The following is Kern's first face-to-face meeting with Marie in the newly released novel, Midnight Savior. Marie attempts to rescue him from captivity, but Kern's mind dances on the brink of insanity. He struggles to descern the truth as to why she is there. Is she friend, or foe?
Excerpt
Kern had stayed perfectly still, watching the woman’s feet through mostly closed eyes. He pretended he was out cold as he waited for her to come closer. The presence of one who had hurt him had him raging inside, but he bit down on the anger, waiting for an opportunity to strike. His mind reveled in the fact he was finally going to have the chance to exact revenge. Someone was about to pay dearly for what had been done to him. But first, he was slowly starving to death.
As soon as she was in front of him, Kern grabbed her throat, stared into her wide, terror-filled eyes for a moment, then turned her head and sank his fangs in deep, intentionally causing as much pain as possible. She screamed, but the sound fell on deaf ears as she bucked and kicked. Her blood flooded his mouth, and he moaned. He had been without food or drink, and now warm, sweet blood was flowing into him, giving much needed nourishment to every cell in his body.
When her blood had first hit his tongue, he almost swooned. The taste was overwhelming, like a drug, the exquisiteness making him hard. Flashes of white light danced behind his eyelids.
Kern drank greedily until he heard her soft whisper.
Download your copy at http://www.mybookstoreandmore.com/
Find out more about the series at http://www.dmcentire.com/
Check out the book trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78gdulf0xJQ
D. (Diane) McEntire
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Excerpt Thursday -- Meet the Heroine
Last week, you met our heroes. This weeks, its the ladies' turn. Read on to meet some of the women created by the Nine Naughty Novelists.
“And…” Jaden felt her stomach start to knot even before Rachel spoke again. She scribbled angrily to color in the noose she’d put around Dan’s neck.
“They’re tired of the building being partially finished. They want it done and used for something. They think it looks bad to have it just sitting there.”
Jaden felt every muscle in her neck and shoulders tighten. “So, Rehab is just out? Done? It’s over?”
“No, not officially.” Rachel sounded depressed. “We’re fighting for it. We have patients and their families writing letters. We have some of the doctors on our side. But the fact remains that we don’t have the money and we don’t…”
“Don’t what?” Jaden asked when Rachel stopped.
“We don’t have you,” Rachel said quietly. “You were our fearless leader. You were the one who always had another idea and who always knew what to say. The wing was your idea. You’re the one they listened to.”
Jaden felt like she might throw up. She wasn’t sure what to do. It might be too late. It might not be enough. “Rach…I have the money.”
“What?”
“Well, I will have. I’m…working on something.”
“For a million dollars?”
“Yes.”
“You better not be doing anything illegal,” Rachel said.
Jaden chuckled. Sort-of. “It’s therapy. I’m rehabilitating Adam Steele’s daughter, Emily.”
“Steele? As in Steele Enterprises?”
“The same.”
Rachel whistled. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Wow was one word for it.
Reece stared at the woman sprawled across the busted fence boards at his feet. Who in the hell had he pissed off to deserve having to deal with the Calder family?
Violet gazed up at him like a deer caught in headlights.
Just fucking perfect.
Beside him, Strickland’s younger brother, known for his trigger-happy ways, reached for his gun.
Moving quick, and with what he hoped passed for concern, Reece crouched down. “Honey, I thought I told you to wait in the car.”
Violet blinked, those glossy lips of hers parted in confusion. Helping her to her feet, Reece kept his body strategically positioned between her and Strickland’s younger brother.
“You know her?” David Strickland kept his hand behind him. Suspicion tightened his face.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Reece decided and hauled her to his side even as she squirmed to put distance between them.
The bell on the outer office door jingled, and Lars pushed back from his desk. His receptionist, Mrs. Suarez, was on a coffee break.
He stepped into the waiting room as the woman at the door muttered something. She wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and she seemed oddly hunched. For a moment, he wondered if she was a homeless person who’d wandered in to escape the slight autumn chill outside.
“Can I help you?” he said, a little more briskly than usual.
The woman turned, and he immediately understood both the hunch and the muttering. She held a baby in a backpack in front of her. “Mr. Toleffson?” She straightened slightly. “I’m Jessamyn Carroll. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh.” Lars did a quick memory search. “I didn’t know you had…that is, did you mention…”
“This is my son, Jack.” Jessamyn Carroll pushed the baby’s hat off and he bounced up, bracing his feet against the backpack frame.
He took a breath. Not necessarily a deal-breaker. “How old?”
“Nine months.”
“Any more at home?” He tried to make the question sound friendly. Multiple children didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t be able to take care of Daisy. On the other hand, the more kids around, the more possibilities that Daisy might lead an infant insurrection.
“Nope. Jack’s it.” She watched him carefully, probably waiting for him to tell her she couldn’t have the job because of the baby. Little did she know just how desperate he was.
“Come on in.” He gestured toward the office. “Let’s talk about this sitting down. He looks like a handful.”
“Handful, armful, you name it.” Ms. Carroll grinned as she stepped through the office door.
Lars felt a quick surge of warmth somewhere around his solar plexus. She had a killer smile, complete with dimples. Not, of course, that he was in any position to do anything about it—or wanted to. These days, he only had enough energy for Daisy and the office.
She set the pack down before he could step forward to help her, opening the frame to prop it up, then lifted the baby into her lap and flipped back her hood. Her short feathery hair glowed like old gold in the sunlight streaming through the office window.
The heat in his solar plexus increased. He willed his nether regions to knock it off as he slid into his desk chair. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a hard-on.
A small commotion at one of the booths across from the bar caught Brandon’s attention. Wow. Talk about your enchantresses, the young woman seated alone in the second booth in from the door made a much better candidate for the title than the woman Brandon had been contemplating.
The two women couldn’t be more different. Although their hair color was eerily similar, that, and their gender, were about the only things they seemed to have in common.
Marsha, for example, would no doubt fit right in here—in fact, it was from her that Brandon had learned of the brewery’s existence. While the stranger, on the other hand, with her dark skin and long auburn hair, carefully arranged in dozens of tiny braids, appeared as out of her element in the dim, dusty, countrified atmosphere of the tavern as a rare, exotic orchid would be in a field full of dandelions.
He watched her for several minutes—covertly, because he wasn’t a jackass like the other guys in the bar, most of whom were openly staring—and, man, she was definitely something worth staring at. She looked as regal as a princess, composed and elegant, yet with all the poised-to-flee hesitancy of a young gazelle, and she aroused a whole range of conflicting instincts within him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to protect her, admire her beauty from a respectable distance, or chase her down and devour her.
