Lynn Raye Harris's Blog, page 12

It’s the Season!

I hope all my American readers had an awesome Thanksgiving! We certainly did. Good friends we have not see in eight years, since we were all stationed together in Germany, came to visit us. My parents were here too, and it was just one big reunion. We ate and talked and laughed like those years hadn’t passed. The only evidence they had was the 11 year old child who was a toddler back then. :/

After dinner, the ladies looked at the Black Friday ads. Not that we intended to brave a single store, but looking at the ads is just fun. Later that evening, we went to a Christmas light display in the local botanical garden. And it suddenly came home to me just how rushed this season typically is.

We have an extra week this time, due to the early Thanksgiving, but it’s still time for trees and tinsel and gifts and cards and lights and all the pressure that goes along with those things. Now, I am accustomed to pressure. It seems as if I’m always writing to some deadline or other, and that they get crammed up on top of each other so that I feel as if I’m never getting out from under them.

Add in Christmas, and the pressure skyrockets. I’m sure it’s not just me. I’m sure that, whatever your profession, you might feel a little bit of pressure this time of year to provide that perfect holiday experience. We’re all supposed to be Martha Stewart, right? Somewhere, right now, Martha might be making homemade Christmas cards and canning fresh berries while single-handedly decorating the most fabulous tree ever decorated. Go, Martha.

I think it’s okay not to be Martha. I think whatever we manage to do, so long as we are happy and our family is happy, is enough. Not only that, but our families can also help us during this time of year. Make addressing cards into a family project. Make decorating a family project. Make cookie baking, if you like to do that sort of thing, into a family project.

This season is about togetherness and family and giving and remembering our blessings, so I think it’s okay if our house isn’t perfectly decorated and we don’t have the exterior draped in lights that blink on and off to the beat of a song.

This brings me to another point. Theodore Roosevelt said that comparison is the thief of joy. Do not compare yourself to others because you will only feel bad in the end. There is always someone who has a prettier house, more money, better decorations, etc.

But here’s the thing to remember. Besides not comparing yourself because it’s upsetting, life is not static. The neighbor with the prettier house and nicer decorations might lose his job and have to move. The coworker who had all her cards out the door the day after Thanksgiving, and who finished her shopping back in August, might have personal problems you can’t begin to fathom.

There are no guarantees in life, so celebrate where you are and what you can do and don’t compare yourself. I know that’s not always easy. I know it’s human nature to compare and find ourselves lacking. But the life that seems perfect on the outside isn’t always, is it? Just ask Martha Stewart. All the crafting and cooking and decorating in the world didn’t help her stay out of jail when the time came.

So remember that your perfect neighbor or your perfect coworker might just be one insider trade away from a stint in the corrections facility.

Go forth and be happy this season. Enjoy, celebrate, and let things slide if they must. Be happy, friends. That’s the most important thing.

A Good Cause

The blogger Limecello is running a Social Media for Good campaign. I’ve donated to the charity and I’ve offered up two books as prizes! All you have to do to enter is leave a comment HERE and then enter this giveaway through the Rafflecopter widget below. But you must leave a comment on Limecello’s post, or she won’t consider you’ve entered! Just entering on my site won’t do it. Click the link above, comment on Lime’s post, and enter the widget here. You’ll be set!

Also, the winner of my previous giveaway, a copy of THE GIRL NOBODY WANTED, is Leslee Kahler! Leslee, please email me your info and I’ll get the book in the mail to you!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

You gotta have friends

There’s something about early morning which lends itself to contemplation, I think. Mr. Harris had an early meeting this morning, something to do with a tele-conference with people in other parts of the world, so he had to get up at a criminal hour — and I woke up too. So now I’m sitting in bed with my laptop and my tea and thinking in the quiet hours before dawn. I have a lot of work to do, but I’ll do it after I do this.

