza at the South side of American Airlines Center during the filming. We get to hang out behind the glass and be crazy with signs if we want. Maybe you’ll be seen on TV pimping your favorite book.
Other author friends of mine, including Candace Havens, will be there too. It is a fun time of hanging out and chatting books and watching the big screen outside the studio. So come on out.
If your not in the viewing area there are other ways you can show your support. Spread the word via Twitter, Facebook and other social media sites to show Channel 8's GOOD MORNING TEXAS just how much we all love Romance!!
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GMT FACEBOOK / GMT TWITTER / GMT WEBSITE / FRESH FICTION WEBSITE / FRESH FICTION FACEBOOK / FRESH FICTION TWITTER
Don't forget to link your tweets and messages back to GMT so they hear what you have to say :)!
Here's a look at Nikki's Super Hot Illicit Intuitions
ILLICIT INTUITIONS
by
Nikki Duncan
Sensory Ops, Book 3
Samhain Publishing
Romantic Suspense
Blurb
Love could be their greatest liability.
Ava Malia knows three things. She was once a kickass covert operative. She will eventually adjust to her new team, the FBI Specialized Crimes Unit. And the only way to finally be free of her professional past is to solve her first case and get her hands on a game-changing technology. The only problem? Success rides on her ability to swallow her distaste for the persona she must adopt in order to earn the trust of a mysterious scientist.
Dr. H escaped childhood captivity with three things. His sister. Complete control of his gift. And an engulfing distrust of anyone in the government. Adjusting to a life of freedom hasn’t been easy, but he’s found peace in solitude. The sexy woman auditing his empathic studies, though, has a way of getting under his skin that’s both arousing and disturbing. Plus, his psychic ability warns him of secrets so deeply buried in her psyche, they’d be better left alone.
Yet their instant attraction strips away all their protective barriers, down to the foundation of a new, fragile trust. And a vulnerability that, when an old enemy opens fire, could blast away any chance of a future.
Product Warnings
If you don’t like mysterious heroes who can see into strong heroines, sexy love scenes, empaths, or quirky characters… Oh come on, who doesn’t like those things?
Spread the word Romance Lovers and set your DVR's for WFAA Channel 8's GOOD MORNING TEXAS Monday @9AM Central! :)
She knew who the killer was. The thought slammed into Reghan Connor’s sleep-hazed brain, bringing her wide awake. Her fist clenched around the cell phone she held.
“Reghan? Did you fall asleep? Hello?”
She threw back the bedcovers and squinted at the clock. Four-thirty in the morning. She flicked off the alarm, which was set for five o’clock, and rubbed her eyes. “No, Annie, I’m here,” she said on a yawn. “Where did they find the body?”
“Near an abandoned warehouse on the Alabo Street Wharf. That’s—”
“Within a couple of miles of where the first kid was found.” Ten days before, floating in the river, his throat slit. Annie had called her then, too. Not in the middle of the night. She’d called later in the day, once she’d found out that the dead teenager had been a resident at the Thibaud Johnson Center for Homeless Teens. “What about cause of death?”
“His throat was slit.”
“Oh Annie, are you sure? Just like the other boy?” A nauseating surge of adrenaline made Reghan’s fingers tingle and her scalp burn. The wounds were the same. Didn’t that make two kids from the Johnson Center who’d washed up by the river within less than two weeks of each other? It was no coincidence. Or maybe it was. Kids died all the time in New Orleans. It was tragic, a waste of young lives, but it was true.
Maybe the connection between the two deaths was a coincidence, or they were drug- or gang-related—dozens of those happened in New Orleans every year. But no. She couldn’t let herself off the hook that easily.
“Is Detective Gautier there?” she asked Annie, trying her best to put a casual note into her voice. If she had talked to Dev Gautier last week, would there be one less dead kid in New Orleans tonight?
“I don’t know,” Annie replied. “I notified Detective Givens, since he caught the first case. But I’ll bet Givens called Gautier to ID the body because of the similarity of the wounds.”
Annie was probably right. “Call me if you hear anything else.”
“I can’t. This is my last break. And please. The cause of death is being withheld from the media, so please don’t say anything about it to anyone. I could lose my job.”
“Who am I going to tell? Givens?” Reghan put a smile in her voice. “No way. I’m not ratting out my best informant.” Through the phone, she could hear the metallic buzz of chatter from police radios. Annie was back at the switchboard. “I’ll let you go.”
“You’re not thinking about going down there, are you?”
“I guarantee you I won’t be the only reporter on the scene.”
“No,” Annie shot back. “Just the only one with a personal vendetta against Detective Gautier. Please, Reghan—”
“I do not have a personal vendetta against him. I just see him for who he really is. You see him as some kind of a hero. Apparently, it means nothing to you that his entire life was a lie.” She swung her legs off the bed and looked around for the jeans she’d taken off last night.
“You told me to call you with anything about him,” Annie said.
Reghan almost laughed. “And if he’d been spotted taking a bribe or roughing up a drunk, would we be talking right now?”
“What is wrong with you?” Annie snapped. “In the first place, he would never do that. And in the second, Detective Devereux Gautier is a hero to a lot of people. I’ll bet that poor boy they pulled out of the river tonight thought of him as a hero.”
“Okay, okay. I give up. I need to go. I’ve—” Reghan paused. “I’ve got to read over my questions and notes for my show this morning. I was planning to get up at five anyway.”
She knew that Annie had a thing for any man in uniform. Her friend positively worshipped cops. She also knew Annie was wrong about Gautier. He was no hero.
But he might be the target of a maniac.
She said good-bye, and for a couple of seconds after hanging up she looked at her smart tablet. But she just wasn’t able to concentrate. Annie had asked her what was wrong with her. It had been a frustrated rhetorical question, but Reghan considered it now.
What was wrong with her? Nothing. The better question was, what was wrong with the world? Annie’s outlook was pitifully naïve. She believed that men like Devereux Gautier became police officers for heroic, altruistic reasons. But Reghan knew better. There are no heroes, she wanted to tell her friend. Heroes and knights in shining armor were for kids’ fairy tales. In real life, people never lived up to expectations. That’s why they called it real life.
She headed into the bathroom, still arguing with herself about the coincidence of the two boys’ deaths. Was she going crazy, or had convicted murderer Gerard Fontenot actually told her back in February that these teenagers were going to die? She cringed, thinking about Fontenot’s eerie eyes and slithery voice. After brushing her teeth and splashing her face liberally with cold water, she buried her nose in a towel. The day had already promised to be long and stressful, even before Annie called. And Reghan still had to go over her notes before the morning’s show.
She was interviewing a city councilman about his outspoken opinions of what should and should not be taught in public schools. Her TV news program, The Real Story, was famous for being controversial, topical, with no punches pulled. But yesterday afternoon she’d gotten a tip that had ratcheted this segment up from merely contentious to downright scandalous. The councilman, who had run on a platform of decency and family values, was about to be sued for sexual harassment.
It had taken her hours to verify the information. She was comfortable with her research and sources, but before she confronted him on the air, she wanted to double-check everything one last time. She had no intention of being surprised by a single tidbit that she’d missed.
On her show, she did the blindsiding.
She tossed the towel down and pulled her hair back, anchoring it with a barrette. Back in the bedroom, she picked up her watch from the bedside table and checked the time. Almost five. She had to be at the WACT studio by six in order to be ready to go on the air at nine. She grabbed her tablet, and stuck it and her phone into her purse.
Who was she kidding? She hadn’t fooled Annie, and she wasn’t fooling herself. Her notes would keep until right before the show, because right now she was headed down to the Alabo Street Wharf. She needed to see for herself what had happened to the teenaged boy who’d been pulled out of the river.
She headed downstairs, a curious mixture of anticipation and dread hitting the pit of her stomach. It occurred to her that she’d been unconsciously waiting for Annie’s call. Because Gerard Fontenot had sat in front of her five months ago in the visitors’ room of Angola prison and told her it was going to happen. Getting the phone call from Annie was like hearing the other shoe hit the floor.
Was she crazy, for believing a crazy man?
Fontenot was a psychopath who had kidnapped and faked the death of Dana Maxwell, the wife of Dev Gautier’s ex-partner, Cody Maxwell. Fontenot had persuaded her producer to send her to Angola for an interview about the case, but then he had refused to answer any of her questions. Instead, he’d spent the entire time raving about his brilliance, his innocence, and his plan for revenge against Devereux Gautier, whom he blamed for putting him in prison. She’d come away from the interview confused and more than a little spooked.
But what if he hadn’t been raving? What if he really was exacting the revenge he had hinted at? Revenge on Detective Gautier. She had to know for certain. And warn him.
As she grabbed her keys off the coffee table in the living room, she paused briefly, her gaze sliding over her brag shelf where she kept the DVDs of her news segments.
Looking at her watch, she ran a quick calculation in her head. Probably ten minutes to the wharf from here, maybe ten minutes to look at the body, then ten or twelve to get from the wharf to the WACT building. She had two minutes to spare. Did she want to keep them for cushion, to make sure she got to the studio by six?
Her hand went unerringly down the alphabetized shelf to the DVD labeled “Fontenot, February 24.” She hesitated. It would take her only a few minutes to listen to Fontenot’s disturbing words one more time and decide if his ravings sounded as ominous and prophetic as she remembered. She shuddered as she turned on the TV and inserted the DVD into the player.