Not that the eventual outcome posed much of a question. Base appetites were a lot more compelling than abstract constructs, after all. He hadn’t even needed the psychology elective he’d taken in his junior year to know that.
As he watched, she was approached by no less than seven different men in about twice as many minutes. Obviously, he was not the only orchid aficionado in the vicinity. She smiled at each one, and time and again Brandon felt the same peculiar wrenching in his gut. It seemed all wrong that she should hook up with any of the men here tonight, and he hated the idea that he might have to actually sit by and watch as it happened. It was a relief every time she turned one away, and Brandon’s appreciation for the unknown beauty grew stronger.
Clearly the woman had taste.
But, despite her lack of encouragement, he doubted the barrage would let up any time soon, she was just too tempting. Unless someone did something to stop it, he was sure she’d continue to be prey to unwanted advances all night long.
An odd collection of impulses brought him to his feet. It was part chivalry; his mother had been determined that her son grow up to be a proper southern gentleman, and a true gentleman must always come to the aid of a lady in distress.
And it was in part an innate belief in his own superiority—as well as in hers. A lady like this deserved someone a damned sight better than the kind of hick who made it a habit to hang around in dusty old bars. She deserved him, in fact. And he was not at all adverse to showing the local losers just how the game was played back home.
But mostly, he was driven by an overriding desire to get close enough to determine the exact color of her almond shaped eyes. To find out if all those bead-studded braids were real. To learn her name, her scent, the sound of her voice.
He asked the bartender for a second beer and a basket of peanuts and then, when they’d been delivered, he headed across the room; like Sir Galahad off to save a princess.
A staccato rap on the door put him on alert. He wasn’t expecting a contact until the bust went down. The last thing he needed was to blow his cover too soon.
“Come in.” He sat back in the folding chair. The door opened, and she walked in.
It was the customer. Or rather, The Customer. The one he’d noticed right off, even over the wince-inducing shock of seeing his colleagues in the audience. Of all the places he might expect to see a woman like this, a sleazy strip club was pretty much last on his list.
The first thing he’d noticed about her was her hair. Flame red, with a hint of curl, it swooped around her shoulders like that cartoon babe from Roger Rabbit, all sexy and sort of retro. A half-smile curved full red lips. And her body—have mercy.
What the hell was she doing at Strippendale’s?
“Can I help you?” He prayed the rickety chair wouldn’t collapse and dump him on his ass.
“Yeah,” she said, and licked her bottom lip. Shit, who needed a collapsing chair? That little nervous gesture almost dropped him to the floor. “I, uh, really liked your…” She waved her hand around. “Uh, your show.”
Hell. If the guys down at the station knew he was getting groupies, he’d never live it down. Then again, a groupie who looked like a long tall shot of sex might not be such a bad thing, either.
“Thanks,” he drawled.
“I’m Caroline,” She held out her hand.
He shook it, trying not to react to the softness of her skin contrasting with the firmness of her grip. “Tony,” he replied, motioning her to sit.
Too late, he remembered that he had the only chair, but before he could offer it to her, she had perched on the counter in front of the mirror. Her skirt hiked up, giving him a splendid view of her long, slim legs.
Why, why, why did he have to meet her here?
And why tonight, fifteen minutes before the operation was shut down for good?
This wasn't going quite like he'd expected. He'd intended to create a rope design using Shaela's body as a canvas of sorts, a background to display the art that became a part of the art, but he was acutely aware of her naked, gorgeous body at his hands.
Christ, it had been a long time since he'd had thoughts of Shaela like this. If she'd only known in high school how many times she'd driven him crazy with her bossiness, her smart mouth, her need to control everything, how he'd wanted to grab her, tie her up, gag her and fuck her senseless. He'd thought he was long over that craziness, but those forgotten feelings all came rushing back as he studied her pretty body.
She was tiny—fine-boned, only an inch or two over five feet, a little on the thin side, but she had nice breasts and small firm buttocks that always seemed to snag his attention despite the fact that they were just friends.
Alek took air slowly in and out of his lungs as he worked with the rope. He tried to pretend she was someone he didn't know, a model, a photographic subject. It wasn't as if he'd never seen her naked before. The tiny bikinis she wore to the beach didn't exactly cover much, but now he was making all kinds of interesting discoveries.
Weary from work and eager for the weekend, the pristine Neiman Marcus box I found on my doorstep that afternoon had started a staccato rhythm in my chest that had not ebbed since. The attached note was in meticulous script, a sophistication only matched by the enclosed outfit. Never in my years had I worn something as decadent as the champagne-colored shantung silk cocktail dress wrapped in layers of delicate tissue paper. The small bronze clutch and matching strappy stilettos only added to its allure.
That was my only excuse—I was tempted by the decadence, a modern-day Eve eager to know what I would learn from that forbidden bite. Without that, I never would have considered giving up the control for which he was asking.
*****
Erin Nicholas -- No Matter What
“The hospital Board is considering a proposal to expand the outpatient surgery department and radiology into the new wing.”“And…” Jaden felt her stomach start to knot even before Rachel spoke again. She scribbled angrily to color in the noose she’d put around Dan’s neck.
“They’re tired of the building being partially finished. They want it done and used for something. They think it looks bad to have it just sitting there.”
Jaden felt every muscle in her neck and shoulders tighten. “So, Rehab is just out? Done? It’s over?”
“No, not officially.” Rachel sounded depressed. “We’re fighting for it. We have patients and their families writing letters. We have some of the doctors on our side. But the fact remains that we don’t have the money and we don’t…”
“Don’t what?” Jaden asked when Rachel stopped.
“We don’t have you,” Rachel said quietly. “You were our fearless leader. You were the one who always had another idea and who always knew what to say. The wing was your idea. You’re the one they listened to.”
Jaden felt like she might throw up. She wasn’t sure what to do. It might be too late. It might not be enough. “Rach…I have the money.”
“What?”
“Well, I will have. I’m…working on something.”
“For a million dollars?”
“Yes.”
“You better not be doing anything illegal,” Rachel said.
Jaden chuckled. Sort-of. “It’s therapy. I’m rehabilitating Adam Steele’s daughter, Emily.”
“Steele? As in Steele Enterprises?”
“The same.”
Rachel whistled. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Wow was one word for it.
Reece stared at the woman sprawled across the busted fence boards at his feet. Who in the hell had he pissed off to deserve having to deal with the Calder family?
Violet gazed up at him like a deer caught in headlights.
Just fucking perfect.
Beside him, Strickland’s younger brother, known for his trigger-happy ways, reached for his gun.
Moving quick, and with what he hoped passed for concern, Reece crouched down. “Honey, I thought I told you to wait in the car.”
Violet blinked, those glossy lips of hers parted in confusion. Helping her to her feet, Reece kept his body strategically positioned between her and Strickland’s younger brother.
