Camy Tang's Blog, page 153

Excerpt - Threat of Exposure by Lynette Eason

Threat of Exposure

by

Lynette Eason



Pages full of indecipherable codes are all that stand between DEA agent Brock Martin and drugs crossing the border. But if he wants to crack the case, he'll have to work with Texas Ranger Gisella Hernandez. Brock feels the case is way too dangerous for a female agent—especially one who refuses to admit she needs protection. Yet as they work together under the most dangerous threat of exposure, Brock discovers Gisella is stronger than she seems. And that his cowboy heart isn't so tough, after all.



Excerpt of chapter one:



DEA agent Brock Martin stared at the man behind the gun. The man who was supposed to be his informant. The man who'd sold accurate information to him over the last year. A man who Brock hadn't come to trust, but had come to rely on.



The cold January wind blew across his face, but that wasn't what caused his violent shudder. "What are you doing, Lenny?"



One minute they were talking like always, the next, the weapon had appeared in Lenny's hand almost before Brock could blink. The move had been totally unexpected and Brock drew in a deep breath, ready to draw on all of his hostage negotiation training.



Then Lenny gave a smile that chilled his blood. "I got a better offer from Harry Lowe. He decided you've caused him enough grief and lost profit."



Harry Lowe. A big-time drug dealer along the Mexico-Texas border. Brock had been working this area between Juarez, Mexico, and El Paso, Texas, a long time. But one small slipup and he could die.



Lenny's cold eyes and steady hand holding the weapon said Brock had slipped up.



In a major way.



Dread and fear clawed its way into his chest. He swallowed hard trying to figure out how he'd ended up in this predicament. "Lenny, come on, man, you don't want to do this. Everyone at the station knows I'm meeting with you. And they're waiting for me to get back with whatever you have for me."



A nervous twitch of Lenny's left eye told Brock that it didn't matter. The man's hand trembled as he stared down the barrel.



Right now Lenny was more scared of not doing what Harry Lowe wanted than he was of going to jail for murder. Not a good situation for Brock.



More fear and no small amount of self-disgust curled through his gut. He'd gotten careless. Now, it seemed it might be his night to die. He'd always wondered how it would happen. How he would go. If he'd be ready.



He wasn't.



But now it seemed in this small church parking lot, hidden in the shadows of the trees, he was going to face his maker. God, please…



His mind formed the prayer even as he calculated the odds of successfully jumping Lenny. He realized he would have no chance of tackling the man or reaching for his own weapon, now on the ground to his left, before Lenny pulled the trigger.



So he had to make a choice. Jump Lenny and take his chances or bolt for cover and hope Lenny's aim was off. Bad odds all around.



Lenny sniffed and aimed the gun point-blank at Brock's head. "Sorry, dude, but a man's gotta do what a…"



"Put the gun down, Lenny!" the voice came from Brock's left behind the trees. Lenny jerked, whipped the gun toward the voice, and pulled the trigger.



Brock darted to the bumper of his vehicle, wishing he hadn't kicked his weapon quite so hard when Lenny had demanded he drop it. It glinted under the streetlamp ten yards away, mocking his incompetence.



Then he heard the pop of another bullet and felt the buzz as it careened past his cheek to plant itself in the asphalt beside him. God, get me out of this, please. I'm not ready to face You yet.



Adrenaline pumping, he rolled for cover even as he heard the discharge of another weapon, the howl of pain and the thud of a body hitting the asphalt.



Running footsteps echoed behind him as he lunged for Lenny, who now lay face down, and kicked his gun from his outstretched hand. Brock flipped the man, then planted a knee in his would-be killer's back as he swiped the cuffs from his belt.



Through gritted teeth, Brock muttered, "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. You have the right to remain…" He broke off as a pair of boots stepped into his line of vision.



With Lenny's hands securely fastened behind his back, Brock allowed his eyes to travel north from the boots, up a pair of jean-clad legs to a belt fastened around a slim waist he could probably span with his hands. He let his gaze wander on up to the white shirt with a badge.



A badge with a star inside it. Right over the wearer's heart. She held her weapon ready and steady.



When he finally reached his rescuer's face, he knew in his gut exactly who'd saved his life.



"Hello, Ranger Hernandez." Brock hauled his now-subdued prisoner to his feet and stared at one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Tall, lean and fit, she kept steady brown eyes glued to his. He swiped an arm across his forehead. "I'll say this for you. You have impeccable timing."* * *Ranger Gisella Hernandez flipped her braid over her shoulder and stared at the man she'd already decided she didn't like very much.



Number one, he'd stood her up.



Number two, he'd met with a known drug runner without any backup.



Number three, he hadn't said "thank you" for her saving his life.



And she was supposed to work with him. As if she needed life to get any more interesting.



Give him a chance, she ordered herself.



She gave her hat a shove back on her head and addressed his timing comment. "You were supposed to meet me over two hours ago. I don't like to be kept waiting."



The man before her blew out a short laugh. "And I don't like to look death in the face. Looks like neither one of us was meant to be happy tonight."



For some reason, that comment amused her. She appreciated the fact that she didn't seem to intimidate him, as her badge seemed to scare off more men than it attracted. Gisella fought to keep the smile from curving her lips, but wasn't sure she succeeded when he raised a knowing brow. She gestured toward Lenny. "How's he?"



Brock shot the man a disgusted frown. "It's a shoulder wound. He'll live." Gisella thought she heard a silent "unfortunately" on the end of that last sentence.



"I wasn't gonna kill you. You got this all wrong," Lenny whined. He looked at Gisella. "I can't believe you shot me."



She turned to the dealer and gave him a stare that made him cringe. "I wouldn't have given you any warning if I'd had a choice." She looked at Brock. "You were right in my line of fire. I had to do a little maneuvering."



So that was why she'd yelled. Typically, in that kind of volatile situation, a cop shot first, two lethal pops to the chest, and it was over. Her eyes frosted even more as she said to Lenny, "You're lucky I always hit what I'm aiming for."



"And you were going to kill me," Brock ground out. "A fact I'll be happy to testify to," he said as he pulled the man to the car. As mad as he was at the man, he wouldn't make him wait in the cold for the EMS. He wasn't giving Lenny anything else to complain about that would prolong their night.



"And I make a pretty good witness," Gisella offered. Then she sighed. "I'll meet you at the station. I guess I'm going to have a lot of paperwork to fill out tonight. Not to mention calling my captain and getting him to do some fancy talking so I'm not assigned a desk job while this is investigated."



Brock grimaced. "I'll have to wait on the EMS to get here. I'd transport him, but don't want to have to clean out my car. Speaking of which, there's a videotaped recording of everything that just happened. Your boss shouldn't have any trouble getting this cleared up ASAP."



A glimmer of respect finally reared its head. "That'll help a lot."



He nodded. "I'll get someone to take over for me and meet you in half an hour."



"I'll be waiting." She shot him a pointed look. "Again."



He gave her a slow smile and Gisella felt her heart tremble at his low, "I'll be there."



A little unnerved by the attraction she felt for a man she'd just met, she shook her head and headed for the vehicle she'd left parked on the other side of the trees.



Gisella had flown down from San Antonio, grabbed a cab and rushed to meet Brock Martin, one of the drug enforcement agents assigned to the El Paso area of the border.



El Paso was a twenty-minute drive from Boot Hill, which was a five-minute drive from Juarez, Mexico. Her objective was to pick Brock up and head straight to Boot Hill. She hadn't planned on getting sidetracked saving his life along the way.



But I guess You weren't ready for him to die yet, were You, Lord? Thanks for using me in this situation. Now, please, please help me find the ones responsible for the drug smuggling and the murder of Captain Pike.



For the past four months, Gisella and her company of Rangers had worked hard trying to gather the evidence needed to take down the organization responsible for their leader's murder. Just recently, she and her fellow Rangers had taken the information contained on the flash drive they'd found on Melora Hudson's estate a few weeks ago and narrowed down the possibilities of where the drugs could be entering the country from across the border.



Melora's husband had been killed because of his association with the Lions of Texas, an elite group responsible for millions of dollars worth of drugs coming over the border, and Melora had almost been killed herself. Fortunately, they'd found what the killers were after and now the Lions had no reason to go after her anymore.



And thanks to the information on the flash drive, Boot Hill seemed to be the next logical choice in their hunt for the top members of the criminal organization. Gisella and the other Rangers believed the drugs coming into San Antonio, and all parts of Texas, were originating from that tiny, almost nonexistent blip on the map.



When Brock had failed to show up for their scheduled meeting a few hours earlier, she'd gotten tired of waiting around, did a little snooping and found out from one of the other agents where he was.



She'd punched in the location of the church in her GPS and driven straight there.



Not wanting to give herself away, she'd circled the building twice, then found a suitable parking spot that would enable her to be of some help should Brock need it, yet far enough away not to tip off the informant.