When the screen lit up, the camera was on her. She watched herself lift her chin and look straight into the lens. Bert, the cameraman, flipped on a bright light, then proceeded to adjust its angle. She could hear the faint metallic whir of the camera.
“Lighting’s perfect,” Bert said. “We’re ready to go.”
As if on cue, the eerie wail of a metal door opening assaulted her ears. She watched herself cringe and hunch her shoulders. Bert swung the camera toward the door. A uniformed prison guard backed through it, pulling Gerard Fontenot’s wheelchair with him, then turned and rolled the chair up to the big, scarred interview table and set the brake as the metal door clanged shut.
Fontenot looked small and feeble in the industrial chair. He could be someone’s grandfather instead of the diabolical killer Reghan knew him to be. It was difficult to imagine the hunched man in a worn blue flannel bathrobe, his legs covered by a blanket, literally scaring his wife to death by putting snakes in her refrigerator, or forcing Dana Maxwell to lure her husband, Cody, into a deadly trap, or outsmarting the police for years before his own arrogance finally tripped him up.
She fast-forwarded. When she stopped the recording, the camera was in close-up on Fontenot’s face as she spoke. “—stated in court that you blame Detective Gautier for the accident that put you in a wheelchair.”
“Of course. With a careless brush of his hand,” Fontenot imitated the gesture, “he trapped me forever in this metal prison.”
“Mr. Fontenot, it was the justice system that put you in prison.”
“My dear Reghan. You are smarter than that. I’m not talking about the penitentiary. I’m talking about this damn chair. You know the story. During his oh-so-daring rescue of his partner, Maxwell, and his wife, Gautier slammed me against a marble-topped table and broke my spine. I will never walk again. That cretin stole my freedom. But I am not defeated. I have resources I have not even begun to tap.”
“Resources?” her voice queried.
Even now her scalp tightened and her stomach turned in anticipation of what he was about to say.
“I will reach out, Ms. Connor. I am the father, the child, and the spirit. No one can equal me. Your Detective Gautier will suffer much more at my hand than I ever did at his. He will know the hell of watching that which he values most, destroyed.”
She punched the off button and grabbed her purse and keys and headed out to her car, feeling no more sure than she’d been before she’d watched the disk. Fontenot’s words were ominous, yes, and she was certain anyone would view what he’d said as a threat to Dev. But a threat was a far cry from proof.
Maybe once she got to the crime scene and found out if the dead teen was connected with the Johnson Center, she could decide once and for all if Fontenot was behind the killings, or if his prophetic words had been just the ramblings of a maniac.
As she approached the docks of the Port of New Orleans, blue and red flashing lights guided her to the scene. Parking at the top of Alabo Street Wharf, she pushed through the crowd of onlookers to the area cordoned off by yellow tape.
There was a stark, surreal quality to the scene. Spotlights set up by the Crime Scene Unit cut a watery path through the haze off the river, and wispy spirals of steam rose into the relatively cool predawn air, off streets still warm from yesterday’s sun.
Flashing strobes lent an eerie old-movie aura to the movements of the crime scene techs as they went about the gruesome business of photographing and cataloguing the murder scene.
She stood there for a moment, just watching, feeling goose bumps rise on her skin as rivulets of sweat trickled between her breasts. The air was heavy and humid, only a shade cooler than hell, and it smelled like fish and rain and automobile exhaust. She, like everyone who’d lived in New Orleans all their lives, had learned to deal with the weather, but had never really gotten used to it.
People shouted back and forth, and every few seconds the sound of another siren split the air as an official vehicle arrived or left. Someone bumped into her from behind. She turned her head, the words “pardon me” automatically forming on her lips, but whoever had jostled her was gone, melting back into the faceless crowd. A fleeting smell of something sweet added an odd undernote to the other smells that wafted on the mist.
Then someone adjusted the beam of a spotlight, and she saw him.
Dev.
Apprehension squeezed the breath out of her. The fact that Detective Givens had called him to the scene gave her the answer she’d been looking for. This dead teenager was also one of Dev’s.
She had no trouble keeping him in sight, even with the ebb and flow of the crowd of rubberneckers. He was a couple of inches taller than everyone around him, his harshly handsome face and confident bearing drawing every eye. Faded black jeans and a black T-shirt under a summer-weight sport coat that looked effortlessly wrinkled were molded to his lean, powerful body. He was standing, hands at his side, looking down. From the grim expression on his face, she knew he was looking at the body. He stood with legs apart, like a warrior prepared for any attack. As she watched, he brushed the tail of his jacket aside and slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. A flash of light on metal drew her eye to his belt, where his New Orleans Police Department detective’s badge was clipped next to the black leather holster that held his service weapon.
Without warning, a memory hit her—the slight scrape of the stiff leather of that holster against her abdomen when it caught a thread on her favorite silk blouse. She clenched her fist, digging her car keys into her palm, using the pain to cleanse the image from her brain. After all this time, after all that had happened, she should be past such a knee-jerk physical reaction to seeing him again.
Just then, he raised his head and looked in her direction, his face starkly planed like a sculpture in the harsh spotlights. The impact of those black, piercing eyes almost buckled her knees. But his gaze paused only for an instant, then moved on, sweeping the crowd.
She swallowed hard and glanced around sheepishly. He hadn’t even noticed her.
A tall, gaunt man with average brown hair and a detective badge pinned to the pocket of his jacket stepped up to Dev. Givens probably. The two of them spoke for a moment, then Dev made a sweeping gesture toward the river. A third man, almost a foot shorter and round with a dark brown comb-over, joined them. He nodded at Dev, then spoke to Givens. Dev took a half-step backward, rubbing the heel of his palm across his forehead, an unconscious gesture that spoke of his exhaustion. His cheeks were shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, and his midnight dark hair bore the furrows of a dozen passes of his fingers.
When he looked back down at the body, something changed in his bearing. It was subtle, but Reghan caught it. His broad shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, his lips compressed, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Watching him triggered a familiar sensation inside her—a hyperawareness that flooded her senses when she was on the scent of a story. Her throat trembled and her fingers tingled. The breeze off the river, the smell of fish and garbage, even the subtle colors barely visible in the gray light of dawn, all intensified. Not only did Dev know the victim, he cared about him.
She had to get closer. She pushed forward and slipped under the yellow tape.
“Hold it, ma’am.”
A large uniformed police officer appeared directly in front of her. Football type, all thick shoulders and beefy arms that stretched the blue material of his shirt. “You need to stay behind the line. In fact—” He turned to address the onlookers. “—all of you need to go home. Excitement’s over.”
Reghan pulled her WACT identification badge out of her purse and held it up.
The officer waved it away impatiently. “You heard me—” he started as his gaze caught the name on her badge. “Hey, I know you,” he said, crossing his muscled arms and glowering down at her. “Aren’t you that reporter who caused all the trouble for Detective Gautier?”
“I’m Reghan Connor with WACT,” Reghan said, giving him her best close-up smile, although inside she groaned. There it was. The Blue Wall. She’d slammed into it when she’d begun probing into Dev’s past five months earlier. How could it not matter to the police that Dev’s entire life, even his fake Cajun name, was one big lie? She knew the answer—he was one of their own. She just didn’t understand it. He’d lied to them. Yet to a man, they had closed ranks around Dev to protect him from her. Even the captain, who had been blindsided by her revelations and been put in the position of temporarily suspending Dev until things were resolved, had taken his detective’s side.
Now she was persona non grata with the police department. Hardly fair. She’d reported the truth. He was the liar.
She lifted her chin and sent the officer her most commanding look. “I need to see Detective Gautier, Officer—” she glanced at his name badge “—Stevens.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught the efficient movements of the crime scene techs. They were pulling a black body bag from their van. If she didn’t make her move now, she’d lose her last chance to get a look at the body.
“No, you don’t,” the officer said. “Now why don’t you—”
Just then, a scrawny kid with a shaved head, several piercings in various places, and a large nick out of one ear pushed another teen into the police tape and jostled Stevens, who whirled, his hand reaching for his nightstick. Reghan took her opportunity. She slipped past him and headed for Dev.
She dreaded speaking to him. She didn’t want to see the hatred in his eyes when he looked at her. She deserved it, she supposed. From her point of view, she’d done a news story, telling the truth about him. But she knew he didn’t see it that way. From his perspective, they’d met three times. The first time they’d flirted, the second time they’d kissed, and the third time she’d ripped open the secrets of his past and torn a hole in his life.
For a second she lost sight of Dev, but as she got closer she realized he’d crouched down to examine the body more closely. When she was within a couple feet of him she stopped, hoping to blend into the background long enough to get a good look at the body. It was a young black man, probably just shy of twenty years old. His clothes were wet, and he had a dirty high-top tennis shoe on one foot. The other foot was bare and—Reghan swallowed hard—the toes were missing.
The photographer crouched next to Dev. “We’re done with this side, Detective,” she said.
Dev snapped a glove onto his left hand. “Then get a good close-up of his neck.” He reached out and gently turned the boy’s head. About one-and-a-half to two inches of flesh was laid open on the left side of the boy’s throat and angled downward. There was no blood, just pink, ragged tissue gaping like an obscene open mouth against his dark skin. Dev’s right hand clenched into a fist against his thigh, telegraphing his tight control.