I’ve been thinking about this business, which I love, and about the people in it. Readers, y’all are the most amazing, wonderful, necessary people in the world. Without you, I have no job. I’d write anyway, but I’d have to do it while working 9 to 5 at something else to pay the bills. And no one would be reading the stories but me — and maybe a couple of friends. So this is preferable, and I thank you for it! I’m glad you like my books, and I always love to hear from you. So don’t hesitate to send that email!

The other people I love in this business are my writing friends. I have a core group, people I can rant to about covers, sales, blurbs, revisions, etc. There’s nothing like a good rant with your fellow writers. They understand what it’s like to have a cover you hate or a blurb that fails to mention that lovely hook you wrote. They are also there when you have an emergency and need to brainstorm something. Romance writers are some of the most giving writers you’ll ever meet.

This weekend, I attended the Southern Magic Reader Luncheon. Sherrilyn Kenyon was the guest speaker. She is amazing. As successful as she is, she’s also humble and doggedly determined to keep working as hard as she can. She deserves her success. And she moved me to tears more than once as she gave of herself to that packed room with a dynamic speech that was personal and inspirational.

Today, I sit at the computer determined to go over, under, around, or through, as Sherrilyn said. Somehow, some way, I’m getting a ton of work done before I go to sleep tonight.

So I’d better get to it! But here’s a picture of me with one of my writing friends, Kira Sinclair, who writes for Blaze and who can always be called upon to listen to a good rant.

Who do you rant to? Who are your friends you can always count on? One commenter will win a copy of my current release, THE GIRL NOBODY WANTED.

The Girl Nobody Wanted is available now!

It’s official: THE GIRL NOBODY WANTED is now in stores and also available from all your favorite digital outlets. Thanks to you, it hit #28 on Bookscan this week! That makes me very happy.

Pippa, the adorable editorial assistant over in the UK office, sent me this lovely widget to share with you. You can read the first chapter, share the widget, or go straight to eHarlequin and buy the book. (You can also buy from all the usual online stores as well.) I hope you enjoy!

P.S. For even more fun, check out what Scandal Magazine has to say about Leo and Anna!

Blog WidgetBrowseShareBuy

Books that should not be forgotten

Last night on Twitter, I was joking around with some fellow writers about pushing the envelope. I believe, in a line like Presents that has been around since before I was born, it’s rather silly to think you are the FIRST AUTHOR EVER to write something. Really, you probably are not, no matter what you think. It’s all been done before.

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be looking to twist what you know, to throw in a new spin on an old tale. For instance, my book Strangers in the Desert came about when I got the bright idea I wanted a secret baby book — but it was the heroine who didn’t know she had a baby. Surely I am not the first author to think of that idea (and I would never say I was!), but it was most definitely a challenge and fun. I’ve had a lot of reader mail about that book and I’m so glad it worked for so many readers.

But, in the quest to think up new and different ideas, there was some silly stuff thrown out. One of those things was a pole-dancing billionaire hero, courtesy of new Presents author Maya Blake. While I’ve never seen a pole-dancing billionaire hero in a Presents, I *have* seen a pole-dancing hero before!

I read this book when it first came out in 1998 and loved it. Now the author has the rights back and is selling it for $2.99! The book is Absolute Trouble by Michele Albert. It features a pole-dancing sexy as hell Cajun stripper hero named Julien Langlois and an ex-cop heroine named Dulcie Quinn.

Sounds intriguing, right? Michele Albert pulls that story off too, let me tell you. I was totally in love with Julien from the moment he showed up in his tiny g-string. He pulls off alpha masculine while wearing next to nothing. It’s awesome.

I don’t know Michele Albert and I’m not hawking her book as a favor. I’ve just never forgotten it, so when I saw it was on Amazon, I had to tell you about it. The Kindle rank on this story should be way higher than it is, in my opinion.

Michele has four six* books she’s republishing for $2.99 (and a host of others still with publishers). My next favorite in the $2.99 books is Her Bodyguard. I’m not as big a fan of the other two, but that’s just because the stories are very different from what I usually like. HER BODYGUARD features shoes, and one pair of shoes in particular: a historic pair that belonged to a gangster’s girlfriend and holds the key to a secret.