When she saw how Lenny had been acting, the hairs on her neck stood straight up. When that happened, she knew to pay attention. She'd pulled her weapon. Creeping in closer hadn't been a problem underneath the shelter of the trees.



Now, the ordeal was coming to a close. As she reached her vehicle, she heard the scream of sirens and saw the flashing lights of the approaching ambulance.



Help had arrived and she could get back to the office. Anxious to get on with her reason for being in El Paso, she drove with a single-minded purpose and thought about the man she would be working with.



A very good-looking—in a Brad Pitt sort of way—man. From the sandy blond hair and flashing blue eyes to the perfect smile. Her heart trembled at the memory of the smile that flashed white teeth and deep dimples. The fact that he probably hadn't shaved in two days didn't detract from his attractiveness at all. On the contrary, she liked the rugged look.



Gisella blinked at her thoughts. What in the world was she doing? She didn't think she even liked the man and she was daydreaming about how good-looking he was. When was the last time she'd done that?



She couldn't remember.



You're here for a reason, she reminded herself sternly. The mental admonishment brought her up short.



She was here to find a way to bring down the Lions of Texas, a group responsible for the death of her boss, Captain Gregory Pike. The Lions had already made millions of dollars smuggling their drugs over the border from Mexico. Her desperate hope was that Brock Martin might have some answers for her on where their entry point was.



When she'd learned she was to be paired up with the drug enforcement agent, she'd done her homework and researched everything she could find on him. Which wasn't much.



But she had learned that he'd been working the border for more than 10 years, was experienced and well-liked in his department. She hoped together they could pool their resources and bring down the Lions.



She parked at the entrance to EPIC—the El Paso Intelligence Center. Agencies currently represented in the building included the Drug Enforcement Agency and almost every division of law enforcement one could think of. Their job was to keep the border—and the citizens in the surrounding small towns and cities—safe.



And she was going to have a hand in that.



Climbing out of her car, she headed inside and made her way to the department she'd left only a couple of hours ago in order to rescue her temporary partner.



Sitting at her desk in the office she'd been assigned upon her arrival, she stared at the desk opposite hers.



Brock Martin. DEA agent. One who sometimes acted as the Lone Ranger. Sometimes followed the rules, sometimes not. But still, from all appearances, a good man who got the job done.



"Lord, I hope You'll let me in on this plan of Yours that seems to be unfolding."



"Talking to yourself?"



Gisella jerked at the deep voice and whirled to find Brock standing in the doorway looking at her. She felt the heat crawl into her neck and knew within seconds her cheeks would be fiery in spite of her olive skin. "Something like that. You got here fast."



He pulled off his gloves then shrugged out of his heavy coat to drape it over the back of his chair. As he lowered himself into the seat, he said, "Backup got there pretty quick. I didn't have to hang around much longer." He steepled his fingers under his chin. "So. We're going to be partners for a while, huh?"



"Looks that way." She tried to ignore how well he filled out his pullover gray sweatshirt and how his blue eyes regarded her with an intensity that seemed to reach into her very soul. She cleared her throat. "So…why didn't you have any backup tonight?"



"Not everybody takes backup with them when they meet an informant."



She eyed him. "The smart ones do."



He blinked. Then barked a laugh. "Right. Well, it just so happens that I had backup with me, but he got a call that his wife was in labor. Needless to say, I sent him on his way." He rubbed a hand across his lips then frowned. "I'll admit, Lenny surprised me. For over a year, the man has provided solid information—and made a small fortune off of me." He shrugged. "I had no reason to suspect tonight would be any different." Another pause as he looked at her. "I'm glad you tracked me down."

Print book:

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Ebook:

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Street Team Book List excerpt - To Win Her Heart by Karen Witemeyer

Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!



This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing To Win Her Heart Bethany House (May 1, 2011) by Karen Witemeyer



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Karen Witemeyer is a deacon's wife and mother of three who believes the world needs more happily-ever-afters. To that end, she combines her love of bygone eras with her passion for helping women mature in Christ to craft historical romance novels that lift the spirit and nurture the soul.



After growing up in California, Karen moved to Texas to attend Abilene Christian University where she earned bachelor and master's degrees in Psychology. It was also there that she met and married her own Texas hero. He roped her in good, for she has lived in Texas ever since. In fact, she fell so in love with this rugged land of sweeping sunsets and enduring pioneer spirit, that she incorporates it into the pages of her novels, setting her stories in the small towns of a state that burgeoned into greatness in the mid- to late1800s.



Karen is living her dream by writing Christian historical romance novels for Bethany House. When she visited her publisher back in January of 2010, she was interviewed by the staff. If you'd like a behind-the-scenes glimpse into how she develops her story ideas and a description of her bumpy journey to publication, click here to listen to a podcast of that interview.



ABOUT THE BOOK



After completing his sentence for the unintentional crime that derailed his youthful plans for fame and fortune, Levi Grant looks to start over in the town of Spencer, Texas. Spencer needs a blacksmith, a trade he learned at his father's knee, and he needs a place where no one knows his past.



Eden Spencer has sworn off men, choosing instead to devote her time to the lending library she runs in the town her father founded. When a mountain-sized stranger walks through her door and asks to borrow a book, she's reluctant to trust him. Yet as the mysteries of the town's new blacksmith unfold, Eden discovers hidden depths in him that tempt her heart.



Eden believes she's finally found a man of honor and integrity. But when the truth about Levi's prodigal past comes to light, can this tarnished hero find a way to win back the librarian's affections?



Excerpt of chapter one:



To Win Her Heart

My latest newsletter and my cool auction item!

Captain's Log, Stardate 05.03.2011



Okay, yeah, my quarterly newsletter was a teeny bit late, but at least I got it out before NEXT quarter, right??? I'm using VerticalResponse.com and so far it's pretty good. My only complaint is that I don't know how to automatically delete any emails on my mailing list that bounce. :( But I get to use lots of pretty pictures. :)



I gave an update on my 4th Sushi book, Weddings and Wasabi, and my next books with Zondervan and Love Inspired Suspense, and I posted a new contest.



If you're not on my newsletter list but want to be, just head over to my website and fill out the form on the bottom left of the screen (with the cool purple chair!). I only send out 4 emails a year, so you won't have to worry about a lot of emails in your Inbox.



And if you want my latest newsletter, just email me (through my website) and I'll forward you a copy of it.



In the meantime, go to my Brenda Novak auction and bid! I'm auctioning off Sushi for One?, Only Uni, Single Sashimi, and Formula for Danger, as well as the fuzzy blue scarf Stephanie is wearing in Formula for Danger, and a 30-minute phone call with me for writers or readers!

Excerpt - Point Blank Protector by Stephanie Newton

Point Blank Protector

by

Stephanie Newton



With his cover blown, former DEA Agent Tyler Clark has nothing but time on his hands. Time—and orders—to see the police psychologist before taking a new case. Gracie VanDoren's cheerful determination to help him drives Tyler up the wall…right up until a threatening letter has Gracie's sunshiny demeanor giving way to fear. As the threats escalate, both realize someone has an unusually personal vendetta against Gracie. Now Tyler's cover is blown again. Because he's committed to being her point-blank protector—even if it means exposing his heart.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Tyler Clark hated seeing the shrink. Hated having his motives questioned, his mind probed. He pulled open the door to the Sea Breeze Police Department and showed his ID.



The watch officer took one brief look at Tyler's face and slid the visitor's pass across the desk. "Have a nice day."



Tyler resented jumping through hoops for bureaucratic nonsense, and he really couldn't stand being jerked out of the field until the crazy task had been completed. Crazy because any undercover agent worth his salt could fool a shrink.



But regular evals were part of his job as an undercover agent—at least, they had been part of his job until he'd been exposed by the press after his last case closed. As a bonus, his new job—interim job, he reminded himself—also required a visit to the shrink. Lucky him.



In his experience, shrinks came in two varieties, the cheerful and sympathetic wanna-be-your-friend type and the slice-and-dice, cut-out-the-cancer type. He didn't like either one, preferring to deal with things on his own time. Or not.



The utilitarian gray halls of the Sea Breeze, Florida, Police Department weren't complicated, and within minutes of entering the building he found Dr. VanDoren's second-floor office.



The doctor had a white message board on the outside of the door. Someone had drawn a smiley face on it. Great. VanDoren was one of those.



He pushed the cracked door all the way open, knocking on it with two knuckles.



The woman at the desk was on the phone. Lake-blue eyes widened as he entered the room. She pulled an appointment book from a teetering pile on her desk and ran a finger down it, still speaking softly into the phone.



When her finger reached his name, she looked up, giving him a bright smile. She motioned to a chair and raised a finger for him to wait.



He eyed the club chairs. In one she'd left her purse and computer bag. In the other a neat stack of papers and assorted files. He picked up the stack and laid it on the corner of her desk.



Tyler relaxed into the soft leather and watched her as she talked on the phone. She'd turned slightly away from him toward the window. As she spoke, her hands moved in animated gestures. Bright April sunlight streamed in, gilding the corkscrew blond curls.