The camera flashed, throwing the gaping neck wound into sharp focus for an instant. Reghan’s mouth went dry and her ears buzzed. Annie had told her the victim’s throat was slit. But seeing it now, for herself, she felt like she might faint.
This was one of Dev’s homeless kids—she was sure of it. Just like the boy who’d been found the week before. Fontenot’s eerie voice echoed in her head. Your Detective Gautier will suffer as he made me suffer, but worse, much worse. He will know the hell of watching that which he values most, destroyed.
She must have subconsciously known last week when she’d heard about the first death that another teenager would die, even if she hadn’t wanted to believe Fontenot’s crazy talk. She hadn’t done anything about it then. Her hand went to her mouth as if to muffle the scream of denial she felt pushing at the back of her throat. She couldn’t make the same mistake now.
She must have made a sound, because Dev spun and stood in one fluid motion. He glared at her as he ripped off the glove. “What the hell are you doing here?” he bit out, then angled his head toward the crime scene tech without taking his eyes off her. “Get him bagged and out of here before the scene gets any more contaminated.”
Reghan winced. She’d been on the receiving end before of that black, intimidating glare. Back then it had been tinged with haunted pain and a touch of fear. Right now, it was a lethal combination of anger and frustration. “Detective, I need to—”
“Somebody escort Reghan Connor back to wherever she came from,” he said, making it sound as if she’d crawled out from under a particularly slimy rock.
Suddenly Officer Stevens was beside her, wrapping a massive hand around her arm in a punishing grip. Dev started to turn away.
“Wait!” she cried. Desperate not to lose her one chance to talk to him, she caught hold of his wrist. Her fingers barely fit halfway around it, but touching him sent a shiver through her, and called up the smell of soap and coffee and warm skin, and the remembered feel of his hard, erotic kiss.
Dev looked down at her hand, then efficiently twisted out of her grip. “You’re contaminating a crime scene, Connor,” he said coldly. “You should be over there with the rest of the talking heads.” He nodded toward the group of reporters being held back by police. He glanced at Stevens and inclined his own head in that direction.
“Let’s go, Ms. Connor,” Stevens said as he jerked on her arm.
She bit back a yelp of pain, struggling to keep her footing, fighting not to break eye contact with Dev. “Please,” she insisted. “This is important. I have information about the victims.”
Dev’s glare changed almost imperceptibly, a flicker of interest filtering in under the hostile skepticism.
Encouraged, she did her best to stand her ground as Stevens tugged her toward the police tape. She craned her neck and managed to hold Dev’s gaze. When he ran his hand around the back of his neck and shook his head, as if arguing with himself, triumph swelled her heart.
“Hold up,” he said to Stevens. “I’ll handle her. Break up the crowd and get the rest of the reporters out of here.”
Dismissing Stevens with a toss of his head, Dev glowered down at Reghan, his black eyes burning into hers, daring her to waste his time. “This better be good, Connor,” he growled. “In fact, it better be spectacular.”
Ali: Is there an author that makes you go all "fangirl?"
Mallory: Definitely Sherri Kenyon. She's one of my best friends. We were unpublished in Jackson, MS, together. I'm so proud of her. Nobody deserves success in publishing as much as she does.
Ali: If you could co-write with another author who would it be and why?
Mallory: I'd love to co-author with Camille Bacon-Smith. Her Eye of the Daemon is one of my favorite books ever. Another author I'd have loved to work with is Andre Norton, may she rest in peace.
Ali: The world is under attack and you are forced to run for your life. You only have room for one book in your survival kit, what book do you take?
Mallory: Oh man, just one? I suppose I'd have to take the Bible. King James Version. It's exquisite poetry, and I doubt I'd ever get to the point I'd say, "Well, I understand it all now. I'm done."
Ali: Who are your favorite literary characters? (Yours or someone else's)
Mallory: One of my very favorite literary characters is Percy Blakeney, the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Ali: If your friends were asked to describe you in one word what would it be?
Mallory: Smart.
Ali: Where do you do your best work?
Mallory: I love to work in my guest bedroom. We have a split-level house so outside the windows looks like the view from a tree house. It's lovely.
Ali: Do you find it harder to write a full-length novel or novellas?
Mallory: The shorter the better for me. I love writing short stories and novellas, but I do find novellas harder to write, because of the shorter length. As Mark Twain said about a letter he wrote, "If I'd had more time, this would be shorter.".
Ali: When did you fall in love...with writing?
Mallory: I've been in love with writing as long as I can remember. My mother, a librarian, always loved books and instilled that love and respect in me. My dad was a consummate storyteller, an oral historian if you will. So reading and writing are in my DNA.
Ali: Are you a plotter or fly by the seat of your pants writer?
Mallory: Like a lot of writers, I started out as a pantser, saying "Oh, I need to let the ideas flow." But once I was published by Harlequin Intrigue in 2001, I realized that I no longer had the luxury of "letting the ideas flow" at their own pace. If I wanted to write 3-4 books a year, I needed to figure out a plan. So now I write a 10 page synopsis, outlining the hero's and heroine's goals and conflicts, and working through the plot points and the characters' emotional journey.
Ali: What is your favorite thing to do outside of writing?
Mallory: I LOVE playing with paper. I guess I never got over paper dolls. I make hand-crafted greeting cards and gift tags. I collect vintage ephemera, greeting cards and wrapping paper to use for my one-of-a-kind cards and tags. I love selling them in local shops and on Etsy, to get money to buy more cardstock and envelopes.
Favorite color: Purple
Favorite food: Pasta Alla Carbonara
Boots or heels: Boots
eReader or Print: eReader
Social Media: Love it or Hate it? Hate, definitely.
Beer, Liquor or Wine: Wine
Favorite place to get it on besides the bedroom: Man cave couch
Favorite TV Show: Once Upon A Time
Favorite Book series (besides your own): Sherri Kenyon's Dark Hunters
Pj’s or Lingerie: Lingerie
Vampires vs. Shifters: Shifters (Cats preferably)
Favorite Genre: Suspense
About the Author
"Don't mess with Mallory Kane," to quote Roger Ebert, although not about our Mallory Kane, it really does apply!
At age three, Mallory Kane taught herself to read, starting a lifelong love affair with books. Her mother, a librarian, loved and respected books and taught Mallory that they are a precious resource. Her father was a brilliant storyteller. His oral histories are chronicled in such places as the Veterans' History Project at the Library of Congress. He was always her biggest fan.
Ahead of her time, Mallory was first published in 1995 (electronically!) Since then, in addition to a dozen or so electronic books and several paranormals published by ImaJinn Books, she has published 28 books with Harlequin Intrigue.
Mallory loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and two exceptionally intelligent cat
She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin
Thanks so much for inviting me. Your questions were really fun. I love the fast and flirty!
Want to learn more about Mallory? Here are some links...
Website / Blog / Facebook / TwitterGiveaway Entangled Publishing has graciously offered an ecopy of
NO HERO
by
Mallory Kane
to one lucky commenter!!
Thank You!!
Today's question: What's your favorite Saturday activity?
Contest Open Internationally
Contest closes @ Midnight on July 1st
Also Dead Sexy Books is giving away
a Nook Simple Touch
to celebrate the launch of their new line!!
Enter HERE
Her Forgotten Betrayal
by
Anna Destefano
Clandestine, Book 1
Entangled Publishing
Imprint: Dead Sexy
Romantic Suspense
June 2012
Blurb
Remembering will save her life. But will the truth destroy their love forever? His mission orders: Infiltrate an FBI suspect’s mountain retreat and obtain evidence of her guilt.
Her doctor’s orders: Recuperate from a vicious shooting, and end her waking nightmares.
What he doesn’t know: Is she guilty, innocent, or crazy? Can she ever forgive his past betrayal?
What she doesn’t know: Anything about herself or her life before the attack…or if she can even trust the man with whom she is falling in love.
Excerpt
A crash beyond the kitchen's door jolted Shaw from her thoughts. The wooden spoon rattled from her fingers to the stovetop. She whirled toward the dining room.
“Esme?” She raised a hand to cover her heart.
She was scaring herself senseless for nothing. She was going stir crazy, that was all. She’d simply been alone for too long. The unexplained rattles and noises and sometimes even voices she kept thinking she heard were symptoms of cabin fever.
Right?
The house answered her with silence, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. She took an uncertain step forward, determined to conquer her fear. There was no one there, she told herself firmly. No one was ever there. There was no threat, except from her own panic. All she had to do was turn on the dining room lights, and there’d be no one lurking around the next corner, waiting to attack her.
She reached for the door.
“Sorry, Shaw,” the faceless, scratchy-voiced man whispered from her nightmare.
She clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms.
“Don't be such a baby,” she said out loud. “Stop this.”
Fear and the amnesia it fed had stolen everything from her. She had no recollection of the four high-tech research centers she was said to oversee. Or how she’d come to be the sole living heir to an estate that included not only this mountain house near the North Carolina border, once used by her family as a summer retreat, but also a loft in Atlanta and homes on several other continents. And to add insult to injury, no one had yet been allowed to tell her more. Doctors orders.