“You know her?” David Strickland kept his hand behind him. Suspicion tightened his face.
“She’s my girlfriend,” Reece decided and hauled her to his side even as she squirmed to put distance between them.
The bell on the outer office door jingled, and Lars pushed back from his desk. His receptionist, Mrs. Suarez, was on a coffee break.
He stepped into the waiting room as the woman at the door muttered something. She wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and she seemed oddly hunched. For a moment, he wondered if she was a homeless person who’d wandered in to escape the slight autumn chill outside.
“Can I help you?” he said, a little more briskly than usual.
The woman turned, and he immediately understood both the hunch and the muttering. She held a baby in a backpack in front of her. “Mr. Toleffson?” She straightened slightly. “I’m Jessamyn Carroll. We spoke on the phone.”
“Oh.” Lars did a quick memory search. “I didn’t know you had…that is, did you mention…”
“This is my son, Jack.” Jessamyn Carroll pushed the baby’s hat off and he bounced up, bracing his feet against the backpack frame.
He took a breath. Not necessarily a deal-breaker. “How old?”
“Nine months.”
“Any more at home?” He tried to make the question sound friendly. Multiple children didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t be able to take care of Daisy. On the other hand, the more kids around, the more possibilities that Daisy might lead an infant insurrection.
“Nope. Jack’s it.” She watched him carefully, probably waiting for him to tell her she couldn’t have the job because of the baby. Little did she know just how desperate he was.
“Come on in.” He gestured toward the office. “Let’s talk about this sitting down. He looks like a handful.”
“Handful, armful, you name it.” Ms. Carroll grinned as she stepped through the office door.
Lars felt a quick surge of warmth somewhere around his solar plexus. She had a killer smile, complete with dimples. Not, of course, that he was in any position to do anything about it—or wanted to. These days, he only had enough energy for Daisy and the office.
She set the pack down before he could step forward to help her, opening the frame to prop it up, then lifted the baby into her lap and flipped back her hood. Her short feathery hair glowed like old gold in the sunlight streaming through the office window.
The heat in his solar plexus increased. He willed his nether regions to knock it off as he slid into his desk chair. The last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a hard-on.
A small commotion at one of the booths across from the bar caught Brandon’s attention. Wow. Talk about your enchantresses, the young woman seated alone in the second booth in from the door made a much better candidate for the title than the woman Brandon had been contemplating.
The two women couldn’t be more different. Although their hair color was eerily similar, that, and their gender, were about the only things they seemed to have in common.
Marsha, for example, would no doubt fit right in here—in fact, it was from her that Brandon had learned of the brewery’s existence. While the stranger, on the other hand, with her dark skin and long auburn hair, carefully arranged in dozens of tiny braids, appeared as out of her element in the dim, dusty, countrified atmosphere of the tavern as a rare, exotic orchid would be in a field full of dandelions.
He watched her for several minutes—covertly, because he wasn’t a jackass like the other guys in the bar, most of whom were openly staring—and, man, she was definitely something worth staring at. She looked as regal as a princess, composed and elegant, yet with all the poised-to-flee hesitancy of a young gazelle, and she aroused a whole range of conflicting instincts within him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to protect her, admire her beauty from a respectable distance, or chase her down and devour her.
Not that the eventual outcome posed much of a question. Base appetites were a lot more compelling than abstract constructs, after all. He hadn’t even needed the psychology elective he’d taken in his junior year to know that.
As he watched, she was approached by no less than seven different men in about twice as many minutes. Obviously, he was not the only orchid aficionado in the vicinity. She smiled at each one, and time and again Brandon felt the same peculiar wrenching in his gut. It seemed all wrong that she should hook up with any of the men here tonight, and he hated the idea that he might have to actually sit by and watch as it happened. It was a relief every time she turned one away, and Brandon’s appreciation for the unknown beauty grew stronger.
Clearly the woman had taste.
But, despite her lack of encouragement, he doubted the barrage would let up any time soon, she was just too tempting. Unless someone did something to stop it, he was sure she’d continue to be prey to unwanted advances all night long.
An odd collection of impulses brought him to his feet. It was part chivalry; his mother had been determined that her son grow up to be a proper southern gentleman, and a true gentleman must always come to the aid of a lady in distress.
And it was in part an innate belief in his own superiority—as well as in hers. A lady like this deserved someone a damned sight better than the kind of hick who made it a habit to hang around in dusty old bars. She deserved him, in fact. And he was not at all adverse to showing the local losers just how the game was played back home.
But mostly, he was driven by an overriding desire to get close enough to determine the exact color of her almond shaped eyes. To find out if all those bead-studded braids were real. To learn her name, her scent, the sound of her voice.
He asked the bartender for a second beer and a basket of peanuts and then, when they’d been delivered, he headed across the room; like Sir Galahad off to save a princess.
A staccato rap on the door put him on alert. He wasn’t expecting a contact until the bust went down. The last thing he needed was to blow his cover too soon.
“Come in.” He sat back in the folding chair. The door opened, and she walked in.
It was the customer. Or rather, The Customer. The one he’d noticed right off, even over the wince-inducing shock of seeing his colleagues in the audience. Of all the places he might expect to see a woman like this, a sleazy strip club was pretty much last on his list.
The first thing he’d noticed about her was her hair. Flame red, with a hint of curl, it swooped around her shoulders like that cartoon babe from Roger Rabbit, all sexy and sort of retro. A half-smile curved full red lips. And her body—have mercy.
What the hell was she doing at Strippendale’s?
“Can I help you?” He prayed the rickety chair wouldn’t collapse and dump him on his ass.
“Yeah,” she said, and licked her bottom lip. Shit, who needed a collapsing chair? That little nervous gesture almost dropped him to the floor. “I, uh, really liked your…” She waved her hand around. “Uh, your show.”
Hell. If the guys down at the station knew he was getting groupies, he’d never live it down. Then again, a groupie who looked like a long tall shot of sex might not be such a bad thing, either.
“Thanks,” he drawled.
“I’m Caroline,” She held out her hand.
He shook it, trying not to react to the softness of her skin contrasting with the firmness of her grip. “Tony,” he replied, motioning her to sit.
Too late, he remembered that he had the only chair, but before he could offer it to her, she had perched on the counter in front of the mirror. Her skirt hiked up, giving him a splendid view of her long, slim legs.
Why, why, why did he have to meet her here?
And why tonight, fifteen minutes before the operation was shut down for good?
*****
Kelly Jamieson -- Rigger
Control. Focus.Kelly Jamieson -- Rigger
This wasn't going quite like he'd expected. He'd intended to create a rope design using Shaela's body as a canvas of sorts, a background to display the art that became a part of the art, but he was acutely aware of her naked, gorgeous body at his hands.