"All right, then. Talk to you later." She placed the phone on its cradle. "What can I do for you?"



"I'm here to see the doctor."



"About?" She picked what looked like a random envelope from a stack of mail and sliced into it with a wicked letter opener sporting the police seal on its handle.



He stared unblinking, waiting while she glanced over the sheet of paper before tossing it into the trash can. When she lifted her eyes to meet his again, he said, "I think I'll just talk to the doctor—"



She raised one slim eyebrow, a private joke sparkling in her eyes.



Right. "You're Dr. VanDoren."



"Yep." The doc picked up another envelope and cut it open, giving the contents a cursory glance before it followed the last one into the trash can.



"I bet you're killer on the witness stand." He didn't stop to think that his words weren't exactly complimentary.



The psychologist tilted her head. "Defense attorneys do tend to underestimate me."



Another envelope lost its fight with the slick blade in her hand. This one she filed on top of a lopsided pile on her desk before she met his eyes again with a faintly perplexed look, as if surprised to find he was still sitting there. "So why are you here, Mr. Clark?"



"Tyler." He forced himself to sit still. He'd done the same thousands of times before when he'd been undercover and under the close scrutiny of everyone from drug lords to mafia kingpins.



The doc laid the letter opener on top of a stack of unopened envelopes and turned her full attention to him. "Tyler, then. What brings you to my office this morning?"



She surely had to have been briefed by Captain Conyers, but the rule with shrinks, if there was one, was to play along. With practiced ease, he relaxed into the moment, showing her the person she wanted to see.



"I've worked undercover for the DEA for the past several years, mostly in Chicago. My cover was blown nationwide during that big bust the SBPD made a few weeks ago. Basically I had two choices. I could work a desk for the DEA or I could go out on my own."



She laced her fingers, leaning forward on her elbows. "So you decided to go out on your own. What brings you back to Sea Breeze?"



"The personal reason—my family is here. Professionally, I know how drug dealers think. I'm here to teach certain techniques to your police force so that they can spot an infiltration into your community before it gets out of control."



"Your consulting job isn't what brought you to my office." Doc VanDoren's wide blue eyes made him want to tell her everything. His life story. His past.



She had some kind of weapon in those eyes. They looked all innocent, making him want to believe she was easily led. She wasn't.



"I'm here because Conyers wants to make sure I haven't gone over the edge." The blunt words lay heavy in the air.



"And have you?" Her question was equally blunt, unsurprised.



Was the fact that he had to think about it bad?



The doc stood and rounded her desk, her navy-blue skirt swishing as she walked. She sat on the edge of the chair beside him, but didn't touch him. "Tyler, whatever you say here won't go any further. One of the reasons I have a job is to make sure that our law-enforcement personnel have a safe place to talk about the things that happen to them."



Tyler cleared his throat and made himself lift his eyes from where her skirt slid to show her knees. The words came with some difficulty. "I never crossed the line."



Something in his voice must've given him away. She narrowed her eyes. "Okay."



He fought the urge to elaborate. More words just meant more chances to get himself in trouble. He'd learned that early on in undercover work. The less said, the better. People either believed you or they didn't.



She smiled and a dimple winked just under the left corner of her lips. Cute, that was the word for her. He might've asked her out if things were different.



But, he reminded himself, things were different. And real life harder to slip back into every time he came out from under cover.



The doc rubbed one pink-tipped finger across her bottom lip. "I think I can clear you for work with the department."



Tyler took a deep breath. He could hear the hesitation in her voice. "But…"



"But if you'd like to come in again, the door is always open. Even with breaks, three years is a long time to be undercover."



He had to make a serious effort to calm the resentment that surged at her words and remind himself that he would do what it took because he needed the job.



He needed the time to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. His mother said God had plans for him.



Tyler could just imagine those plans. "I'm fine."



"I'm sure that's true. Let's just make a note to check in while you're readjusting to life on the outside."



He gritted his teeth into a smile. "Sure thing, Doc."



Gracie VanDoren stood. "I'll see you in a day or two?"



She held out a hand to the ex-special agent. He didn't think he'd crossed the line. Between her quick eval and the glowing letters of commendation from his superiors at the DEA, she had no reason to suspect he wouldn't be fine in the field. She just wondered what his definition of "the line" was.



He got to his feet. His hand swallowed hers as he held it. Dark eyes studied hers. "Why wait? Have dinner with me tonight."



She slid her hand from his grasp with a quick smile. "Thank you for the sweet offer, but I don't date."



He leaned a shoulder on the door frame, lady-killer smile spread across his face. "If you don't date cops, that's no problem. I'm not a cop."



"It's not that. I don't date, period." She rounded her desk, putting it between them. The more space the better. She smiled again and picked up the letter opener.



"You don't…really?"



The disbelief on his face would have made her laugh if she hadn't seen dozens of variations of the same look over the past ten years. She chose not to date. Period.



She had lots of reasons, but the biggest was that she wanted a real relationship, one built on friendship and trust. Mutual faith.



She ignored the little voice inside that whispered, "Yeah, how's that been working out for you?"



"Let me know if you'd like another appointment." Gracie reached for the stack of mail on her desk yet to be opened. She knew when he left because the room just felt empty. He was something.



He hadn't said anything inconsistent, exactly. No huge waving red flags. He seemed remarkably secure, but there was something in his eyes. It was instinct, really, more than anything concrete that made her think he might want to talk. Just something.



Gracie sighed and picked up another envelope from the precarious stack on her desk. She sliced into it and slid out a single sheet of paper.



Block letters shouted the message: I CAN'T WAIT UNTIL YOU DIE.



Her pulse thudded over the roar in her ears, her breathing short and shallow. Her fingers tightened unconsciously to grip the paper.



"What does it say?" The deep voice came from the door.



She dropped the thing on her desk. Looking up, she met Tyler Clark's too-shrewd brown eyes. She gave herself a second for her heart rate to return to something resembling normal and said, "Nothing. It's just a bill I forgot about. Already back for another appointment?"



He walked closer. "Whatever that is, it isn't 'nothing.'



Something in that note scared the daylights out of you.



What did it say?"



Gracie pushed the paper toward him. He didn't pick it up, but he scrutinized it. "Is this the first one you've gotten like this?"



She laughed—a quick, non-humorous burst. Without saying a word, she opened a file drawer, pulled out a file and tossed it on her desk. About an inch thick, it held the letters. The phone calls, those were just in her memory.



He flipped through the pages like a deck of cards.



"All these?"



"I've testified in the majority of felony cases in this county in the past four years. Most of the offenders think they wouldn't be serving time if it wasn't for me," She shrugged. "I'm a convenient scapegoat. And they send me love letters."



He dropped the stack on the desk. "Is that what they're calling them these days?"



Gracie pursed her lips, giving the file the stink eye. In one way, it was a testimony to the fact that she did her job. In another, it just showed that some people weren't willing to take responsibility for their own actions. Mostly she tended to file the letters and forget them. Yet something about this one sent a shiver of premonition up her spine.



"I need tea."



"What?" Tyler Clark's dark eyebrows drew together.



She hadn't realized that she'd said it out loud. What did that say about her mental health? "Don't you know that a good cup of tea cures everything?"



"Didn't know that, but duly noted. Are you going to give that letter to your CSI team, see if they can figure out where it came from?" He eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. He towered over her, but she was used to that, working in what was still generally a man's world.



"No. It's not necessary."



"You really think that's smart?"



She lifted one shoulder. "I almost always file the letters and never hear from them again. Writing the letter is the play for them. Most of them are in prison anyway."



"What about the ones that just got paroled?" Tyler crossed his arms, the fabric of his dress shirt taut against his biceps.



Gracie swallowed hard and leaned back in her chair. "In cases I testified in, I get a courtesy call from the warden before the inmates are released from custody."



He nodded. "Any calls recently?"



"One or two." Answering his questions, she felt a little like the patient instead of the doctor.



The former agent stood and tucked his hands into the pockets of his boot-cut jeans, his shirt tails hanging loose. Did he know what his attire said about him?



The dress shirt would be considered required, but the jeans and untucked shirt said he wasn't a rule follower. So, she would guess, yes. She smiled up at him.



His face held a toughness, his demeanor an edginess that came from years of living a dangerous double life. But his eyelashes were a black, sooty smudge as he blinked at her. Pretty.



She smiled wider.



"It looks like you have two options, Doc. You can report it to one of the very skilled detectives in the SBPD. Or you can put the paper in your file and forget about it."



Gracie opened her mouth to say she planned to forget it as he said, "I highly suggest option one."



She closed her mouth and scowled. For the first time, she saw a real hint of amusement in Tyler Clark's eyes.



He tilted his head and a dark curl fell across his forehead. "There could be one more option."



"What would that be?" She leaned back in her desk chair and crossed her legs.



"Consulting for the SBPD doesn't exactly fill my day planner. If you'd like to give me the note and the names, I can check it out for you. I have some investigative experience."