She wanted her life back, damn it. She smoothed her hand against the dining room door, and braced herself to push it open. She could do this. She had to.
Sudden darkness swallowed the kitchen.
Her thoughts were immediately swamped with the panicked claustrophobia of being trapped in a closet, waiting to be discovered.
“No.” She blinked, willing the lights to come back on. Her imagination was merely playing tricks on her, anticipating the worst.
But regardless of how many times she tried to force the room into focus, there was nothing to see. Someone had killed the power for real. Her nightmare was coming true. It was waiting for her in the very next room.
She backed away.
Fell over one of the kitchen chairs.
Landed hard on her backside.
“There's no one there,” she insisted. “The electricity's gone out. That's all.”
Something else crashed in the dining room, followed by the distinct sound of a man's footsteps, inching closer. She covered her mouth with her hand. She scrambled backwards on the floor, her nightgown and robe twisting around her legs. Disjointed dream memories swirled through her mind. She lurched to her feet. She felt her way along the wall, blindly heading for the storage room and its back door to the outside world.
She was a fool, a weak, clueless fool. But she couldn't stop herself from panicking.
“Kill the bitch...” the night whispered.
She clawed at the back door's stubborn deadbolt. A glimmer of sanity kept her from running into the freezing, moonlit darkness. If she really was in danger, heaven only knew what waited for her outside the mansion’s protection. And there was suddenly nothing but silence behind her, no movement whatsoever.
She tried to believe this was just like all the other times when she’d freaked herself out and then realized how ridiculous she’d been. She was running from ghosts. She tensed to turn back, to confront her paranoia. And heard footsteps again. Closer than before. Behind her. Coming for her. And there she stood like a paralyzed idiot, trapped between the shadows beyond her family's home and the nightmare crowding closer within.
A hand clenched in her hair. A gun pressed into her skin. When it fired, the sound of the blast shattered her reality all over again.
Ali: Is there an author that makes you go all "fangirl?"
Anna: There are so many, how much time do you have?
My absolute favorites in contemporary romance have to be Linda Howard and Suzanne Brockmann—both their earlier series work for Harlequin and their mainstream novels. Both rock characters like nobody’s business—I’m a character-driven writer and reader, and these women draw you in with the very first scene. I’ve heard both teach. I’ve read and re-read everything they’ve ever written. I’ve even had the chance to talk with them both in person, and they’re brilliant women I’d love to get to know better—in a totally non-stalkerish way.
Ali: If you could co-write with another author who would it be and why?
Anna: I wouldn’t, actually. I’ve heard too many horror stories from authors who’ve liked each other and respected each other’s work and who’ve decided to try writing together, only to have their professional and personal relationships permanently damaged by the experience. I totally believe in the power of a good critique group and skilled editing, but co-writing/collaborating is a totally different kind of hell.
Honestly, each writer’s mind works in its own unique way. It makes my brain hurt trying to figure out how I write sometimes. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to navigate someone else’s creative process, make a place for your own in the middle of his/her neuroses, and then find the time to investigate traceless methods for offing your writing partner when the pressure’s on and you simply can’t hear another word from him/her without needing to do violence! Eh hem.
Ali: The world is under attack and you are forced to run for your life. You only have room for one book in your survival kit, what book do you take?
Anna: Wuthering Heights. I read it at least once a year. Don’t ask me why. I’m a dark and stormy girl, and there’s something about not just the language, but the idea of love being so powerful and magnificent and all-consuming it can drive someone to madness and transcend even death. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy every time I dive in.
Ali: Who are your favorite literary characters? (Yours or someone else's)
Anna: Well, damn. No pressure… I thought you said this was going to be simple interview.
Ali: If your friends were asked to describe you in one word what would it be?
Anna: Interesting.
Ali: Where do you do your best work?
Anna: Wherever I feel energy flowing. I’m a nomadic writer. Sometimes in my house, but never in the same room two days in a row—though I always do detailed revision work in my office using my huge monitor. Sometimes in a library or even a busy mall foodcourt, when having the steady hum of others around revs me up. Sometimes in the mountains at a favorite bed and breakfast that I love, near waterfalls and nature that I can hike in all day if I need exhaustion to settle me down so I can focus.
Long car rides are a favorite. My husband loves to drive, and I’ve planned, drafted and edited some of my favorite novels riding shotgun and creating all day with absolutely nothing to distract me.
Ali: Do you find it harder to write a full-length novel or novellas?
Anna: I actually follow the same process for both. Planning the characters first, exploring how I’ll arc them through the story’s turning points. Then fleshing out the high-level external arc of the story. Drafting the entire thing. Then rewriting like a maniac. I tend to be a longer writer, so I’ve published more full-length novels. But I love all the stories I’ve created.
Novellas are just shorter—which can make the plotting a little trickier and force you to write tighter if you want to give the reader a complex, juicy read. But the narrowed focus also makes planning and rewriting more fun. It’s like a puzzle, where you have to figure out how to fit in all the pieces, and I’m a girl who likes herself a challenge.
Ali: When did you fall in love...with writing?
Anna:Fifth grade. I’d been reading a book a week for like my entire life and had already fallen in love with story as a living, breathing thing in my life.
We had to divide up into groups to do social studies projects and decide how we were going to present our research paper to the class. My group decided we were going to perform a play, and I volunteered to write it. I wrote the thing in an afternoon and then rewrote it a dozen times over the next week, driving everyone crazy with new versions of the script every day.
I think I still have a copy of the thing around here somewhere. I’m certain it could use a final polish.
Ali: Are you a plotter or fly by the seat of your pants writer?
Anna: I’m a draft writer. I plan as much as I can ahead of time (again, focusing more on character development initially than external plot, though I have a bare bones idea of how I’m going to get everybody from Point A to Point B). Then I draft the full novel from beginning to end, dirty and ugly with all its naked flaws dangling all over the place. Then I come back and do anywhere between 5 to 10 revision passes through the manuscript, working on different things each pass, before I turn the “first” draft over to an editor.
For me, drafting is part of my discovery process. But I’m not a full-on pantser. I have a plan before I begin to write, though I never really know how I’m going to get my characters in and out of the things I have in mind for them, until I actually begin to craft their scenes. Then all bets are off, I have to trust my instincts and character research, and know that I can come back and revise the heck out of anything.
Ali: What is your favorite thing to do outside of writing?
Anna: Heh. Now, I’m a southern girl and my mama told me it wasn’t polite to talk about things like that in public.
Favorite color: Red
Favorite food: Dark, DarkER, DARKEST Chocolate
Boots or heels: Boots with killer heels ;o)
eReader or Print: Yes
Social Media: Love it or Hate? LOVE
Beer, Liquor or Wine: Wine, as long as there’s some Grey Goose in the freezer for deadlines.
Favorite place to get it on besides the bedroom: Outdoors, on an interior hike miles away from anyone and anything, in the middle of a world so beautiful you can’t help but get busy. Preferably near a waterfall. Not that I’ve ever done that sort of thing.
Favorite TV Show: Currently? Gossip Girl. Don’t hate me.
Favorite Book series (besides your own): Of all times? Mary Stewart’s Merlin Trilogy: The Crystal Cave, The Hollow Hills, and The Last Enchantment.
Pj’s or Lingerie: Yes.
Vampires vs. Shifters: Vamps. Things with fur and feathers and scales are meant to be trusty companions, not lovers.
Favorite Genre: Fiction.
About the Author
Nationally bestselling, award-winning author Anna DeStefano has searched her entire life for the soul of the matter at the heart of her world's mysteries. Her passion is transforming these inner landscapes into rich storytelling. Also a workshop and keynote speaker, writing coach and editor, Anna's creative vision permeates every challenge she undertakes. She wants you to stop, look, and keep digging, until you find the soul of your own fantasies. She speaks and blogs regularly about life, what makes her giggle and weep, the wacky world of writing, and all things that inspire her creative soul.
Want to learn more about Anna? Here are some links...
Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter
Giveaway!!
Entangled Publishing has graciously offered an ecopy of
HER FORGOTTEN BETRAYAL
by
Anna DeStefano
to one lucky commenter!!
Thank you!!
We're turning the tables on the
Simply Ali
readers today :)
Anna is going to be around answering questions throughout the day and she wants to know what the Simply Ali reader's answers would be to some of our signature interview questions. She is excited to hear what everyone has to say and to answer any questions you may have for her.
Every reader that answers two questions from the list below is automatically entered in today's giveaway for a copy of HER FORGOTTEN BETRAYAL!
Those of you who also ask a super cool question of your own will receive an extra entry into the
Simply Ali Reader Love Monthly Giveaway!
YAY!
Here are your questions to pick from...
*The world is under attack and you are forced to run for your life. You only have room for one book in your survival kit, what book do you take?
*If your friends were asked to describe you in one word what would it be?
*Favorite place to get it on besides the bedroom:
*Favorite TV Show
Contest Open Internationally
Contest closes @ Midnight on June 30th
Also Dead Sexy Books is giving away
a Nook Simple Touch
to celebrate the launch of their new line!!
Enter HERE
A hurricane...
Category 3 Hurricane Nell, powerful, deadly, life-changing, slams into the Florida Gulf Coast
A man on the run...
FBI Special Agent Michael Alvarez, falsely accused of fraud and murder, is determined to clear his name and survive attempts on his life, even if it means depending on
The woman who rejected him...