Christ, it had been a long time since he'd had thoughts of Shaela like this. If she'd only known in high school how many times she'd driven him crazy with her bossiness, her smart mouth, her need to control everything, how he'd wanted to grab her, tie her up, gag her and fuck her senseless. He'd thought he was long over that craziness, but those forgotten feelings all came rushing back as he studied her pretty body.
She was tiny—fine-boned, only an inch or two over five feet, a little on the thin side, but she had nice breasts and small firm buttocks that always seemed to snag his attention despite the fact that they were just friends.
Alek took air slowly in and out of his lungs as he worked with the rope. He tried to pretend she was someone he didn't know, a model, a photographic subject. It wasn't as if he'd never seen her naked before. The tiny bikinis she wore to the beach didn't exactly cover much, but now he was making all kinds of interesting discoveries.
*****
Skylar Kade -- The Cellar
The sultry jazz caressed my bare skin, tempting me to abandon my barstool in favor of the crowded dance floor. Wear nothing besides the contents of this box. Wait for me at the Cellar. Be at the bar at 9 pm. Though tempted to remain in my safe missionary-style-only world of sex, I could not defy the mandate. The dark world of submission into which I was slowly being led was too alluring and mysterious for me to ignore.Skylar Kade -- The Cellar
Weary from work and eager for the weekend, the pristine Neiman Marcus box I found on my doorstep that afternoon had started a staccato rhythm in my chest that had not ebbed since. The attached note was in meticulous script, a sophistication only matched by the enclosed outfit. Never in my years had I worn something as decadent as the champagne-colored shantung silk cocktail dress wrapped in layers of delicate tissue paper. The small bronze clutch and matching strappy stilettos only added to its allure.
That was my only excuse—I was tempted by the decadence, a modern-day Eve eager to know what I would learn from that forbidden bite. Without that, I never would have considered giving up the control for which he was asking.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
Ever notice how your gift-giving priorities change the older you get? When I was a young newlywed, I was really obsessed with creativity. I wanted to find the perfect gift for each person, the one that would make them go, “Wow. However did she think of that?”
That phase lasted maybe until I had my first child. All of a sudden, I no longer had time to haunt the specialty stores. Moreover, my gift-giving creativity seemed to become duller with sleep-deprivation. When my kids were small, the rest of the family started getting a lot more stuff from Dillard’s, things I could find in a quick mall sweep without a whole lot of thinking involved.
Nowadays in my extended family, with most of our kids grown and on their way, the family’s gift-giving priorities seem to have changed again. Now the perfect gift is one that doesn’t require shelf space or dusting. In fact, the perfect gift can be consumed before New Years. Is it any wonder we fell into the habit of giving each other bottles of wine?
This year, however, my in-laws have decided to go one step further. We’re doing a “white elephant gift exchange,” meaning everybody brings a single present and leaves with a single present, preferably something you can carry one-handed. My MIL is exempt from this, by the way. Although she already has so many tchotchkes that more might make it impossible for her to get through her house, let alone dust them, she seems quite happy with each new addition. It’s the rest of us who are moving into Grinch territory.
And yet, I still like getting gifts that are just weirdly right. My most recent favorite came from my younger son, Ben. Now he may be younger, but he’s also over six-three, and I used to rely on him to reach things on top of the cupboards that I could only have pulled down with a running leap. When he moved out, he gave us a Christmas gift that was huge, heavy, and elaborately wrapped. On Christmas morning, I unwrapped a small stepladder, the kind that’s a sort of expanded step stool. On the front he had written in bold letters “Ben Lite.” Not only did I love it, I promptly burst into tears because I realized I wouldn’t have “Ben Heavy” around anymore to get things off the shelf for me.
So what’s your favorite gift? Or maybe just your most memorable?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Another Watchers Series Release!
Midnight Savior, the fourth novel of the paranormal romance series - The Watchers - releases today through Samhain Publishing.
The clock is ticking…
Marie DeVeux talks to dead people─her grandmother. When her grandmother reveals the man who has plagued Marie’s mind for the past eight months is real─as real as the endless torture and pain to which she has had to bear witness─Marie knows she must save him from his tormentor. Following the guidance of her deceased grandmother, she sets out on a quest to find the man from her dreams.
Months of torture, solitary confinement and starvation has taken its toll on Kern. Consumed by anger and the burning need for revenge, the Watcher unleashes his fury on the one person who has come to save him─Marie.
Is she the angel of his dreams come to save him or another experiment? Kern must search his heart and sift through the chaos in his mind for the truth. Time is running out, and his decision could mean life or death─for them both.
Marie DeVeux talks to dead people─her grandmother. When her grandmother reveals the man who has plagued Marie’s mind for the past eight months is real─as real as the endless torture and pain to which she has had to bear witness─Marie knows she must save him from his tormentor. Following the guidance of her deceased grandmother, she sets out on a quest to find the man from her dreams.
Months of torture, solitary confinement and starvation has taken its toll on Kern. Consumed by anger and the burning need for revenge, the Watcher unleashes his fury on the one person who has come to save him─Marie.
Is she the angel of his dreams come to save him or another experiment? Kern must search his heart and sift through the chaos in his mind for the truth. Time is running out, and his decision could mean life or death─for them both.
Wishing you all happy holidays and the best for the new year.
D. (Diane) McEntire
The Watchers Series
Monday, December 14, 2009
Old love, new love
My mom was never comfortable with the topic, or the idea, or the reality, of sex. She doesn’t like to talk about it, or read about it, or see it in movies and on TV. When I was younger, I attributed her squeamishness about all matters physical to her having grown up in the fifties – everyone who grew up in the fifties was repressed, I thought. At some point, though, based on stories she told, I figured out…she’s a prude. Even in 1958, she was considered prude.
Mom was never romantically inclined, either – she’s Practical, and please note the capital P. She’s kind and loving, but as for spontaneous or whimsical (or fun) or any of the other stuff you have to be in order to be romantic – she’s none of those things. She loved my dad, and he her. They were happily married for almost 50 years. When Daddy passed away in 2006, we figured mom would live another twenty years as a sharp little old lady who stayed active in her church and spent a lot of time with her grandchildren.
People asked about her dating. My sister and I thought that was the funniest thing we’d ever heard of. Mom agreed. She said, more than once, “Why on earth would I go out on a date?? I’m 72 years old!”
You know where this is going, right?