Tyler was being modest. The letters she'd read from his superiors at the DEA had been glowing with praise for Tyler's talent as an agent.



She didn't want to be the person who ignored the thing that could've saved her life. She also didn't want to give credence to something she knew from experience was most likely an empty threat. If they followed up on every letter she got, it would be a massive waste of manpower.



Tyler picked up one of Gracie's cards from the holder on her desk. "Gracie? As in 'Amazing'?"

Print book:

eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Christianbook.com

BooksAMillion.com

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Ebook:

eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)

Nookbook

Kindle

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The Hormone Hostage

Captain's Log, Stardate 05.02.2011



I was looking through some of my old posts that I never actually posted and came across this piece of genius, which I got a loooooong time ago from my friend Winter Peck. Winter just got contracted!!! Woohoo!!! so I figured this was as good a time as any to finally post this. Many of you have probably seen this already, but it always makes me smile when I read it.



THE HORMONE HOSTAGE



The Hormone Hostage knows that there are days in the month when all a man has to do is open his mouth and he takes his life into his own hands. This is a handy guide that should be as common as a driver's license in the wallet of every husband, boyfriend, coworker, or significant other.



Alternatives to the questions listed below:



SAFER: The 1st alternative question listed below

SAFEST: The 2nd alternative question below

ULTRA SAFE: The 3rd alternative question below



What's for dinner?



Answers:

Can I help you with dinner?

Where would you like to go for dinner?

Here, have some wine.



Are you wearing that?



Answers:

Wow, you sure look good in brown!

Wow!

Look at you! Here, have some wine.



What are you so worked up about?



Answers:

Could we be overreacting?

Here's my paycheck.

Here, have some wine.



Should you be eating that:



Answers:

You know, there are a lot of apples left.

Can I get you a piece of chocolate with that?

Here, have some wine.



What did you do all day?



Answers:

I hope you didn't over-do it today.

I've always loved you in that robe.

Here, have some wine.

Excerpt - Murder at Granite Falls by Roxanne Rustand

Murder at Granite Falls

by

Roxanne Rustand



"Just let it go…"



Everyone in Granite Falls tells Carrie Randall the same thing. Is it a threat, or a warning? Yet even if it endangers her fresh start, Carrie needs to know what secret the town's hiding. There's her troubled student and his disturbing drawings. His fiercely protective father, and the mysterious death of his mother. And Carrie definitely has to find out more about the bad reputation of her standoffish new landlord, Logan Bradley. She wants to trust him, but she's been fooled by charm before. Is the town wrong about him—or is she?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, Carrie Randall glanced again in her rearview mirror. The vehicle was still behind her. Billy? It couldn't be. She'd been so very, very careful.



She'd caught a better glimpse of the car while negotiating a set of hairpin turns at a higher elevation. Not close enough to identify the make and model. But close enough to be fairly certain it was the same one that had tailed her for the past two hours.



She palmed her cell phone, checking the number of reception bars on the screen. Zero. No surprise in this isolated part of the Montana Rockies, where bears probably outnumbered the two-footed residents three-to-one.



She frowned at the odometer. Ten miles to the town of Granite Falls. The lane leading to her new home should be coming up in less than a mile. But if her ex-husband was following her, the last thing she wanted was to lead him right to her door.



An earsplitting yowl erupted from the cage on the seat behind her, followed by the frantic scrabbling of paws. "It's okay, Harley. Just hang on."



She stepped on the gas and rocketed past the little gravel lane that wound into the pines off to the left. Then she headed straight for town.

* * *Granite Falls was as picturesque as its tourism website claimed.



The mountain highway widened into a charming six-block-long main street flanked on both sides by historic storefronts, boardwalks and hitching rails straight out of an old Western movie. The center of town was filled with upscale shops and quaint restaurants geared to the tourist trade, while the dusty pickups nosed up to the feed store and cafe on the far edge of town revealed where the locals gathered. Would that be a safe place to stop?



A maroon Lawler County sheriff's deputy patrol car parked face-out in front of the cafe made her decision easy.



She checked in her rearview mirror once more, turned sharply into the parking lot and pulled up along the cruiser. Over her shoulder, she saw the dark sedan slow down, then speed past. Good riddance.



If she lingered in town long enough, the driver might give up, or get careless and not see her leave. Though if it was Billy, he'd be back, restraining order or not.



"Howdy, ma'am."



She turned to find a burly deputy behind her, a foam coffee cup in his hand, waiting to get into his car. The silver name badge pinned to his khaki uniform breast pocket identified him as Vance Munson.



Perhaps in his late thirties, he'd probably been hot stuff in high school in an Elvis sort of way, until he'd put on some years and packed on an extra fifty pounds. With an affable smile on his face, a rumpled uniform and a cellophane bag of cookies in his hand, he reminded her of a genial teddy bear.



"Sorry." She stepped back to give him space. "I…was a little distracted. I thought someone was following me on the highway."



The deputy's full lips quirked into a smile. "You'll find a lot of tourists in these parts, headin' into town just like yourself. No cause for worry."



"I'm actually moving here." She extended her arm, and he juggled his coffee cup into his other hand to accept the handshake. "Carrie Randall."



He rocked back on his heels, taking her measure. "Welcome, then."



"A dark sedan followed me for the past hundred miles then right into town." She looked up the empty Main Street. "Though I couldn't tell you the license plate or even the make of the car."



"Like I said, you'll find a lot of travelers out here on long trips. Destinations are few and far between. People go sightseeing, and you might run into the same folks time and again. No call for worry."



She eyed a family coming out of the cafe and lowered her voice. "I had to file a restraining order against my ex-husband last year."



Munson's gaze sharpened. "Well, now," he drawled. "That might be a calf of a different color. He knows you're moving here?"



"I certainly didn't tell him. I hear he's following a rodeo circuit down in the Southwest this summer. But…"



"But you aren't sure." Munson tipped his head toward the center of town. "Ma'am, you can find the county courthouse just four blocks west of here. You might want to file here, as well."



"Well…"



"It's for your own good." He gave her a warm, encouraging smile. "Where are you staying? I can pass the word along. We like to keep an eye on things around here."



Billy had dropped out of sight during the past year, while she stayed with her protective brother, Trace. During that time, she'd felt safe from Billy's volatile temper, which had escalated ever since their divorce.



Now, she just wanted to start life fresh, with none of those old reminders. No looking over her shoulder. And no rumors filtering out about her being another one of those women who had fallen for charm and flash and ended up in an abusive relationship with an unfaithful man. In small towns like this one, idle talk by one of Lawler County's finest would reach the local grapevine and she'd be branded forever. "I—I'll be fine."



A flicker of annoyance crossed Munson's expression. "Too many women fail to ask for help, ma'am, and the results can be mighty sad. Our sheriff's department will do whatever it can to assist you, but you have to cooperate."



She sighed. "I have a summer lease on an upstairs apartment out at Wolf River Rafting Company."



"The Bradleys," he said, his mouth twisting with a hint of distaste.



He'd settled his aviator shades into place, but from his long silence and the muscle ticking along his jaw, she guessed that the deputy didn't approve. "Is there something I should know?"



"Just.watch your step out there." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head. "And don't ever forget to lock your doors."



With Vance Munson's words still playing through her thoughts, Carrie felt a shiver of unease as she stepped out of her aging silver Tahoe and shielded her eyes against the setting sun.



Sure enough, Wolf River Rafting Company was emblazoned in gilt letters on a sign over the door of the two-story log building overlooking the river and on the smaller, matching building next to the riverbank.



This would be her home for the next three months, and she'd been lucky to find it through a chance discovery on the internet, though as she surveyed the area, a chill worked its way down her spine. The small clearing was bounded on one side by river, on the other three by impenetrable pine forest, and to the west the massive, snowcapped Rockies loomed high along the horizon.



She should've expected a Montana Rockies rafting company would be located in an isolated place offering good access to a river, but she could see nothing else close by. Not a store, not a resort. Not even a cabin. And it was a good half mile off the highway, well out of sight of any passing traffic.



Which meant she'd probably be totally alone come nightfall. Vulnerable.



Was that why the deputy had seemed hesitant about her moving out here? The tense knot in her stomach started to relax. Maybe that was it—he hadn't been hinting at any concern about the Bradleys. He just thought this place would be terribly isolated for a woman living by herself.



Though right now, cheerful pandemonium reigned. A jumble of dirt bikes had been ditched against the trees by a group of mud-streaked boys fishing along the shore. They were fairly bursting with energy, jostling each other and teasing, and then one fell in the water and the rest laughed uproariously when he emerged.



Carrie smiled, remembering the exquisite patience and silence of fly-fishing with Trace. Any fish within a hundred yards of these kids had probably long since skedaddled.