Society girl Blair Davenport refused Michael’s marriage proposal six years ago, knowing she couldn't cope with the secrets and dangers of his career. Now she has a chance to make it up to him, but neither can ignore
The passion that still blazes between them...
Despite the past, they're tempted more than ever, and there's
A relentless pursuer...
Blair's brother, FBI Special Agent Drew Davenport, hot on Michael's trail, won’t let a hurricane stop him. Is he simply doing his job? Or is he behind the attempts on Michael’s life?
Taylor Steele’s story
One week of mind-blowing sex on a beautiful Caribbean island. Of all the business proposals financial tycoon Dominic Saxon has heard, Taylor Steele’s is definitely the most tempting. All Taylor wants in return is for Dominic to father her baby. No strings, no commitments…just a mutually satisfying arrangement. Make that very satisfying. For a man with no intention of marrying again, it sounds ideal.
Taylor wants a baby, not a relationship. And sexy, intelligent Dominic seems like a man with perfect genes. Turns out, Dominic has perfect everything. Their “procreation vacation” is a whirlwind of sensual ecstasy. But when it’s over, will either of them be able to say goodbye?
Thanks to a mix-up at a bachelor auction, paramedic Jake Wallace has been mistaken for a high-end male gigolo! He can’t understand why he “sold” for so much, or why a woman like super-rich, super-sexy Madeleine Turner would have to buy a date in the first place. But one thing’s for sure...he wants her. And he’s ready to play any role she wants to keep her in his life long enough to melt the “ice queen’s” cold heart.
On her way to a new job in New York city, beautiful, plus-sized Anglo Delaney Moore finds herself stranded in a snowstorm at Christmas time in the small town of Avery, Montana, where she meets the town's sexy, hot-blooded Hispanic sheriff. Since she plans to only stay until the storm clears, she sees no harm in indulging in a little naughty fun.
Rick Mateo Cruz grew up on the poor side of the tracks in Chicago, but he’s made a good life as the sheriff of a small town. He loves his culture, his family, and a woman who isn’t afraid to give up control. Rick finds Delaney’s voluptuous figure irresistible, but her whiter-than-white upbringing gives him pause.
Her willingness to submit to his desire for domination brings them closer together emotionally than either could have ever imagined. They’ll have to find that same fiery combination between their cultural differences for Delaney to get a sheriff in her stocking.
High Heels Mysteries book #1
L.A. shoe designer, Maddie Springer, lives her life by three rules: Fashion. Fashion. Fashion. But when she stumbles upon the work of a brutal killer, her life takes an unexpected turn from Manolos to murder. And things only get worse when her boyfriend disappears - along with $20 million in embezzled funds - and her every move is suddenly under scrutiny by the LAPD's sexiest cop. With the help of her post-menopausal bridezilla of a mother, a 300 pound psychic and one seriously oversexed best friend, Maddie finds herself stepping out of her stilettos and onto the trail of a murderer. But can she catch a killer before the killer catches up to her...
Jessica Grayson is a college freshman who's had the hots for her university professor all year long. He's sexy and unobtainable—and she's determined to get into his bed.
Dating one of his own students is taboo and Craig Bennett intends to never break that school rule… Until he finds an end-of-the-semester present in his office — the gorgeous co-ed he hasn't been able to keep off his mind. And she's naked, sitting on his desk.
It isn't long before Jessica discovers she's gotten more than she bargained for. She finds out exactly who's in control as she learns how the professor likes to play. A whole new world of BDSM is opened up to her and being a bad girl never felt so good.
When young widow Sarelle McGarran finds the vampire Danial Racklan unconscious and hurt in her woods, intuitive concern quickly becomes passionate love. Together Danial and Sar work to overcome their own past heartbreaks, their vastly different lifestyles, and Danial's relentless enemies. Yet Danial needs more; an Oath of forever. But can Sar give Danial his greatest desire?
I hope everyone has enjoyed today's post! If you like
Simply Free Friday's
please let us know and tell us what genre's you would like us to look for in the future. :)
San Julio, Texas.
Present day.
Vic Vargas stood on a grassy knoll in the corner of his several hundred acre ranch, where it intersected with three adjoining properties. A group of men—his neighbors—along with Deputy Derek Braido, stood there with him, looking grim.
Vic deliberately kept his eyes off the goat carcass at his feet and instead gazed up at what he could see of the sky. The late afternoon clouds hung dark and gloomy, but the storm still refused to break.
Ominous. That was the only word that came to mind.
“A dead goat,” Braido said. Vic flashed him a glance. Vic and Derek had been friends since they were boys. They’d grown up chasing girls together and throwing back beer at the lake. Vic had stopped cold when he’d met Delaney West his junior year, fifteen years ago, but that hadn’t stopped his friend from picking up the slack. Braido had never wanted for female companionship. He still didn’t. He knew women the way he knew every facet of the law—the way he knew the back roads of San Julio.
But one thing the guy didn’t know about was ranching.
“A dead goat with no blood,” Vic said.
“This is Texas. Gotta be a coyote.”
“Nuh uh.” Jasper Locke spoke up. “McDuff lost a goat the same way. I lost some piglets myself—”
“And I lost a sheep,” Vic finished.
Red West, who stood next to his ranch hand Alan Maldano, added, “This is no coyote kill, Braido. Look at the holes on the neck. Then look at the gums.” He pointed. “White. I’d lay money there’s hardly an ounce of blood left in the poor thing. It’s been exsanguinated.”
Braido stared. “Say that again?”
“Sucked dry. No blood. It’s been drained out of the body.”
Vic surveyed his surroundings. From the top of the hill, he could see the West family’s barn and house, mere specks on the horizon. Jasper’s barn was in the opposite direction, where Jasper lived with his brother Chris and their pastor uncle, Landon Locke. Acres and acres of land spread out around the rise, the verdant fields below transected by woods. Perfect for predators.
Finally, Vic looked again at the dead animal. Two ugly puncture wounds to the neck seemed to be the cause of death. He’d never seen any wild animal kill in this fashion, and he hadn’t thought to check his dead sheep for anything unusual or out of the ordinary. He’d assumed it had been a coyote, but now…
Red West was right. Something—or more likely, someone—was deliberately mutilating livestock. Vic couldn’t afford to lose a single head. The killings had to stop.
He turned his back on the unsettling scene in front of him, paced a few steps, and then turned to face it again. Standing a good distance back, he processed what he saw, crossing an arm over his chest and stroking his chin. The goat was bled dry, but no blood pooled around it.
So where was the blood?
Unsatisfied, he returned to the group of ranchers, none of whom seemed to have an answer, either.
“Mira,” a thin voice said from behind him.
Vic and the others turned, all startled to see a familiar old woman, a worn knitted blanket around her shoulders and a cane clutched in her hand, hobbling up the knoll toward them.
“Is that who I think it is?” Jasper muttered to Vic.
“Esperanza,” Vic confirmed. The woman lived down by the river. Some said she was a healer—a curandera. Most people said she was a witch. “How the heck did she get here?” he said, but inside he thought a better question would be, Why had she come?
The woman extended her crooked arm and pointed toward the dead goat. “It hath begun.”
He knew her words were English, but with her heavy accent, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.
“What did she say?” Braido asked.
She looked at Vic instead, her eyes widening as if she had noticed him for the first time. “It. Hath. Begun.”
Okay… “What’s begun?”
The woman shook her head as she came to stand next to him. “Chupacabra ith here.”
Her voice seeped through him like ink spilling through his veins. What was she talking about? The old woman had obviously been out in the sun too long. Chupacabras weren’t real.
“I can’t even begin to guess what that means,” Jasper said.
Braido cleared his throat. “I’ve heard of it. It’s a local legend. Some sort of blood sucking vampire goat thing, right?”
Vic stared at Esperanza, again wondering if he’d heard her right. She thought a mythical beast was killing local livestock? “I don’t think so,” he said politely.
“Eth verdad,” Esperanza lisped.
Vic looked at the curandera’s vacant, white eyes. He knew she could barely see, but her gaze still felt like it sank into the very depths of his soul. “A chupacabra killed this animal?” he asked skeptically. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
Esperanza didn’t speak much English, but she clearly understood what he’d said. She nodded and stamped her cane against the earth. “Thi. More will die,” she added.
She oriented her face to Vic, her white eyes like bursts of light that made him want to look away. “Delaney Wetht,” she said quietly, her voice haunted. “Ella está en San Julio.”
Vic surged forward, his heart pounding. Why the hell was she bringing up her? That was the last name on earth he’d expect to hear come out of the old woman’s mouth. Hell, out of anyone’s mouth. “What did you say?”
“Lo thiento, Delaney. Lo thiento.” Esperanza’s wrinkled face went blank and her knees went out from under her. She crumpled to the ground, silent.
Braido took over, helping the curandera up. “I’ll send Animal Services out,” he said as he started to lead her away. “Not sure there’s much else I can do.”
Vic glanced at Red. Apparently he hadn’t heard his daughter’s name mentioned. Or maybe he was just pointedly ignoring Vic as usual. Red and the others were already talking in taut voices, devising watch plans to protect their livestock. But the curandera’s words echoed in Vic’s head. What did Delaney West have to do with any of this?