A couple years after Daddy died, Mom’s close friend Sallie passed away. Sallie and her husband John, and my mom and dad, were friends for as long as my folks were married. They lived next door to each other when I was born. Mom ate dinner at their house the night before she went into labor with me. Sallie and Johnny graduated from the University of Texas, my dad was an Aggie. Over the years they’d watch the Longhorn-Aggie game together at Thanksgiving. More than once, we wrapped their house after an Aggie win and they wrapped ours after the Longhorns won. This is a picture of my dad and Johnny waiting for me to get out of surgery when my Tomboy Diva was born. That’s Daddy on the right in the baseball cap:
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Johnny’s a sweet man, and rather shy. When Sallie passed away, Mom was worried about him. He’d spent years caring for Sallie – she had a long, slow decline – and now that he was alone in that house, his sons and their families in other cities, Mom feared he’d be lonely. So she started meeting him for lunch, and to go places, just to get him out of the house.
You still know where this is going, right?
And it happened so fast!! They went to lunch. She visited his church. They went to a museum. And then BANG – two weeks later she’s showing me a mushy valentine he gave her, and she’s telling my brother-in-law about how she got all shaky and breathless when she saw his name on her caller ID (what the hell?)
But then – THEN – she starts telling my sister and me that she doesn’t have time to babysit because she’s going somewhere with Johnnie and we’re all – hey! Who the hell are you and what did you do with our mother??
She giggled – I swear to God she actually freaking giggled – when she talked about him.
I know what you’re thinking – that if this happened to anyone else, I’d think it was wonderful.
Well, yeah – exactly my point.
I have a good friend whose widowed father is shacking up with his late wife’s best friend. It actually happens a lot – one partner is left widowed, still in good health and able to enjoy life and not used to being alone. They seek solace with an old friend, and one thing leads to another. It seems to happen most often with people who were happily married. We hear stories like that and we go “Aw….that’s so sweet!”
I just never expected it to happen to my mother.
Like many old ladies, she can’t get married or she’ll lose essential insurance benefits she has through my dad. So about a year ago, she and Johnnie were joined in a commitment ceremony blessed by an Episcopal priest. I still like to tease my deeply devout Baptist mom about shacking up, but it doesn’t bother her at all.
I’ve adjusted to the idea of my mom being in love, and living with a guy who’s not my dad. But when she mentioned “physical intimacy” once, I said – hold it right there, old lady. No way. I’m not discussing your sex life with you. She agreed – with a smirk.
My mother smirked at me.
I’m romance writer, for heaven’s sake. I actually believe in happily ever after (I mean, my parents made it there, didn’t they?) I actually believe that you’re never too old to fall in love. Or get frisky, even.
But my mother?
Friday, December 11, 2009
All I Want for Christmas
If I knew how to add music, right now you'd be listening to Mariah Carey singing All I Want for Christmas Is You. Wait! I can put the video here...
Okay. Give it a minute to get going...a little more...go Mariah...okay check out the pretty cover while we're waiting...
Okay! Now I'm dancing in my chair.
Last year my novella All I Want for Christmas came out with Cobblestone Press. This story got some nice reviews:
The Romance Studio gave ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS 4 hearts...
"scorching and well written...the supporting cast and settings made the storyline sizzle...I recommend that you read this book...a good story even after the holidays."
Fallen Angels Reviews gave ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS 4 Angels...
"Ms. Jamieson has a delightful style that shows the funny side of all the dramas this time of year brings. I loved this little read..."
I got the idea for this story from all the things that can go wrong at Christmas and I know we've all experienced some of them: gifts lost in the mail, huge credit card bills, the angst of trying to find the perfect gift for everyone on our list, covering for coworkers while they're out having long boozy Christmas lunches and eating chocolates. How about that awkward moment when someone gives you a gift you weren't expecting and you don't have anything for them? And then...the infamous office party, where stressed out people let loose, drink too much, insult the boss and get it on with a co-worker in the ladies' room, followed by an embarrassed hangover the next day at work!
How's the music? Are you bopping?
What if this all happened to one person, one Christmas and that person was a perfectionist? Add to all that a crush on a sexy coworker that turns her into a stammering idiot whenever he's around and that's Erin's story in All I Want for Christmas.
Many of us push ourselves at this time of year to do so much - shopping for the perfect gifts, decorating the house to look like a Christmas card, entertaining family and friends, going to obligatory parties (and maybe some that are actually fun!), baking cookies and goodies that we really don't need to eat, and more shopping. I'm not admitting to any perfectionist tendencies but my house is using up as much power as a small city with all the Christmas lights. And I do love the lit-up expression on faces when they open a gift that both surprises and delights them.
But let's all remember to take a few moments to slow down and enjoy time with family and friends without the pressure of the perfect Christmas, because that's what it's really all about...love. And that is all I want for Christmas. How about you?
Okay. Give it a minute to get going...a little more...go Mariah...okay check out the pretty cover while we're waiting...
Okay! Now I'm dancing in my chair.
Last year my novella All I Want for Christmas came out with Cobblestone Press. This story got some nice reviews:
The Romance Studio gave ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS 4 hearts...
"scorching and well written...the supporting cast and settings made the storyline sizzle...I recommend that you read this book...a good story even after the holidays."
Fallen Angels Reviews gave ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS 4 Angels...
"Ms. Jamieson has a delightful style that shows the funny side of all the dramas this time of year brings. I loved this little read..."
I got the idea for this story from all the things that can go wrong at Christmas and I know we've all experienced some of them: gifts lost in the mail, huge credit card bills, the angst of trying to find the perfect gift for everyone on our list, covering for coworkers while they're out having long boozy Christmas lunches and eating chocolates. How about that awkward moment when someone gives you a gift you weren't expecting and you don't have anything for them? And then...the infamous office party, where stressed out people let loose, drink too much, insult the boss and get it on with a co-worker in the ladies' room, followed by an embarrassed hangover the next day at work!
How's the music? Are you bopping?
What if this all happened to one person, one Christmas and that person was a perfectionist? Add to all that a crush on a sexy coworker that turns her into a stammering idiot whenever he's around and that's Erin's story in All I Want for Christmas.
Many of us push ourselves at this time of year to do so much - shopping for the perfect gifts, decorating the house to look like a Christmas card, entertaining family and friends, going to obligatory parties (and maybe some that are actually fun!), baking cookies and goodies that we really don't need to eat, and more shopping. I'm not admitting to any perfectionist tendencies but my house is using up as much power as a small city with all the Christmas lights. And I do love the lit-up expression on faces when they open a gift that both surprises and delights them.
But let's all remember to take a few moments to slow down and enjoy time with family and friends without the pressure of the perfect Christmas, because that's what it's really all about...love. And that is all I want for Christmas. How about you?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Meet Our Heroes!