To the right, a couple of eight-man white-water rafts were pulled up on the grass. Down at the river's edge, a dozen silver-haired women chattered on the rocky bank next to a massive rubber raft—a twenty-footer, probably—with inflated tubular sides. The customers were fumbling with the fastenings of their bulky orange life vests while a tall, younger woman moved



among them, redirecting wayward straps and snugging the vests into position. Occasionally, she darted into the log boathouse to fetch a different size.



The scene brought back happy memories of the river guiding job Carrie had held through college. It all seemed so normal. So safe.



The woman in charge studied her for a split second, then hiked her thumb toward the building. "Logan's inside," she shouted.



Carrie nodded, hit the lock button on her key chain out of habit, and picked her way across the river rock.



At the corner of the building she abruptly came face-to-chest with a man in a faded Denver Broncos T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts.



He caught her upper arms with his strong hands, steadied her, then released his grip. "Kayak rental?"



At his touch, an expected sense of awareness warmed her heart, and she quelled a sudden flash of panic. Her immediate instinct was to run.



After a heartbeat, she managed a smile and looked up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen this side of Paul Newman on the silver screen. Oh, my.



"Sorry," she mumbled, catching her breath.



"My fault."



"I—I'm Carrie Randall. I'm here about the apartment."



His face registered a flash of surprise, and from his quick, searching look, she knew he was probably thinking she was some harebrained city gal, way out of her element.



"Well, then," he drawled as he tipped his head toward an open staircase on the side of the building. "Let's do the tour. I'm Logan Bradley, by the way."



His face was lean and tan, with a strong jaw and a shock of near-black hair tumbling over his forehead that made him look



as though he belonged on some back lot in Hollywood, not here in the middle of nowhere.



He offered his hand for a brief shake, the warmth of his fingers settling in the vicinity of her heart and setting off alarm bells that she would not ignore. Charmer…charmer…



She blinked and abruptly jerked her hand back.



This instant, blinding reaction was exactly what had drawn her to Billy, and the emotional wreckage from their divorce was still too painful to bear.



Though fortunately, her concerns about that dark sedan appeared to be unfounded. Deputy Munson had probably been right about it belonging to some vacationer following the same long, long highway on the way to Granite Falls. No one had been lying in wait when she left town. No one had followed her here. Thank You, Lord.



Logan frowned at her. By now, he had to figure she was not only a city slicker, but a fruitcake to boot, if she could barely shake his hand. He was probably even having serious second thoughts about accepting his new lodger.



Not a good thing.



If he changed his mind, the newest teacher in Granite Falls would be sleeping in her Tahoe during summer term, because there was literally nowhere else in the area that wasn't priced for the affluent tourist trade. Isolated or not, this was her one shot for a roof over her head this summer, and she had no other choice.



"The apartment?" she prodded, pinning on her brightest smile.



He seemed to shake off his thoughts, and with a long sigh he led the way up a rustic outside stairway to a balcony that ran the length of the building.



Two doors, one at either end, stood open to the warm afternoon sun reflecting off the river. Between them, six double-hung windows were raised to catch the soft, pine-scented breeze.



He tipped his head toward the woman now shepherding the flock of older women into the raft. "My sister, Penny, is the assistant manager here. She lives in town, but she's out here almost every day." He cracked a lopsided smile. "She came up and aired your place out this morning and checked for spiders and mice, just so you wouldn't have any surprises."



Given the intent gleam in his eyes, she wondered if he was hoping she'd just head straight back to town. He couldn't know that a few little guests were the least of her worries.



She lifted a shoulder. "Not a problem. I've got Harley with



me."



His thick, dark lashes—it was so unfair, when a guy was blessed with what she couldn't even manage with mascara—lowered as he gave her a narrowed look. "Harley?"



She waved an airy hand at him as she passed and stepped into the apartment. "He'll dispatch anything that moves, believe



me."



At least it was true for small vermin. If her raggedy old tomcat could handle the two-legged kind, she'd feel a whole lot safer.



Logan ushered her into the apartment and she caught her breath in delight as she stepped inside.



The photos on the internet realty listing hadn't done justice to the feeling of being up in the treetops, with the pine paneled walls and abundance of sunshine pouring in the windows.



A bright crazy quilt hung on the wall above a ruby plush sofa and two matching upholstered chairs perfect for curling up with a good book. The L-shaped kitchen offered ample counter space with gleaming stainless-steel appliances that looked almost new. A gold, ruby and forest-green area rug warmed the hardwood floors.



"This is absolutely lovely. I wasn't expecting it to be so nice."



A half smile briefly touched Logan's mouth. "Penny probably



had a little too much fun with this. You have it for the summer, then a group of skiers has reserved it for over the winter. After that, she plans to live here during the tourist season every summer."



Again, that little frisson of worry started to tie Carrie's stomach into a knot. "So you don't live on the property, either?"



"Penny stays with our great-aunt in town and I have an old cabin a quarter mile upriver. At least one of us is here from sunrise until dark…most days. Though I'm on the road at times, as well."



"Sounds like a busy schedule."



He lifted a shoulder. "Penny and I are just getting the raft business going again after a few…setbacks last year. Eventually, she'll manage it and I'll start adding an outfitting business for trips up into the mountains."



She nodded, hiding her dismay at his words. She would be alone here.



Though no one knew exactly where she'd moved, except for her brother and his fiancee, and she'd carefully kept his ranch as her cell phone and credit card billing address since she could pay her bills online. With that and no home ownership records to trace, it would be hard for Billy or anyone else from her past to find her.



Surely everything would be fine.



But still, as she followed Logan down the stairs to go after her luggage, she started to pray.

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Excerpt - House of Secrets by Ramona Richard

House of Secrets

by

Ramona Richards



Sheriff Ray Taylor always had a soft spot for the former minister's widow, June Eaton...until he found her standing over the current minister's dead body. She claims she's innocent—and after a string of attacks against Ray and June, he's inclined to believe her. So who is the real killer, and what is he after? Ray knows that the parsonage has to be the key. The old house is hiding a dark secret, something the pastor's murderer is convinced June knows. Something that murderer will do anything to keep buried.



Excerpt of chapter one:



"I did not kill Pastor David." June Presley Eaton tried to swallow her fear as well as the lump of grief in her throat. Her upraised hands trembled, and she felt the phone clutched in her left hand slip slightly. I have to maintain control. June lifted both hands a bit higher and forced her voice lower. "I found him. I wanted to help," she said to the man standing behind her.

Please, Lord, let him believe me. It was a desperate prayer, and June fought a tightening sense of panic. She had a dead pastor lying at her feet and, she was pretty certain, Sheriff Ray Taylor and his deputies at her back, guns drawn. Without turning, June wagged the cordless phone in her hand. From it, the flattened and tinny screeches of the Bell County dispatcher bounced off the kitchen walls of the Victorian parsonage.

"June Presley Eaton! Is that you? Don't tell me you decided to upset Pastor David right before his big event! Someone already heard the fight and called us and Ray is on his way right now, and—"

June hit the off button with her thumb. "I just got here, Ray. I wasn't the one fighting with him. There are footprints leading farther into the house. See them? And when I got here, I could still hear someone back there." The lump in her throat had eased, but the fear still bore into her, tensing every muscle in her lower back and sending a shudder up her spine. Please, Lord.

No response came from the sheriff, however, and in the silence that followed, June knew that all of Ray's instincts had kicked into gear. His brown eyes scanning the room, he'd assess the scene in front of him with that precise, military-trained way he had of observing everything quickly before making a judgment. He would calmly evaluate the crime scene while she stood over a dead body, covered in blood, hands raised, cops clustered at her back with their guns pointing at her. June knew that only the phone in her hand kept her from looking like a suspect. She closed her eyes, praying that Ray would see the same thing she had as she'd approached the broad back porch of the White Hills Gospel Immanuel Chapel's parsonage: bloody footprints leading away from the door and out into the yard.

That had been her cue to fly into the house, calling David Gallagher's name. June had entered the kitchen, moving fast, and her sneakers had hit the red pool gathering around David's body before she could stop. She'd skidded and fallen forward, hitting the floor with a painful thud, her hands splashing down on either side of the butcher knife protruding from David's ribs.

Even during her years as a street kid, she'd never come face-to-face with violence like this.

Once June had stopped screaming, she'd scrambled to her feet and lunged for the phone, barely having time to dial 911 before the screen door had banged open and Ray's command to "Freeze!" had brought everything to a standstill.

In the silence, a fly buzzed around her blood-coated right hand. Trying to look over her shoulder, June struggled to speak in a quieter tone. Control. Stay in control. "Please, Ray. I'm a witness, not a suspect." She took another deep breath, working to sound much more dignified than she felt. "And please close that door. You're letting the flies into the house."

No one moved. Then, after a few seconds that felt like at least a decade, Ray spoke, his baritone voice even and thoroughly professional. "Rivers. Gage. Clear the house."

Silently, Ray's deputies, Daniel Rivers and Jeff Gage, moved through the kitchen and past June and the pastor's body into the main areas of the grand old Victorian. Over the next few minutes, their calls of "Clear!" echoed through the rooms.