And what was that she’d said about Delaney being back in San Julio? Since when?
Christ. That’s all he needed.
Three months ago the only thing Vic had to worry about was balancing time between the ranch and the bar. Now he had to contend with protecting the livestock that was his livelihood from some kind of blood sucking goat eater—and deal with the possible return of the woman who’d ripped his heart out with her bare hands. He plowed a hand through his hair. And that wasn’t even counting the eleven-year-old son who’d landed on his doorstep three months ago…and still would barely talk to him.
Hell.
He’d better start figuring all this out or he’d be in one shitload of trouble.
…
Delaney West tossed and turned in her bed. Her head felt heavy on her pillow, darkness swirling in her mind. Fear settled deep in her core, whispering that she wasn’t alone. She thrashed her head back and forth. Tried to open her eyes but couldn’t, as if someone had glued them shut.
She could hear him now. The steady draw of breath. Close. The murmur of his voice. High. Crooning.
A smooth hand touched her belly. Slowly moved to her thigh. The other hand rubbed her shoulder. Slid down to her collarbone.
His murmuring grew louder, winding through the crevices of her brain, circling in and out like eels slithering through a cavernous underwater maze. Persistent. Demanding.
Lovely. So lovely. I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.
Her mind whirled, battling against the fuzziness. This wasn’t who she was supposed to be with. Her lungs felt heavy. This man was not supposed to be here.
“Vic.” She felt her mouth move, but no sound came out. “Vic,” she mentally pleaded.
“Where are you?”
She tried to move but felt chained to the bed. Could barely breathe. As if her body were paralyzed. A scream built in her throat, struggling for release.
“Delaney.”
She recoiled at that high voice.
Her heart hammered in her chest. The man lowered himself on her, trapping her.
“No!” Her empty voice tried to shout. “Stop!”
She flailed, and then like a rush of water funneling through a drain, the pressure lifted. And suddenly her eyes popped open.
She blinked, her breath ragged. Looked around. She was alone.
Through a haze, she saw her old trophies on the shelf above her desk. Her white vanity was littered with award ribbons from rodeo wins, and the teddy bear Vic had won for her at the town carnival her senior year leaned against the mirror.
Her room.
But everything was hazy. Colorless. As if she was looking through a thin film of distorted gray gauze.
Something flickered in the corner. Shadows moved. Oh, God. Her breath caught. He was still here. Run!
Adrenaline kicked in and she jumped to her feet. Exploded through the bedroom door. Out the front entry, onto the lawn. Into the darkness.
Her bare feet pounded against the damp grass as she sprinted, forcing herself to go faster. To put distance between her and the man chasing her. Her mind went blank, nothing but the sound of her heart thudding in her ears and the beat of his footsteps closing the distance between them.
She’d get away this time. A hint of relief washed over her. With a quick movement, she darted a glance over her shoulder to see how far ahead she was. The blur of movement right behind her startled a scream from deep inside. He was right there, one step behind. He reached his hand out and grabbed her, his ragged fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her arm, then yanked her to a harsh stop.
Her skin pricked, a million little needles branding where their skin met. She clawed at his fingers. At her body where he’d touched her. Tried to rip away her soiled flesh. Tried to wipe away…him.
A howl echoed in her mind, louder and louder…until it finally released.
And then she was awake.
Fully awake.
Blinking, she looked around. Dull moonlight filtered into her consciousness. Her feet felt cold and damp. She saw her parents’ house in the distance, the front door open, the interior of the house lit up like a beacon. She turned and saw the Chain Tree right in front of her. The place Vic was supposed to have met her so many years ago.
Nightmares had forced her outside, just like in her dream. Just like they always did.
Coming back to San Julio to face her demons definitely wasn’t working.
She looked down at herself, her stomach roiling. The T-shirt and panties she’d gone to bed in were torn, her stomach and breasts exposed. Scratches marked her skin, as if she’d fought off a monster and won.
But she hadn’t won. She never won.
Backing off the lawn, she wrapped her arms around herself.
She’d been dreaming again. Sleepwalking again. Reliving the same nightmare she’d had for the past twelve years. She never saw his face, never escaped his touch.
Desperation filled her. How much more could she take before she lost her mind altogether?
Tears pooled in her eyes. She couldn’t think or feel or process, but she couldn’t stay outside. She staggered forward, toward the house. She ran faster, but couldn’t outrun her nightmares.
She’d tried. Over and over again, she’d tried.
But the nightmares invaded her sleep. And in her sleep, she ran. Because of that night, she’d lost everything. Her chance to go to college. Her childhood friendships. Peace.
And Vic.
Not that Vic was the monster who she ran from in the night. She tried not to blame him. But he’d abandoned her. Left her there for someone else. Someone evil. She burst through the open door of her parents’ house, slammed it shut, and collapsed against the demons outside clamoring to get in.
She couldn’t let her nightmares come back.
She wouldn’t.
Ali: If you could co-write with another author who would it be and why?
Misa: Jenna Bentley, aka Bente Gallagher. Love her books, her writing, and her. It would be so fun to collaborate. In fact, now that you mention it, I think I’m going to have to ponder this and come up with plan!
Ali: The world is under attack and you are forced to run for your life. You only have room for one book in your survival kit, what book do you take?
Misa: What? You mean I can’t take my Nook?
Ali: Who are your favorite literary characters? (Yours or someone else's)
Misa: Of all my own heroes, I’d say Vic Vargas is in the lead. He’s honorable, principled, and sexy. And he’s a rancher!
From literature, I’d have to fall back on the immortal Mr. Darcy. Love.
Ali: If your friends were asked to describe you in one word what would it be?
Misa: Busy!
Ali: Where do you do your best work?
Misa: In my little study. There are less distractions when I’m in there, and I just get into the zone better.
Ali: Do you find it harder to write a full-length novel or novellas?
Misa: Novellas! My stories tend to be too big for shorter word length.
Ali: When did you fall in love...with writing?
Misa: I’ve always loved books. I majored in English and then taught middle and high school Language Arts/English. But if I had to pinpoint a time when the passion for writing really hit, I’d say during maternity leave with my first two kids. I needed something to keep me sane and keep my brain working. And I fell in love.
Ali: Are you a plotter or fly by the seat of your pants writer?
Misa: A bit of both. I have a rough outline, so I know where a story is going, but then so much happens organically as I write.
Ali: What is your favorite thing to do outside of writing?
Misa: Outside of writing and working for Entangled Publishing, which I also really love? I’ve sort of lost touch with a lot of past times because I’m so busy, but probably crafty things like sewing, jewelry making, and other immediate gratification projects.
Favorite color: Red
Favorite food: Chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven. Eggplant parmesan. Or tostadas. It’s a toss up.
Boots or heels: Boots
eReader or Print: eReader, although I still (and always will) love print books!
Social Media: Love it or Hate Both!
Beer, Liquor or Wine: Wine
Favorite place to get it on besides the bedroom: LOL My kids won’t read this, will they? On the pages in my books.
Favorite TV Show: I have a few: Dexter. Supernatural. Once Upon a Time.
Favorite Book series (besides your own): Pass. Too many to choose just one!
Pj’s or Lingerie: PJs (or sweats)
Vampires vs. Shifters: Vamps
Favorite Genre: Actually, probably women’s fiction, since it’s a change from the different things I write!
About the Author
Melissa Bourbon, who sometimes answers to her Latina-by-marriage name Misa Ramirez, gave up teaching middle and high school kids in Northern California to write full-time amidst horses and Longhorns in North Texas. She fantasizes about spending summers writing in quaint, cozy locales, has a love/hate relationship with yoga and chocolate, is devoted to her family, and can’t believe she’s lucky enough to be living the life of her dreams.
She is the marketing director at Entangled Publishing, is the author of the Lola Cruz Mystery series with St. Martin’s Minotaur and Entangled Publishing, A Magical Dressmaking Mystery series with NAL, and is the co-author of The Tricked-out Toolbox and two romantic suspense titles.
Want to learn more about Misa? Here are some links...
Website / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads / and Books on the House a website bringing books and readers together!
Take a look at BARE NAKED LOLA by Misa...
I just love this cover :)
Going undercover is second nature for Private Investigator Lola Cruz, but she’s out of her league when the case of a murdered Royals Courtside Dancer leads her to a local nudist resort. Parading around the sidelines of Sacramento’s professional basketball scene in a barely-there cheerleading outfit is one thing—but parading around in nothing but smile? If she has any chance of hiding this from her traditional family and on-again/off-again boyfriend Jack, she’s going to have a lot more than her duct tape bra and killer dance moves to keep under wraps….
Grab your copy of BARE NAKED LOLA here...
Amazon / Barnes & Noble / BAM / Book Depository / Powell's Books
Giveaway!
Entangled Publishing has graciously offered to give one commenter today an ecopy of
SACRIFICE OF PASSION
by
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Kaylyn
Kaylyn D. said...
I am so excited to read Tell's story and hear how the others are doing. I loved the picture of Channing Tatum! YUMMY!