Perfectioniso much work to do and organizing the office Christmas party are stressing her out. When Dt Erin usually loves Christmas, but this year things aren’t going exactly as planned. Lost gifts, too much work to do and organizing the office Christmas party are stressing her out. When Dex Mitchell, the gorgeous Director of Finance, who she’s had a crush on forever comes by, she turns into a stammering klutz. What more could go wrong this Christmas?
How about too much to drink at the Christmas party, a sexy encounter in the ladies’ room and an embarrassed hangover the next day? Can anything turn this around so Erin gets what she really wants for Christmas?
Erin leaned back and put her hands over her face for a moment. Just for a moment. If she had to go buy presents, she’d be even more broke. But perhaps after Christmas when the other stuff showed up she could return it. Sure, that’s what she’d do.
The deep, masculine voice startled her, and she almost fell backwards in her office chair. She quickly dropped her hands and stared up at Dex Mitchell, director of finance, standing in the door to her cubicle.
God, the man was insanely gorgeous. For a bean counter. No, for anyone, actually. Every time she saw him it was all she could do to keep from drooling. Ever since she’d started working at ICS Software Development, she’d had a crush on Dex Mitchell.
“Um, yes, yes,” she finally stammered, straightening up in her chair. “I just have a tiny little headache, that’s all.” Yeah, tiny like sledgehammers being swung inside her skull.
“Need some painkillers?”
“Need some painkillers?”
“I…have some,” she replied nervously. She smiled. “Thanks, though. Really, I’m fine. I’m just about to go for lunch. Probably that’ll help. Sometimes when I don’t eat I get a headache, and all I’ve had today is a banana, and that was at seven‐thirty this morning….” She realized she was babbling like an idiot, and her voice trailed off. She stood up and grabbed her coat off the coat rack in the corner of her cubicle then pulled her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk where she stored it.
“I was just looking for someone to ask about some payroll questions,” Dex said, moving aside so she could exit her cubicle.
She carefully squeezed herself small so she wouldn’t brush against him, although she wanted to.
“You seem to be the only one here.”
“No kidding. Everyone else is either off today or out for lunch.” She winced at the bitterness in her tone.
“Okay. I can check back later.”
“Maybe I can help you?” She stopped with her coat half on, her arms hung up in the sleeves.
His lips twitched. “You need to go for your lunch,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but I can wait…what is it you need?”
“Go,” he directed her firmly, his beautiful lips curved into a smile.
She was about to argue more, but the look in his eyes made her change her mind and, with a nervous smile, she whirled around and scurried out of the office. She waited for the elevator and gave a big sigh. She always felt like such a goof around him.
Here's a first glimpse of the hero—Pete Toleffson,From Wedding Bell Blues
Blissful people made Pete Toleffson want to puke. Normally, he spent his days getting bad guys convicted and saving good people from being victimized. He considered that world to be the real world and “bliss world” to be something like a parallel universe for the clueless. Blissful people lived in la-la land. Blissful people needed to be rapped upside the head.
Which was unfortunate because his brother Cal was currently the most blissful person in Konigsburg, Texas. Well, maybe the second most, after his fiancée, Docia Kent.
Pete studied his brother as he sat smiling beside him in the booth at the Dew Drop Inn. Cal was so blissful he made Pete’s teeth hurt. At least Docia hadn’t come in yet. The two of them together could induce sugar shock.
"Pete felt like telling them to get a room, but they already had one, or rather they had a house together on the edge of town. Pete was staying in Docia’s old apartment above her bookstore in downtown Konigsburg. Of course, his residence in Docia’s apartment was strictly temporary. He was only here for the wedding. After that he’d head back home to Des Moines and the real world again.
Konigsburg was closer to something out of Disney. He kept expecting to see cartoon bluebirds twittering around over Docia’s head, and maybe a couple of bunnies hopping along at her feet. A far cry from the Polk County Attorney’s office.
Pete took a swig of beer and ignored the urge to check his cell phone messages that he felt every time he thought about being an assistant Polk County Attorney.
Guts up, Toleffson. They’ll get along without you somehow.
Adam is a passionate man and a dedicated, protective single dad who has a major guilt issue about the surgery that landed his daughter in a wheelchair. This scene gives us a peek into his head and feelings about his daughter, Emily and her rehabilitation with Jaden, our heroine.
The following excerpt is from Midnight Savior, the fourth novel of my paranormal romance series, The Watchers, releasing on December 15, 2009 through Samhain Publishing. Since today's blog is about meeting the hero, this scene is where Marie DeVeux comes face-to-face with Kern, a Watcher who'd been held captive for eight months.
Marie’s relief at finding a light switch was quickly doused. What overhead lighting existed in the hallway seemed to be barely operational. She ran her hand along the wall as she took short, slow steps. Holding tightly to the screwdriver, she used the object to bolster her resolve to keep moving.
Those words, that voice, just hours after the dream, freaked Lark right the hell out. She started so violently her perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan sloshed the front of her dress. Her nipples stood at attention. He didn’t even notice.
She grabbed a handful of napkins. “Damn it, Taran, what—”
Meet Detective Tony DiMarco from Strip Tease
Well, tonight had been a massive waste of time. She bent over and reached for her purse, which had migrated under the table during the evening. Her fingers brushed the straps, but it was beyond her reach. Cursing under her breath, she twisted underneath the tabletop and stretched a little further.
Suddenly, music blasted from the ancient sound system, startling Caroline and making her jump, smacking her head against the underside of the table. Tossing out a few more curse words for variety, she wriggled out from under the table, rubbing her head.
Then she stopped, riveted on the stage in front of her. She was tempted to pinch herself, just to make sure she wasn’t fantasizing the man who’d appeared onstage.
And oh, what a fantasy he was! The faux police uniform looked spray-painted on, showcasing a drool-worthy body. His arms flexed and bunched as he released each button on his tight shirt one by one. It fell open to reveal a wide, muscled chest, with the perfect amount of hair—not too fuzzy, not nonexistent—and sleek, lightly tanned skin that begged to be touched.
He stripped off the shirt, tossing it away as he began to work on the fly of his pants. Caroline swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, as she noticed that the rest of him seemed as large as what had already been revealed.
he music throbbed in the air around her, the theme from a popular police show adding a strong drumbeat as he stripped down to a well-filled-out, and extremely small, brief.
Caroline was gripped by a sudden urge to scream for him to take it all off, even though she knew this was as far as he was going to go. The other strippers had all stopped at their skivvies, which hadn’t bothered her a bit.
Not until now.
Now, she would buy a round of screaming orgasms for the whole room if she got to see Officer Friendly do the full monty.
This scene is from Let Me Count the Ways. This description of the hero (from the heroine's perspective) is one that Mrs. Giggles described as "lovely" in her review of the book.