"Can I at least put my...

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Excerpt - Trail of Lies by Margaret Daley

Trail of Lies

by

Margaret Daley



As the mother of a beautiful daughter and the wife of a wealthy entrepreneur, Melora Hudson seemed happy. No one knew about the secrets hidden behind closed doors—secrets Melora was forced to keep. Now, two years after her husband's disappearance, the truth may be exposed. His body has been found, and everyone has questions. Texas Ranger Daniel Boone Riley comes to find answers, and stays to protect the woman and child who win his heart. But the terror of Melora's past isn't over. Her late husband's old "associates" want her to carry his secrets to her grave.



Excerpt of chapter one:



Melora Hudson punched in her alarm code to turn the security system off, then tossed her keys on the kitchen counter. All she wanted to do was sink into a chair and drink a cup of hot tea after her exhausting week. But as she moved toward the kettle on the stove, a sound—something hitting the tiled floor—came from the living room and froze her in mid-stride. Tension whipped through her. Until her cat shot through the doorway and launched himself into her arms.



"Okay, Patches, what have you gotten into this time?"



His cry—like a baby's—protested her scolding.



Melora cuddled the fifteen-pound white cat against her chest and started for the living room. Just what she needed—another broken lamp or, like the last time, a crystal vase. As she approached the entrance, she mentally prepared for the devastation, realizing she could never get rid of the animal because her daughter loved Patches. And so did she.



A few steps into the room, Melora stopped, scanning the large expanse for any sign of what had made the crashing noise.



The desk chair was overturned at the far end. Strange. How had Patches done that? She placed the large cat on the tiled floor and headed across the room. Nothing he did should surprise her anymore. She began to pick up the chair while Patches weaved in and out of her legs, but stopped. Her nape prickled; unease streaked down her spine. The quiet of the house, usually a balm, was now ominous. She glanced toward the study. She wasn't alone.



That thought bolted her to the floor for a few precious seconds before she whirled and ran toward the back porch off the great room. Halfway to the exit, she noticed the lock wasn't turned right.



The door was unlocked. Alarm squeezed her chest.



She peered sideways and spied a wiry, medium-sized man wearing a black ski mask barreling toward her. Pushing herself faster, she reached for the knob. Two feet away.



He tackled her. The impact of the cool tiles knocked the breath from her, pain radiating through her. His body trapped her beneath him. All the fear from that break-in two years ago came to the foreground.



She twisted and bucked, trying to shove him off her. She drew in a gulp of air. Finally, her protest ripped from her throat and ricocheted off the tall ceilings, filling the room with her terror.



He slapped her across the face. "Shut up."



Texas Ranger Daniel Boone Riley turned his white Ford 150 truck down the road that led to the Hudson's house in Lone Star Estates where many wealthy San Antonians lived. He should know. His family mansion wasn't but a mile from here.



He'd seen Melora Hudson, the widow, at her husband's funeral a couple of days before. A picture of a five-foot, six-inch, willowy woman materialized in his mind. While she'd stood at the gravesite, her red hair with golden highlights had caught the sun's rays, accentuating the long curls about her beautiful face—a solemn face, appropriate for a funeral. Until he'd locked gazes with her for a few seconds and something akin to fear had flashed into her sea-green eyes. She'd immediately looked away, but he'd seen the apprehension.



What did she know about her husband's death? What was she hiding?



He was here to find out. He'd spent the last few days learning everything he could about the woman. Although Axle Hudson had been murdered two years ago and his body only found last month and not identified until the previous week, the man's death was tied to the recent murder of Captain Gregory Pike of the Texas Rangers' Company D. Daniel would stop at nothing to discover that link. Gregory had been a good friend as well as his boss. There was no way any Ranger in Company D would allow his murder to go unsolved—even though few leads had been uncovered in the month since Greg's death. They knew his murder was connected to an elusive group of people called the Lions of Texas who dealt in illegal activities—drugs among them. Had Axle Hudson been involved in drug dealing? One of many questions Daniel wanted answered.



He parked his truck in front of the large, Spanish-style house with stucco accents and a tile roof. It fit into its surroundings and shouted wealth—typical of what he'd known of Axle Hudson, a flamboyant playboy who had finally married Melora Madison, the niece of prominent businessman Tyler Madison, in a wedding that had been the event of the social season in San Antonio six years ago.



As he strode toward the porch, a scream rent the air. A woman's scream coming from the house. He pulled his Wilson Combat pistol from his waist holster and rushed toward the porch. When he tried the handle, the door was locked. He took a few steps back, started to lift his leg to kick the heavy solid door and realized he wouldn't be able to budge it.



Daniel needed an entrance into the house other than the sturdy front door. Swiveling to the right, he jogged toward the side, placing a call to the sheriff for back up. He found a flimsier door next to the three-car garage and put all his strength behind kicking in the wooden structure. It exploded inward, and he burst into the mudroom.



The pressure on Melora's chest caused dots to dance before her eyes. Sweat coated her face, her body.



Her attacker's dark gaze trailed down her, leaving her chilled. With her arms pinned to her side and the man's heavy weight on her, fear drenched her like her perspiration.



"I won't hurt you if you keep quiet." The raspy voice, as if he'd smoked one too many cigarettes, didn't give his words a ring of truth.



His smelly odor assailed her. Nausea roiled in her stomach. "What do you want?" she managed to squeak out, so glad her daughter was playing at a friend's. If Kaitlyn had been here…The thought chilled her blood.



The intruder withdrew a switchblade and flicked it open. "Information. It was about time you got home."



Melora's eyes grew round, focused totally on the knife he held before her. Not far from her heart. Her throat.



"Where's the flash drive your husband always had on him?"



"I don't know." The flash drive Axle wore around his neck? What had he done to cause this continual nightmare?



The blade came closer. "There are two dumb things you can do. Not give me the flash drive and talk to the police about this or anything concerning your husband's affairs. Are you smart? I'd hate your little girl to be without a mommy. Where's the flash drive? It wasn't found with your husband's body. It has to be here."



The gleaming metal commanded her full attention. Until a boom rocked the air. It sounded as though something had slammed against the wall.



The intruder jerked up, his focus on the entrance into the living room.



Melora grabbed the split second of distraction and shoved upward with all her strength. The man, taken by surprise, teetered above her, the knife clanging to the floor.



Totally in cop mode with his gun clasped in his hand, Daniel quickly assessed the kitchen and moved toward the hallway. A noise to his right—like a scuffle—drew him into the living room. On the far side, a man with a ski mask leaped to his feet and spun around.



"Halt! State Police," Daniel shouted, aiming his gun.



Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Melora sprawled on the floor, her eyes huge in her pale face, a knife a few feet from her on the floor. She scrambled back from her attacker.



As though he had nothing to lose, the intruder sprang for the porch door, wrenched it open, then plunged through the opening.



As Daniel raced toward the exit after the man, he glanced at Melora. "Are you okay?"



"Yes." Her answer came out with a shaky rasp, her face leached of all color.



"I called the sheriff. Help is on the way."



He hurried after the attacker who swung over the railing and landed in the grass below, then shot toward the side of the house. Daniel took the same route. The second his feet touched the ground, he sprinted forward, rounding the pool and cabana not far behind the assailant.



When the man scaled the fence separating the Hudson's property from the neighbor's, his foot caught on a wooden railing, and he tumbled over. Daniel pushed himself faster, eating up several yards between them before the intruder hustled to his feet and continued toward a vehicle parked on the street.



Daniel sailed over the same fence, adrenaline spurring him on. Determined to catch the burglar, he raced across the neighbor's front lawn. When the assailant reached a white Honda Accord, he dragged the door open and lunged inside.



The car started, and the intruder floored the gas, shrieking away from the curb. Daniel zeroed in on the license plate and got a partial number, the rest obscured by dirt. He lifted his gun to aim at the back left tire, knowing the possibility of stopping the car was slim.



Too late. The vehicle disappeared around the corner.



Daniel dug into his pocket and withdrew his cell, calling the suspect's car and partial plate number into the sheriff's office. Then he trudged back to the Hudson's house, which sat on several acres of land. The picture of Melora on the floor, afraid, her shirt pulled out of her slacks, her long hair tousled, her body quaking, haunted his thoughts. The visualization rocked him with anger.



What was going on? That question plagued him the whole way back as he retraced his steps to see if the suspect had dropped anything in his mad dash to get away. Nothing.



Climbing the steps to the deck, Daniel holstered his pistol. When he entered the living room, he discovered Melora standing not far from where she'd been attacked. Her shirt was tucked into her pants, and she was running her trembling hand through her hair. The pale cast to her face, and the large, round eyes spoke of a woman who had been frightened for her life.



He needed answers, ones his fellow Ranger Oliver Drew hadn't gotten when he had interviewed her last week after Axle Hudson's remains had finally been identified. "Did this have anything to do with your husband's murder?" Daniel covered the short distance between them.