*(Another favorite, now that I see it’s six books and not four, is Getting Her Man.)

With all the inexpensive self-published books out there today, it can be hard to make a decision where to spend your money. But I highly recommend ABSOLUTE TROUBLE. And if you like that one, give HER BODYGUARD a try. These books should not be forgotten!

Now tell me what books you recommend, especially the older ones that might be lost in the shuffle….

P.S. The books are also available on B&N….

Moving forward

Yesterday, I said I thought I needed to cut 30K words. I wasn’t quite ready to give up on them yet, you see, and I was still hoping to make them work somehow.

But then I came to the realization the book was moving forward so well when I was writing all new stuff that I realized those 30K words really had to go. Yeah, it’s a setback. A blow.

But sometimes you have to do it, friends. If it’s not working, no matter how pretty the prose, then it has to go. The story I wrote was perfectly fine — for another line. It’s not a Presents as I wrote it. Why? Well, I have an American former military hero and my knowledge of the military got in the way of my knowledge of what a Presents should be. I don’t see the two going together at all, so it just didn’t work no matter how hard I tried to be true to both.

What is the solution? Obviously, this story is a Presents. So I have to forget what I know about the military and make this guy be what Presents heroes always are. Rich, fabulous, arrogant, etc.

And that requires chucking the entire last half of the book and rewriting it. Of course I’m not happy about it, but this is what you do when you have to get the work done.

I once knew someone who had been working on the same novel, her first, for about six years. She hadn’t written anything else, just that one book. And she kept workshopping it to death. Taking it to writing groups, listening to all the crazy advice about passive voice and adverbs and etc (not that all that advice is crazy, but when it’s what gets focused on to the exclusion of story, it IS crazy. Not to mention so many writers don’t even know what passive voice really is and they get it wrong) and changing the book to satisfy an endless group of people.

I believe she even hired a copy editor. Not a developmental editor, but a copy editor to help her polish that prose. Because she was so focused on the idea her words needed fixing that she couldn’t understand the words might be perfectly fine — but they might be the WRONG words. The wrong story.

Sometimes, you have to cut the words and move on. You can save them in another file (I always do) and mine them if you need to. But I think once you get going on that new draft, you won’t want the old words. You’ll find new ways to say things–not to mention your characters will be in new situations, perhaps even different people now.

It’s not a failure when you realize you have to start over. It’s a hard lesson, no doubt about it, and it’s frustrating as hell. But you can’t keep going over the same set of words, the same story, for years and try to make it work. Wouldn’t it just be easier to start over?

A few blog posts ago, I gave y’all an excerpt of my single title contemporary military romance. That book is with an editor now, and I hope to get it done and available in the next 2 to 3 months. But want to know a dirty little secret about that book?

I started it eight years ago. I wrote it one way. It was terrible. I rewrote it. And then I rewrote it again. And I mean chucking it all and starting over. Four years ago, I sold to Harlequin, and I put it away. I’d rewritten it three times by then. Last year, I pulled it out again and started working on it. Not a rewrite, because it was much closer now, but a real revision. Deadlines got in my way, but I finally finished that revision and got the book to an editor. Not a copy editor, because I recognize the book may still need more changes.

By the time you’re able to read this book, it will have been rewritten several times and revised a couple times more. That’s me being stubborn and believing in the story, sure, but it’s also me being a professional. You must be willing to kill your darlings. When the story isn’t working, don’t keep trying to patch it up and move on. Start again. It may be as simple as reworking a character’s conflict — or as complicated as chucking it all and starting over.

Not every story needs to be completely rewritten. But if you’ve been staring at the same words for weeks and having trouble moving forward, you may just need a fresh start. Don’t be afraid. Go for it!

Stuck in the muck

Today, it’s all about revisions here in Chez Harris. I’m working on rewriting (and I do mean rewriting) the latest Presents. There are various reasons for it, but let’s just say the first version missed the mark by a wide margin. It happens, y’all. If you’re still trying to get published, you may believe that once you get that foot in the door, it’s all magical and wonderful from there on out.