4:53 PM CDT
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Nobody's Perfect
by
Kallypso Masters
Rescue Me, Book 4
Estimated Release Date
June 26, 2012
Blurb
Savannah Gentry, now Savi Baker, escaped the torture and degradation forced upon her by a sadistic father for eleven years and has made a safe life for herself and her daughter. When her father threatens her peace of mind—and her daughter's safety—Savi runs to Damián Orlando for protection. Their one day together eight years earlier changed both their lives and resulted in a secret she can no longer hide. But being with Damián reawakens feelings she wants buried—and stirs up an onslaught of disturbing flashbacks that leave her shaken to the core with little hope of ever being a sexual being again.
Damián has his own dragons to fight, but has never forgotten the one perfect day he spent with Savannah in a cave at the beach. He will go to the ends of the earth to protect Savi and her daughter, but can never be the whole man she deserves after a firefight in Iraq. Besides, the trauma of war and resulting PTSD has led him to find his place as the Masters at Arms Club's favorite sadist. Savi needs someone gentle and loving, not the broken man he has become. But he sees that the lifestyle he's come to embrace also can help Savi regain control of her life and sexuality. How can he not help redirect her negative thoughts and actions if she needs him?
Excerpt
“Be right back.” Damián laid the phone on the coffee table and moved closer to Savi, and she fought the impulse to turn and run. “I need to check for a broken rib. Just try and relax.”
Now she did take a step back. No effing way.
“Hold still, querida.” He maintained eye contact with her, but rather than calm her, she was overwhelmed with the need to escape; to go to her safe place.
Savannah ran along the beach, ignoring the broken shells that cut into the bare soles of her feet. Where were her flip-flops?
The cave. She'd left them at the cave. She needed to get back there. After climbing over the sharp rocks, she walked into the opening of the cave, then halted. Instead of her mother, she found Damián leaning against the wall of the cave. No! Where was Maman?
Then she remembered how safe she'd felt with him here once upon a time. A very long time ago.
“Savi? Look at me.”
She blinked and found herself transported instantly back into Damián's living room. She stared at him.
“Where’d you go?”
My cave. Wait! He couldn’t know about that. “Go? I didn’t go anywhere. Just check for the broken rib and get it over with.”
Damián placed his left hand in the middle of her back and she jumped.
“Wait! I’m not ready yet.”
“You don’t have to get ready for anything. Just look at me, querida.”
No! Not yet! She tried to convey her fear with her eyes, but he ignored her.
“Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”
She couldn't do this. Her breathing became shallow, rapid. She tried to force herself to release the tension in her shoulders and neck. I can't do this!
“That's it.”
His words had a slight calming effect on her until he placed his right hand against her chest again. Her breathing became shallow; her heart beating wildly. She drew another breath, sharper this time.
“Just relax. I’m going to press here, but tell me if it starts to hurt.”
He applied an incredible amount of pressure against her chest wall and she cried out in pain. Oh dear lord, it hurt. She'd always been able to block out pain. Why hadn't she been able to go to her cave? He abruptly let go of her and gave her a look as if she'd just landed on earth from outer space. He reached for the cell phone and picked it up.
“Doc? You still there?”
His tone conveyed he wasn't pleased with her. What had she done wrong? She'd tried not to scream in pain.
Only dirty sluts scream, Savannah.
She should have been able to take the pain without screaming. She'd endured so much worse at the hands of Lyle and the men in the penthouse. She'd trained herself not to scream until the pain was too unbearable to do otherwise. But she hadn't had to practice that skill in a very long time. Damián wouldn't want to help her if...if he knew what she was. Control yourself, Savan…Savi. He doesn't know.
Damián sighed. “We have a couple problems with that. One is that we need a babysitter.”
Wait! What was he talking about? No one was separating her from Mari. Savi held up her hand. “No! I’m not going anywhere and even if I did, I’m not leaving Mari with strangers.”
He glared at her, but spoke into the phone. “Doc, do you have any friends who can provide a medical assessment without leaving a paper trail?” Doc. He was the medic friend. Not a real doctor. He paused to listen. “I haven’t a fucking clue, but it’s the only way I’m going to get her to cooperate.”
I'll cooperate, as long as you don't take Mari away from me.
“No, nothing like that. Just call me back PDQ.” He snappd the phone shut and just stared at her until her skin burned under the intensity of his gaze. “He’s going to try and find someone to take a look at that rib. Do you want to lie down with Mari and rest a little?”
“No. I can't breathe when I lie down. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fucking fine, Savi.”
She cringed and backed away. He was angry with her again.
“Who are you running from? Who did this to you?”
She needed to please him, or run the risk of his sending them away. They had nowhere else to go. Without further hesitation, she confessed, “My father.” Oh, God. She'd told him. Bile rose in her throat and she held her hand over her stomach as if she could keep the nausea at bay.
“What?”
Savi tried to find the words to explain the unexplainable. She'd spent the last two days trying to make sense out of what her father had wanted her and Mari for, but all she'd been able to come up with was that he'd wanted to hurt Mari the way he'd hurt Savannah. She wouldn't let him see her daughter, much less touch her. Ever.
They'd gotten all the way through Utah before she figured out how he'd found her. "He tried to take Mari from me. I guess he saw me on the news footage from Julio’s arrest and tracked me down, after all these years.” Damián seemed puzzled. “I can’t let him anywhere near her. That’s why I came to you." She paused, trying to gauge how much she needed to say to get him to help. "The way I saw you taking care of Teresa in my office. The way you were ready to kill her father, if necessary. We need that kind of protection right now. Will you help us?”
…The way you helped Teresa when her father came back for her?
Savi watched and waited. Her side began to hurt like the dickens after he'd pressed on her sternum. Why hadn't she zoned out? But hadn't she? A brief glimpse of herself in the cave at Laguna Beach flashed through her mind. In the past, Maman had always waited for her there. This time she hadn't found Maman at all. She'd found Damián. Disconcerting was an understatement.
How could she run from his touch physically and wind up running to him in her mind? Her safe place no longer felt safe. But he wouldn't hurt her. Would he? She had to trust him so he would protect her and Mari. That's what had sent her halfway across the country to find him, wasn't it?
"Why didn't you call the police?"
"He's friends with the police chief." Her father always made it a point to have something to hold over key people in power, including judges, several state legislators, and even a congressman. Her body had been offered to service many of them in the past. Apparently, he'd been trying to exert his control over her for weeks, beginning at her workplace.
Fired.
Until yesterday, she hadn't even put two and two together to figure out her father had had a hand in her being fired. Her foremost thought was to escape from Lyle and Father. Having worked for years to study and train in her chosen profession, and giving her all for the children in her care, she'd become the clinic's top victim specialist in a short time. Once again, her father had shifted her world on its axis.
She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head, worrying about the upheaval her sudden disappearance must have caused her young, vulnerable clients. Just thinking about the feelings of abandonment they must be experiencing…
"You're still in pain."
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Yes, but not the physical kind.
"I'm fine."
A flash of anger in his eyes told her he wasn't buying her verbal assurances. Had she done the right thing coming here? Damián wouldn't be as easy to manipulate as she'd learned to do with the other men she'd had to deal with, well, except for Father Martine. She trusted him.
So how, in just a few minutes, had Damián gotten her to reveal more than she'd intended to tell him—ever.
So dangerous. But where else could she turn? Savi would do whatever it took to protect her daughter from her father and Lyle's sadistic ways. The other night, however, as she lay on the floor at Lyle's feet, she'd realized how difficult it would be to protect her baby. Admitting failure or weakness, much less need, to someone else was so difficult—especially to a man. She'd sworn she'd never be vulnerable to a man ever again. Yet, this time she couldn't do it alone. The stakes were too high and her father much too powerful.
Damián's cell phone rang. "Yeah, Doc?" Pause. "You're sure?" Pause. "Appreciate it. Meet you there."
Savi tried to square her shoulders and stand straighter, but again, her breath was cut off. Do not let him detect any weakness. "I said I'm not going anywhere without Mari."
"Not a problem. My friend is meeting us at the clinic. We'll bring Marisol with us."
"She needs her sleep."
"She can sleep in the car. I'll drive your car and when we get to the clinic, I'll watch Marisol while the doctor checks you out."
No! She was losing control. Panic clawed at her chest and sweat broke out on her upper lip. She cleared her throat. "Look, I said I'm fine. Just some bruises. I'll be even better after some sleep."
"You said you couldn't lie down. How do you plan to rest?"
Oh, God. What had ever possessed her to come here? She needed to leave, but she couldn't carry Mari down those stairs. Her gaze strayed to the open bedroom doorway where she saw her daughter curled on her side, sleeping peacefully. How could their lives have become so screwed up in such a short time? Everything had been going perfectly until…
Damián. He'd come back into Savi's life because of his niece's rape. Then the hostage situation at her house when her father had returned, drunk and up to no good. If only Teresa hadn't called her to her house that afternoon to help…and the news crews hadn't shown up.
No, it wasn't the girl's fault. She was another victim of a father's sick and twisted abuse. Who better to help Damián's niece deal with her father's assault than Savi, who knew all too well a father's ruthlessness?
"Let's get your coat buttoned up…" When Damián's hands reached for her she stepped back, her legs pressing against the sofa, nearly toppling her backward. No escape. Trapped.
"No! I can do it myself." She scrambled with shaking fingers to close her coat and pulled the belt tight, wincing as she cut off her breath, but hoping he wouldn't touch her again.