She backed up, her arms crossing her chest. "I think…" Her tongue ran over her lips. "I think it was just a burglar."



He couldn't shake the feeling something was going on here beyond a mere robbery, especially since Melora kept evading eye contact. "What was he after?"



Her mouth pinched into a frown. "I don't know. He didn't give me a rundown while he had me pinned to the floor."



Her body language—rubbing her eye, looking away for a couple of seconds—shouted at deception. She knew what the man was after. Why didn't she tell him? Was there a connection to her dead husband?



"You're Daniel Riley with the Texas Rangers. I told the other Ranger last week I don't know who would have killed my husband or why someone would want him dead. Why would you think this has anything to do with Axle's murder?" She drew herself up straight, dropping her arms to her sides, her chin tilting up a notch.



They had casually met before since their families moved in the same social circles, and she was on the Alamo Planning Committee for the 175th anniversary celebration of the Battle of the Alamo in March. He'd spoken to the committee a few months back. But he really didn't know her. That would change after today. "Why are you so sure it doesn't? Your husband's remains were finally identified after he'd been missing for two years and the next week your house is broken into. Just a coincidence?"



"Yes. I've told Ranger Drew everything I know, which is nothing. Axle went out one evening and never returned.



That's all I know."



"Did anyone have a grudge against your husband?"



"Why are the Texas Rangers involved in the investigation? I would have thought the sheriff would be conducting the murder investigation. He's the one I reported to when my husband went missing two years ago."



"Your husband's murder may be tied to an investigation we're running."



"What?"



The doorbell's chime cut the tension vibrating between them.



"Excuse me." Relief washed over her face as she headed toward the foyer.



"That's the sheriff. I called in the make of the getaway car and its partial license number." Daniel trailed behind her, just in case it wasn't the sheriff.



She halted and looked back at him. "Good."



But that fear he'd glimpsed at the gravesite flickered across her face momentarily. She quickly continued her trek toward the door and opened it to the sheriff and a deputy.



Sheriff Karl Layton moved into the house after indicating to his deputy to check the grounds. "Melora, I understand there was a break-in here today."



"A man was here when I came home a little while ago."



"Where are your housekeeper and daughter?"



"Juanita took Kaitlyn to a play date with a friend. I had a meeting at the hospital with the ladies auxiliary."



"When will they be back?"



"Not for another hour."



"I'll try to make this quick. I'd hate to upset Kaitlyn any more."



"Thanks, Karl. I appreciate that." Melora indicated to the living room and Daniel standing in its entrance. "Ranger Riley managed to thwart the man. Nothing was taken that I can tell."



How would she know? She couldn't have checked. There hadn't been enough time. Daniel got the distinct feeling the woman wanted both him and the sheriff gone as quickly as possible. That wasn't going to happen. She wasn't getting rid of him that easily. Her husband had been involved in what was going on with the Lions of Texas. His body had been found buried at one of the organization's drug drop sites. Had he been a member of the group? Had he crossed them somehow? Did Melora know something about the Lions of Texas?



Daniel strode to where the knife lay on the floor and pointed at it. "The intruder dropped this before fleeing."



The color that had returned to Melora's face drained again as she looked at the weapon. She turned away, hugging her arms across her chest.



"Good. We'll check for fingerprints." The sheriff donned a latex glove and carefully picked up the knife to drop into an evidence bag.



"You probably won't find anything since he wore gloves, but maybe he was careless and we'll catch a break."



"It's happened before, and I'm always grateful when it does." Karl removed his cowboy hat and held it in his hands as he sat on a beige couch while Melora took the wingback chair across from him. "Can you tell me what happened? Anything about the man?"



She ran her long tapered fingers along her chin. "It happened so fast. I thought Patches had knocked over something in the living room. I came in to investigate. The next thing I know a man tackled me to the floor. The rest is a blur."

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My favorite ereader for a Mother's Day gift!

Apologies to all you Kindle fans, but I love my Nook.



I's mostly because I can read .epub and .pdb and .pdf files on it, whereas on Kindle you can only read .azw and .pdf files. Most of my ebooks are .pdb and .epub, and I didn't want to have to buy .azw versions of them all to read on a Kindle.



So when I heard about this special for Mother's Day, you knew I'd have to post about it, right??? The NookColor is kind of like a less expensive iPad because it has the touch screen.



Mother' Day NOOKcolor™ Promo (starts April 29th and ends May 5th)

Free Expedited Shipping on NOOKColor for Mother's Day - Hurry limited time offer only!





Or if Mom won't want a Nook but might want a book:

Excerpt - Mission: Out of Control by Susan May Warren

Mission: Out of Control

by

Susan May Warren



Brody "Wick" Wickham is a former Green Beret turned security agent—with a 100 percent mission success rate. No way is his new assignment changing that. Even if it's protecting a diva American rock star while she's on tour in Europe. Except Veronica "Vonya" Wagner isn't just a beautiful celebrity used to having her way—she's the daughter of a U.S. Senator. And she's hiding a dangerous secret. When Wick discovers what's at stake, how far over the line will he go to keep them both alive?



Excerpt of chapter one:



Was it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet on his so-called R & R?



Apparently Brody Wickham—ex-Green Beret, current on-leave security operator for Stryker International—had turned into a magnet for trouble, and he knew inside his gut that someone was going to get hurt.



Preferably not him.



Brody could spot the ugly future the second that Vonya—the one-name, brazen rock 'n' roll diva and the leader of the crazies inside this D.C. nightclub—stepped up to the edge of the stage and, with a feral scream, sprang into the outstretched hands of her minions.



Perhaps soared might be a better term, as she launched herself, arms flung out, like some sort of prehistoric animal in scaly black leather and a peacock mask, her garish pink wig a plume, into the undulating mosh pit.



Thankfully, anonymous hands caught Miss Crazy and floated her over the mass like a piece of bacon. It didn't mean this wouldn't end badly. With blood. Broken bones.



Death by stampede.



And Brody Wickham, off-duty bodyguard, simply couldn't let that happen, despite wanting to stay incognito in the shadows near the bar. He moved to the edge of the crowd, every muscle coiled. He'd guess that in about ten seconds, he'd have to plow through this mob and save her.



He should be sitting on a lawn chair in the backyard of his parents' suburban ranch home, catching up on the news of his eight brothers and sisters—most of whom he hadn't seen for nearly a decade. Or helping his parents decipher the foreclosure notice from the bank.



The music nearly shook the bricks from their mortar in the warehouse-turned-club, the perfect venue for Vonya's eccentric pulse, with its black Art Deco walls covered in skinny mirrors, disco lights dangling from the ceiling, and a round stage that thrust out into the audience.



Despite the cacophony of noise, he had to admit, Vonya had pipes. Brody wasn't so iron-eared as to not recognize the flash of talent in the tones that blew out of that petite body covered in leather and fishnet, even if he spent most of the night averting his eyes from her plunging minidress.



A random elbow connected with the soft tissue of his nose, stopping him cold at the fringes of the dancers.



Okay, what was he doing? This wasn't his gig, his battle. He didn't even know this impulsive woman, and nobody had asked him to be a hero today.



He was here for—



Lucy! She'd jumped right into the mosh pit, moving to the middle, pushing, shoving, bouncing off dancers twice her size.



Everything inside him pinged, his adrenaline rushing.



Oh, he'd known, just known, that his fifteen-year-old sister had no business at a Vonya concert, which was why he'd heard himself volunteering to take her when she appeared in a black-and-purple scoop-neck T-shirt, enough silver costume jewelry to sink a small ship, and skintight animal-print jeans.



And since when had his all-things-Catholic mother decided to say yes to the nose piercing? Clearly, he wasn't the only one who'd lost his mind.



Then again, his mother wouldn't be the first person to let someone talk her into something against her best judgment.



Only, her concessions didn't get people killed.



"You don't want to go to a Vonya concert," his sister had whined, shortly after his mother had tossed him the keys to her Subaru, more than a little relief in her eyes.



"I don't care about this Vonya chick—I care about you. Are you sure you don't need a…jacket? Or maybe a paper bag?"



Lucy shot him her best death-ray glare. "I'll just pretend I'm a celebrity. You can be my bodyguard."



"You know, I do sometimes bodyguard people for a living. I might know a few things about staying out of the way."



"Not at a Vonya concert," Lucy said. "I hate to tell you this, dude, but you're in way over your head."



Clearly. He kept his gaze on her as she bounced in the center of the mosh—



She went down.



"Make a hole!" Brody shoved toward her, his blood hot in his veins. By the time he reached her, Lucy had surfaced, her face flushed, holding her nose. Blood dripped out between her fingers.



Okay, that was it. He glanced once at Vonya, saw her riding the wave, then wrapped his hand around Lucy's arm. "We're leaving." The so-called music ate his voice.



She yanked her arm away. "I'm fine!" Her painted eyes glittered.