At least I still look fit, I thought, taking a step back so that I could see my reflection in the glass. I sucked in my tummy, tucked in my buns, pivoted from side to side. “Not bad,” I murmured as I thrust back my shoulders and studied my breasts, wondering how much longer I could get away without having them lifted. “But you’re not what you used to be, that’s for sure.” Still, things could be worse, and no doubt they will be, in time.
“Nonsense,” a male voice insisted from somewhere behind me. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”
I spun around, startled to find Mike Sherman watching from the doorway—which just goes to show you the kind of funk I’d been in all day. I’d totally forgotten his standing, bi-monthly appointment to go over the books, three p.m. every other Thursday.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his face flaming. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Don’t be silly.” Calling on all my training to hide my own embarrassment, I rolled my eyes and grimaced slightly. “Actors, you know.” I waved my hand in a negligent gesture as I seated myself—not in my chair but on the edge of my desk—where my crossed legs would appear to their best advantage. “We’re always so focused on appearances.” And ain’t that the truth?
“Well, you have to be, don’t you? The same way singers have to take care of their voices.” He looked so sincere as he said it too. As if he really might mean it.
“What a nice way of putting it.” I beamed at him as he crossed the room to his own desk. “How are things with you, Mike? How’s your day going?”
He didn’t answer right away. A small smile played over his lips as he slid his briefcase beneath the desk and seated himself. Then he glanced up at me, his eyes twinkling. “It’s always a good day when I know I’m going to see you, Claire. Don’t you know that?”
“Flatterer.” Laughing, I leaned forward a little, just enough to flash some cleavage in his direction. Call it a reward, if you will. “You have all the right answers today, don’t you?”
If they ever make a movie of my life, no doubt they’ll get someone like Danny DeVito to play the part of Mike, which will be a shame. Don’t get me wrong, I think Danny is a fine actor and he’s got the bald head, the soulful brown eyes and the teddy bear physique the part calls for. He’ll do a fine job of catching the nervous, slightly awkward exuberance Mike exhibited when we first met. But there’s so much more to the role than that.
For starters, Mike is big. Brian Denehy big. With Denehy’s surprising gracefulness—when he’s not acting all nervous. Mike, I mean. Then there’s his impeccably trimmed beard, the wicked twinkle in his eye and his rare and wondrous smile, all of which bring Sean Connery to mind.
But, even though Sean would be a dream to work with, if I were casting for the part I’d go for something different. I’d pick someone like a young James Earl Jones, for example. For his eyes and his smile and his size. For his astonishing ability to shift from fearful to fierce, from stern to boyish, from gentle to regal to commanding to jovial—or back again, or all at once. But, more than anything else, for his voice. For that deep, dark, delicious river of sound that could never be anything but male and can’t help but leave you wondering, why all the fuss about Tenors?
Read the rest of the scene here.
Meet the Hero—Adam Steele from Erin’s No Matter What
Adam is a passionate man and a dedicated, protective single dad who has a major guilt issue about the surgery that landed his daughter in a wheelchair. This scene gives us a peek into his head and feelings about his daughter, Emily and her rehabilitation with Jaden, our heroine.
“What is this all about?” Adam demanded the minute Jaden arrived in his office.
The desire to kiss her was nearly as strong as the desire to shake her.
He wasn’t sure how much of her he could take.
“You are getting in the way,” she told him bluntly.
She had no idea how in the way he could get. “I refuse to let you do this to Emily.”
She had no idea how in the way he could get. “I refuse to let you do this to Emily.”
“I’m doing this to Emily? She’s becoming an invalid. Don’t you see? She doesn’t need that elevator. You should never have installed it.”
“She can’t go up and down the stairs in that wheelchair. What else could I have done?”
“You came up with a permanent solution to a temporary problem. The more permanent the fixtures—like an elevator—the harder it is for Emily to believe that her disability is short term.”
He leaned closer and glared at her. “Her lack of a leg is not temporary, Jaden.”
She gave a heavy, exasperated sigh. “It’s no wonder she thinks she’s a cripple. You have her labeled as one in your mind and you are treating her that way. No surprise that her rear end is glued to that chair.”
“I did not bring you here to judge me and my decisions. I’ve done my best for her.”
His best had always been enough too. Always. Emily had never had a need he couldn’t fulfill. Until now. He couldn’t give his daughter the only thing she really needed…her leg back.
But he could, by God, give her the chance to have her life back. “I brought you here to make her better.”
“Then let me. You can’t coddle her,” Jaden said. “I know that it must be hard seeing her unhappy and struggling, but you’re not doing her any favors.”
“She’s been through enough already, Dr. Monroe. I want this therapy to help her, not hurt and
frustrate her.”
“I thought you were going to call me Jaden,” She said, her irritation clear. “You’ve both been through a lot. But now it’s time to get past it. It’s not going to get better unless Emily gets up out of that chair.”
“Lower your voice!” How could he want to kiss her even more now?
The following excerpt is from Midnight Savior, the fourth novel of my paranormal romance series, The Watchers, releasing on December 15, 2009 through Samhain Publishing. Since today's blog is about meeting the hero, this scene is where Marie DeVeux comes face-to-face with Kern, a Watcher who'd been held captive for eight months.
Excerpt:
Marie’s relief at finding a light switch was quickly doused. What overhead lighting existed in the hallway seemed to be barely operational. She ran her hand along the wall as she took short, slow steps. Holding tightly to the screwdriver, she used the object to bolster her resolve to keep moving.
A low moan drifted through the hallway, and she stopped. In front of her was a door with a small window. Marie stood on tiptoes in order to peer through the thick glass. The room was dark, so she held up the flashlight and aimed its light inside.
What she saw made her heart stop. A man sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his head slumped over his chest. Marie could see the glint of metal on his wrists and feet. He was chained to the wall. Oh my God, is it him?
Frantically, she yanked open the door, hurried inside and knelt by his side, laying the screwdriver on the floor.
“Mister. Mister, can you hear me?” Marie lightly tapped his face to coax him into opening his eyes. When that didn’t work, she looked down, grabbed his thigh and shook.
A slow, venomous hiss came from his mouth. Marie’s gaze flew to his face as he snapped his eyes open and glared at her.
Through the faint glow of the dim hallway lights, Marie stared into cold, dark irises, which showed no mercy. In her dreams, she had seen that look on the man directed at one of his tormenters.
Marie’s heart raced, and her mind roared. The man’s suffering had most likely driven him insane, and she was in grave danger.
Before Marie could react, he grabbed her by the throat, his strong hand cutting off her air. Panic had her gasping and tugging at his hands as she flailed about.