Damián frowned at her. "I'll get Marisol."
Savi followed him back into the bedroom, afraid to let him out of her sight, especially anywhere near Mari.
He turned toward her, not seeming at all surprised she was on his heels. "I'll just wrap her up in this blanket." He turned the Mexican blanket down first, then the sheet, uncovering Mari. Her little girl stirred, scrunching her nose and brows at the intrusion into her snug cocoon.
"It's okay, bebé. We're just going to take a little ride."
Mari opened her big brown eyes, so much like her father's, and looked up at him. "I remember you."
"You do?" Damián grinned, seeming pleased to know he had a lasting effect on her daughter. Did he know? "I remember you, too, mi muñequita."
Mari smiled and nodded at being called his little doll, and then she promptly fell back to sleep, not a worry in the world. Savi wished she could be that trusting. That innocent.
Never again—if she had ever been.
Damián picked Mari up and laid her down in the middle of the blanket, and then wrapped it snugly around her. He lifted her into his arms with such gentleness, he made Savi's chest ache with a new and unfamiliar pressure. Letting her little head rest on his shoulder, he started for the doorway. Savi blinked her eyes and turned away to lead the way. The sooner she could appease Damián and get her ribs checked out, the sooner she could…could what? She had nowhere else to go.
At the front door to his apartment, she looked out the peep hole, but didn't see anyone near the door. After turning the deadbolt, she held the door open for him, then reached into her pocket for her car keys.
She turned back toward Damián. "Wait! I need to find my keys."
"They're in my pocket."
"Oh." Shit. He hadn't given them back to her from when he went down earlier to get Mari, who was now in his arms. How was she supposed to…?
"Just close the door till it clicks. It will lock automatically." Damián walked through the doorway and she did as he'd instructed, then followed, watching him limp slightly toward the stairs.
What was wrong with his leg? Concerned he might not be able to support Mari's weight, she hurried to catch up. "Are you sure you can carry her down the stairs?"
He turned and scowled at her. "What makes you think I can't?"
"You were limping." His fierce glare told her to back off, but she decided to get in front of them, just in case he lost his balance. She could break their fall. Thankfully, they made it down the stairs and to the car without incident, where Savi had to face facts. She needed to retrieve the keys. From his pocket. Oh dear lord.
"Left-hand pocket."
Like hell. "Let me take Mari so you can open the car."
He ground out the words, "Reach in my pocket and get the keys, Savan…Savi." He was getting angry with her again.
Still, Savi hesitated a moment longer, until he glared at her again. Did he have any other expression? Yes. He smiled and grinned when he looked at Mari. The glares he saved for Savi. She looked down at the pocket. Leather pants. She supposed he'd worn leather because of his Harley, but wished he'd changed into jeans or something when he'd gotten home. Not that she'd given him time to change before she'd shown up on his doorstep.
"Savi. Get. The keys. Out of. My pants. Now."
How was she ever supposed to get them out without touching him more intimately than she'd touched any man, well, since Damián, all those years ago? Savi's hands shook as she placed one at the opening of the pocket of his lethal-looking, hip-hugging pants and pried it open. She could barely wedge the fingers of her other hand inside. The warm leather felt good against her cold fingers. Heat spread up her arms and into her face. Okay, the heat in her face was from a separate, mysterious source. She did not blush and did not let a man affect her this way. Ever.
What was happening to her?
Not wanting to prolong the contact any longer, she dug into his pocket almost ferociously and found the key fob. Thank God. She yanked on it until the key got hung up. Shit.
"Use both hands." Damián just grinned. Damn him. The bastard was enjoying her obvious discomfort. Heat spread to the pit of her stomach. She decided she preferred his glare to his grin.
She took her other hand and opened the pocket wider and then, with a slight tug, the keys popped out at last. She retreated several steps and took a few rapid, shallow breaths, trying to regain her equilibrium. Realizing she was just working herself up more, she remembered the Lamaze breathing techniques Anita had coached her on before Mari's birth, and tried to control her response with slow, deep breaths.
Better.
She clicked the remote to unlock the car doors and opened the back door, watching Damián sit Mari in the back seat. He looked back at Savi. "I need you to buckle her in while I hold her up."
Why was he forcing so much close contact? She'd managed to buckle Mari in without another set of hands. Of course, Mari had been awake those times. With great reluctance, Savi moved forward, but when her lower body brushed against his, she came to an abrupt stop. She took several rapid breaths.
I can't do this. Abruptly, Savi backed away and walked around the trunk of the car on shaky legs. Opening the other back door, she reached across the seat, ignoring the pain in her side and Damián's glare. She pulled the seatbelt from its pocket near the window and stretched it over Mari's blanketed shoulder and waist, fumbling around until she found the buckle. It clicked into place, and Savi breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mission accomplished; minimal damage.
She looked up as Damián began to pull himself away from her daughter and was horrified when Mari held him tighter. "Don't go, Daddy."
Savi's heart thudded against her chest. Mari couldn't know. Why would she call him such a thing? Because she's always fantasized about having a real daddy. Apparently, Damián filled the bill for her. More likely, in Mari's deep sleep, she must be dreaming.
Savi ventured a nervous glance at Damián and saw a stricken look on his face. He turned to meet Savi's gaze with a question—no, an accusation—in his eyes that she didn't want to deal with right now. The expression was replaced with a grim resolve.
He knows.
Of course, she'd planned to tell him. Soon. But this wasn't the time or place. She needed to divert his attention. Reaching down to her side, Savi winced. Damián's face showed concern as his focus returned to why they were out here in the first place. He gently unlocked Mari's hands from around his neck. Good.
"Don't worry, bebé," he whispered to Mari. "Daddy's not going anywhere." He cast a sharp look at her, as if to make sure Savi knew he intended to keep his promise.
Oh dear lord. Why was he reinforcing her daughter's fantasy?
Savi's heartbeat came to a halt for a second before slamming against her ribcage. She didn't need this complication. When he hadn't made the connection that he might be Mari's father at San Miguel's, she'd just assumed he never would figure it out. If Damián knew, would he try to take Mari away from her? Maybe telling him wasn't a good idea after all.
Unable to take his scrutiny any longer—his face showing a mixture of anger and pain that left her unsettled—she backed out of the car. By the time she reached for the driver's door, Damián's warm hand pulled hers away from the frozen handle. How had he come around the car so quickly?
He took her by the elbow, carefully but with a firm hand, and guided her to the passenger side. "I'm driving."
"But I drove all the way from the West coast."
"Exactly. You don't need to be driving any further until we get those ribs looked at."
No one had taken care of Savi since she'd moved out of Anita's house after graduating from college. That was the year she'd landed her first job at a mental-health clinic in San Diego. Even when Anita had tried to help her find a position at the clinic where Anita worked, Savi had refused the job until it was time for Mari to start school. She'd wanted her daughter to go to school in Solano Beach, rather than San Diego.
Savi had chosen independence because she wanted to start supporting herself and Mari and not be a burden on anyone else anymore. She took pride in not needing anyone—most especially a man.
What alternative did she have but to seek this man's assistance now? Damián held the door open and waited for her to get inside. Her lungs constricted when she reached for the shoulder strap, but Damián stayed her hand and took the seatbelt, pulling it across her chest. His forearm brushed against her breast as he buckled her in like a child. She tried to press her back further into the seat cushion to avoid the intimate contact.
Damián closed her door and was soon behind the wheel. Silence ensued as he drove across town and Savi found herself consumed by memories of the decision that had started her on the long, twisted road that eventually had led her back to Damián.
This is the 4th and final part of the excerpt that has been posted throughout the tour. To read the other parts of the excerpt check out the tour schedule HERE
Doesn't NOBODY'S PERFECT sound good! Want to learn more about the rest of the series???
Masters At Arms
by
Kallypso Masters
Rescue Me, Book 1
Blurb
Masters at Arms begins the journey of three men, each on a quest for honor, acceptance, and to ease his unspoken pain. Their paths cross at one of the darkest points in their lives. As they try to come to terms with the aftermath--forging an unbreakable bond--will they ever truly become masters of their own fates? Or would fate become masters of them?
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Nobody's Angel
by
Kallypso Masters
Rescue Me, Book 2
Blurb
When Marc rescued Angelina from an abusive Dom at his fetish club, he never imagined she'd upend his safe, controlled life. But his SAR partner, Luke, a widower, thinks Angelina has been sent to him by his dead wife. Marc knows only he can fulfill her sexual needs, but won’t hurt his friend. When the abusive Dom stalks her, she turns to Marc for help and learns a submissive has power too.
Nobody's Hero
by
Kallypso Masters
Rescue Me, Book 3
Blurb
Retired Marine Adam Montague has survived many war zones, but can he survive the war Karla Paxton has declared on his heart? Karla fell in love with Adam at 16; nine years later, she's determined to make 50-year-old Adam see her as a woman. But can she submit to his Dominant personality? And will she be able to get him to surrender to her and lay his ghosts to rest?
Giveaway
Kallypso is offering a daily prize of a $10 Gift Card & Swag! Yay! To enter please leave a comment below and don't forget to include your EMAIL!
There is also a GRAND PRIZE of $200 as well!! Yay Kallypso!! To enter the GRAND PRIZE drawing fill out the GOOGLE DOC below!
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