He didn't have time to retort because the punk next to Lucy turned on him. "Leave her alone, dude!" He then threw his body—or perhaps someone threw him—against Brody.



Brody caught him, pushed him away.



Definitely time to egress.



He glanced once more at Vonya, his gut tight, trying to shake off the dread. With a gulp, the pit swallowed her whole.



See? Someone should have stopped the madness long before this.



The crowd swelled around her, people pushing, chaos breaking free, bodies tumbling, screaming ripping through the club.



"Brody!" Fear showed in Lucy's wide eyes.



Brody wrapped his arms around her, pushing them both out of the crowd. "You okay?"



She nodded, still protecting her nose.



Perfect. So much for bringing his sister home in one piece.



"Go to the bathroom and get cleaned up. Stay away from the crowd!" He had to shout inches from her face, but even as Lucy nodded, his attention pulled back to the mob.



No Vonya. But screams and grunts emitted over the microphone, and even the band members had stopped playing.



"Go!" he yelled to Lucy, and plowed back into the violence.



Another elbow to the gut nearly blew out his breath, but he moved with the purpose of a ground assault, shoving bodies aside, protecting his face as he waded through to Vonya's last known position.



Nothing, although he did manage to haul to their feet two women and a very skinny kid.



He made it all the way to the man-size speaker…and spotted a flash of pink huddled behind the equipment.



Vonya crouched, holding her left arm curled tight to herself. Despite the black makeup, the weird peacock mask, the bright pink Marilyn Monroe-style hairdo, and the scaly leather dress, he recognized a woman shaken.



Not that it took a psychologist to figure it out—her mask hung torn from her face and she stared up at him like he might be the boogeyman.



So he didn't stop to focus, analyze or plan. Didn't stop to think through his actions. Just bent down, slipped his arms around her and swooped her up.



"Hey! What are you doing?" She twisted in his arms, eyes wide.



"What does it look like?" he said into her ear, as he pushed through the hysterical crowd toward the back entrance. "Trying to save your pretty little neck."



"Call 911, tell them things are out of control!" she said, twisting in his arms as if wanting to run back into the mess.



"You should have thought of that before you threw yourself into the audience."



She stiffened. "I'm okay. You can put me down."



"Not quite yet, honey."



But he looked at her then. She seemed more petite up close with her crazy pink hair and false eyelashes, and she swallowed back something that looked like shame.



Then he kicked open the back door and freed them to the alley.



"I said, put me down!" No problem.



Unfortunately, her words came out timed perfectly for the paparazzi, who got a million-dollar shot of him flinching as she landed an openhanded smack across his face.



Of course she'd been summoned by the senator. Ronie finger-combed her sea-sticky hair as she sat in the backseat of the limousine, her trench coat tucked around her, trying to chase from her bones the last of the chill from the choppy ferry ride to Martha's Vineyard. Her father's voice on her machine rang in her memory.



"Sounds like you made a real spectacle of yourself this time, Vonya. Your mother and I want a word with you. I'll expect you at the beach house this weekend"



Of course he expected her. But at twenty-eight, she thought she might be strong enough to resist his summons.



Well, she might be if she weren't broke and needing the senator's goodwill in the form of financial backing for her upcoming European tour, aka rescue mission.



She'd saved the text message from the Bishop and now ran her thumb over her cell in her pocket. Found him. Thank You, God.



Her throat tightened even as she stared out at the ocean, at the frothy waves clawing the shore. Please let the senator be in a good mood.



The limo turned into the long drive toward Harthaven, past the weathered split-rail fencing, the green-carpeted pastures. A couple of her mother's thoroughbreds lifted their heads as if in greeting. The tires ground against the gravel until the car pulled up at the front door.



"Nice to see you again, Miss Veronica," the driver said, as he opened her door.



"You, too, Mr. Henley." She lifted her messenger bag from the seat and stood for a moment in front of the ancestral home, two centuries of age in its weathered cedar shakes. Out of habit her eyes went to Savannah's tiny, empty attic window.



"Veronica, you made it!" Her mother's voice emerged first as she exited the house, crossed the porch and descended the front steps. Ellie Wagner looked about twenty-five, with her long brown hair held back in a ponytail, and her brown riding pants and pink blouse. She held her helmet, with a pair of gloves shoved inside, against her hip. "I was just leaving for a quick ride. I'll be back in time for dinner." She pecked her daughter on the check as she breezed by. "Oh, we'll be dressing for dinner tonight, but your father would like to see you for drinks in the study at six o'clock."



"I don't drink." Never had, really. And never mind that she hadn't called herself Veronica since her sophomore year in college.



But it didn't matter. Her mother waved her gloves and disappeared around the corner to the stable.



"No problem, Mother, I'm down with that," she said to the brisk island air.



She kept a standard little black dress and a strand of pearls in the closet just for Saturday nights at Harthaven. Her fans wouldn't have a prayer of recognizing her.



Sometimes, after a concert, she didn't even recognize herself.



Six p.m. The hour of execution, when she had to discard herself of all things Vonya and climb back into the expectations of her upbringing. But no one could ever accuse her, Veronica Stanton Wagner, of not knowing how to adapt. She'd eaten Zong Zing with the ambassador to China, challenged the sons of the prime minister of Nepal to a game of Bagh Chal, learned to play the djembe from a musical troupe from Ghana, and could speak, although poorly, snippets of Portuguese, thanks to the young wife of the United Nations representative from Brazil.



She could probably manage to behave like a proper lady tonight at dinner. Especially if it meant erasing from her father's recent memory the newspaper photo of Vonya laying her palm across a very handsome, yet downright surly, self-appointed bodyguard after last Saturday's debacle.



Yeah, well, she'd been a victim one too many times of a crazy fan. And one very dangerous stalker. How was she to know he actually wanted to help her?



She could still see his shock as he recoiled, then the growl that flashed into his eyes as he'd gritted his teeth and set her down.



Stabilized her as she rocked on those lethal five-inch heels.



No, not a fan. Thankfully, he hadn't let loose the words behind the disgust that flashed across his face.



But the derision from the stranger hurt, she had to admit it.



Or not a stranger anymore. Brody Wickham. She'd discovered his name after her frantic manager found them returning from the alley. Tommy D had decided to make him a national—or at least music-industry—hero.



She longed to forget him, hating the way he and his condemnation stuck in her brain. In fact, she thought she'd escaped the claw of shame long ago.



Clearly not. And it didn't help that Brody Wickham cast a steely, almost annoyed image across national airwaves and onto prime-time entertainment shows when he announced that he'd simply been trying to keep her from hurting herself.



Nice.



Except maybe he'd been right. She still sported a greenish-black bruise on her arm.



Oh, given the choice, she would rather have holed up in her SoHo loft this weekend with a bowl of popcorn and her keyboard to work on a new song. But she couldn't rightly beg for money over the phone, or even through email. Senator Wagner wouldn't want to miss the pleasure of staring her down and making her feel fifteen and a failure.



Just once, she'd like to be twenty-eight, smart and beautiful.



But this little excursion wasn't for her. Or even for the senator. And life didn't always hand out choices.



An hour later, Ronie gave a last survey in the mirror—short brown hair curled into tiny ringlets around her head, the barest dusting of makeup, a little lip gloss, a touch of lime eye shadow. She appeared, well, wholesome.



She didn't exactly hate the look.



The smells of a pot roast, or maybe lamb with rosemary, tugged her down the stairs. Stopping off in the kitchen, she sneaked a fresh roll from a basket on the counter, earning a growl from Marguerite, their weekend housekeeper, and tore it into tiny pieces as she walked toward her father's study.



The melodies of Tchaikovsky escaped through the cracked open door. She eased it open.



Tripp Wagner stood with his back to her, an outline of power as he stared out the window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had begun to darken the pond and seep across the grass. Only a glimmer of light sprinkled through the pines that ringed their property. Sometimes she wished they had beachfront property, where they could watch the sun sink like a fiery ball behind the sandy dunes.



"Father?"



"Come in, Veronica."



Ronie stepped inside the study. A desk lamp puddled orange over the leather blotter on the mahogany desk. His briefcase lay on the credenza, under a family picture, now nearly fifteen years old. Ronie barely glanced at it, not really recognizing any of the four of them.



"You can help yourself to a drink." He gestured with a glass of something amber—bourbon, probably—still not turning from the window.



"I still don't drink alcohol, Father," she said, but moved over to the bar and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice. It helped to have something to hold on to when the senator began his orations.



"Not that anyone would ever know."



She braced herself.



"Sometimes, I can't believe that is actually my daughter making a spectacle of—No. I promised your mother." He sighed, turned and, for the first time, let his eyes rest on her. She stifled a tremble, not because he frightened her—well, not much, anymore—but because she saw in his hazel-green eyes such sadness, it filled her throat with something scratchy and hard.



"Sorry," she mumbled. "It's part of the act."

Print book:

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Amazon

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Ebook:

eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)

Nookbook

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