Midnight Savior - The Watchers, Book Four
Ebook coming soon - December 15, 2009
http://www.mybookstoreandmore.com/
MEET THE HERO: Detective Taran Lloyd, Kiss and Kin
Lark has known Taran all her life - they're stepcousins. This is the scene where the reader first meets him:
“What are you doing here?” he growled softly.
Those words, that voice, just hours after the dream, freaked Lark right the hell out. She started so violently her perfectly chilled Cosmopolitan sloshed the front of her dress. Her nipples stood at attention. He didn’t even notice.
She grabbed a handful of napkins. “Damn it, Taran, what—”
“Quiet,” he said fiercely as he stole her breath with a smile. He never smiled at her like that. He rarely smiled at her at all. She stared up at him, dumbfounded. He clamped a meaty paw on her elbow and dragged her away from the bar toward an empty table.
The dark blue pinstriped suit, a fitted European cut, and the custom-tailored, crisp white dress shirt looked great on his long, muscular frame. Taran didn’t live on his detective salary alone.
The dark blue pinstriped suit, a fitted European cut, and the custom-tailored, crisp white dress shirt looked great on his long, muscular frame. Taran didn’t live on his detective salary alone.
“Act like we’re having fun.” Irritable as always, he still wore that stutter-inducing smile. It stopped short of his luminescent green eyes. “Why are you here, and who are those wolves?”
“None of your business…” she grinned gaily, “…and I don’t know.”
A few golden strands of hair drifted across his eyes. He wore it halfway to his shoulders; HPD grooming regulations exempted werewolves. She always itched to brush his hair aside. One day she’d do it, just to watch him react.
“I’m serious, Lark.”
“I’m serious, Lark.”
“You’re hurting me, Taran.”
He let go instantly but continued to stare at her, knowing she’d answer him.
He let go instantly but continued to stare at her, knowing she’d answer him.
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m here with my friend Eloise, who’s into some Euro werewolf whose name I don’t remember, and he’s with his bros, and they’re all creepy and boring, and one of them keeps trying to pick me up, and after you replace the Cosmo you made me spill, I’m going home. This just is not my night.”
“Are you driving?”
“No, I’m talking to you. Why? Do I look like I’m driving?”
“Are you driving?”
“No, I’m talking to you. Why? Do I look like I’m driving?”
He didn’t laugh. He never laughed.
“El drove. I’ll take a cab home. Where’s my cosmo?”
His sharp cheekbones and strong chin, and the pale, thin scar scoring his left cheek from his ear almost to his mouth, gave him a look of menacing power. That disappearing smile, though, made him look like a fallen angel. A hulking, six-foot-six fallen angel who could change in five minutes in broad daylight—the mark of a powerful alpha wolf.
“Don’t tell anyone you know who I am,” he ordered. “I’m working a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Fine, whatever. I won’t tell anyone I know you.”
He nodded and turned to go.
He nodded and turned to go.
“Um. Hello?”
He turned back. “What is it?”
“You owe me a drink.”
He pulled a ten from his wallet and held it out, staring at her eyes as he did so. She snorted at the cheap shot power play, but it worked—a human couldn’t maintain eye contact with an alpha.
She looked at the bill in his hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, fueled with courage from her first cosmo, she put her hand on his outstretched arm and leaned in, her head grazing his cheek. Their bodies almost touched. A werewolf’s normal body temperature was one hundred five point three; for the millionth time in ten years, she fantasized about snuggling up to his warmth.
“You owe me a drink.”
He pulled a ten from his wallet and held it out, staring at her eyes as he did so. She snorted at the cheap shot power play, but it worked—a human couldn’t maintain eye contact with an alpha.
She looked at the bill in his hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, fueled with courage from her first cosmo, she put her hand on his outstretched arm and leaned in, her head grazing his cheek. Their bodies almost touched. A werewolf’s normal body temperature was one hundred five point three; for the millionth time in ten years, she fantasized about snuggling up to his warmth.
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she whispered, “Taran? If you want people to think your cousin is a hooker, you could at least pretend I’d get more than ten bucks. Otherwise, go buy me a drink, you lazy bastard.”
He growled low in his throat. She peeked up at him. Taran meant “thunder” in Welsh. It fit him when he looked like this.
Meet Detective Reece Prescott from Say You're Mine
“Evening, Ms. Calder.”
Violet tensed at the deep, unmistakable voice directly behind her. She slowly turned around, all too conscious of the thinning air in the room. “Good evening, Detective.”
Short, dark brown hair, a five o’clock shadow that suited him entirely too much, and bottomless brown eyes that sucked you right in when they weren’t slicing a person in two, all combined to make a package Leslie liked to refer to as “sex on a stick”. There was only one problem with him.
He was a serious pain in the ass.
“Evening, Ms. Calder.”
Violet tensed at the deep, unmistakable voice directly behind her. She slowly turned around, all too conscious of the thinning air in the room. “Good evening, Detective.”
Short, dark brown hair, a five o’clock shadow that suited him entirely too much, and bottomless brown eyes that sucked you right in when they weren’t slicing a person in two, all combined to make a package Leslie liked to refer to as “sex on a stick”. There was only one problem with him.
He was a serious pain in the ass.
Meet Detective Tony DiMarco from Strip Tease
Well, tonight had been a massive waste of time. She bent over and reached for her purse, which had migrated under the table during the evening. Her fingers brushed the straps, but it was beyond her reach. Cursing under her breath, she twisted underneath the tabletop and stretched a little further.
Suddenly, music blasted from the ancient sound system, startling Caroline and making her jump, smacking her head against the underside of the table. Tossing out a few more curse words for variety, she wriggled out from under the table, rubbing her head.
Then she stopped, riveted on the stage in front of her. She was tempted to pinch herself, just to make sure she wasn’t fantasizing the man who’d appeared onstage.
And oh, what a fantasy he was! The faux police uniform looked spray-painted on, showcasing a drool-worthy body. His arms flexed and bunched as he released each button on his tight shirt one by one. It fell open to reveal a wide, muscled chest, with the perfect amount of hair—not too fuzzy, not nonexistent—and sleek, lightly tanned skin that begged to be touched.
He stripped off the shirt, tossing it away as he began to work on the fly of his pants. Caroline swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, as she noticed that the rest of him seemed as large as what had already been revealed.
he music throbbed in the air around her, the theme from a popular police show adding a strong drumbeat as he stripped down to a well-filled-out, and extremely small, brief.
Caroline was gripped by a sudden urge to scream for him to take it all off, even though she knew this was as far as he was going to go. The other strippers had all stopped at their skivvies, which hadn’t bothered her a bit.
Not until now.
Now, she would buy a round of screaming orgasms for the whole room if she got to see Officer Friendly do the full monty.
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