It is, in a way, but the work is still difficult and there are no guarantees.

In this book, for instance, I think I’ve come to the realization that I have to cut 30,000 words. Yes, you read that right. I have to cut that and rewrite it all. How did this happen to a seasoned author?

First and foremost, this book is a continuity, which means the story was handed to me by the editors. I’ve done two continuities before and had no trouble at all. But this time, I just couldn’t get a handle on who these people were. I kept forcing the story forward, thinking it would all work out in the end. It didn’t.

There were reasons for the difficulties, not all entirely my own fault, but it happened and now I’m stuck in the muck and suffering the consequences. It’s disheartening, sure. But all writing is rewriting. There is no such thing as a perfect story the first time through. Or at least not for 99.9% of us.

The worst part of this right now is I want to be working on other things. I have a new Presents in the works and I need to get to work on Book 2 of my Special Ops series.

But first I have to suck it up and finish this revision. Sometimes, in the immortal words of Kenny Rogers, you got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. Don’t get stuck on the idea that you must keep all those beautiful words. You can cut them, and you can replace them. It hurts, but the book will be better in the end.

It’s the only thing that keeps me from curling up in a ball and blubbering hysterically…..

Blast from the Past: Getting the Call

Today, I thought it would be fun to share my original Call story post with you! I wrote this post for I Heart Presents, but I think it’s appropriate to share it here with you now. Four years ago, on October 6th 2008, I got the Call. It was a thrilling day!

I can hardly believe it’s been four years since that magical day. My 10th Presents comes out in just a few weeks, though I’ve written nearly double that number now. I’ve hit the USA Today bestseller list, had a couple of number one bestsellers at Borders (when they were still doing the list, sigh) and Mills & Boon, and met so many wonderful readers from around the world who write and tell me they like my books.

It’s awesome to be able to share my stories with you! Soon, I hope to share even more stories with you. I’m working hard on those special projects, and hope to have good news for you soon. In the meantime, I hope the writers will enjoy the Call story — and I hope the readers know just how grateful I am to them for continuing to show me their love!

All y’all rock!

My Call Story by Lynn Raye Harris

When I last wrote a post, I’d just turned in my second round of revisions and I was waiting for my editor, Sally Williamson, to let me know how I did. Naturally, I was apprehensive! I was hopeful this time, but nowhere near certain I’d gotten it right enough for the Magical Phone Call.

I sent Sally my revisions on a Wednesday. On Friday, she responded that she loved what I’d done but she had some tweaks for me. I got excited as I read her email because I could tell these were easy things to do: take something out, add something in, expand something else. Nothing was major, and nothing was a total rewrite. Yay!

But the bad news (for me, not for Sally!) was that she was on her way out the door for a two-week holiday. I was seriously excited – but two weeks? Oh man, the wait. I finished the tweaks that weekend and sent the story back. But I still had two weeks to go.

Two excruciating weeks! Thankfully, I had distractions. My in-laws were visiting and we had a construction project going on. I had some contest entries to judge, and an anniversary to celebrate. I also scheduled lunch with a friend, and there was a costume party squeezed into those two weeks as well. So I was busy, but it was always there in the back of my mind. Would Sally have good news for me when she got back, or would I be rewriting again?

Sunday, Oct 5, I was thinking pretty hard about how I would pick myself up and dust myself off and start another book if Sally gave me bad news (maybe she was tired of these characters and figured I’d never get it right). I still had her for six months, so I was going to write another book! I’d already written a loose synopsis and character backgrounds, so I was ready to go.

Several of my writing friends told me to stop being silly and quit worrying so much. My husband said of course they were going to buy my book, there was no way I’d slid backward over something as easy as tweaks, and to stop obsessing (he’s practical like that). But that’s what writers do, right? We obsess.

I knew Sally was back in the office on Monday, so I figured if I didn’t hear something by Wednesday, I’d send her an email. I’d waited two weeks; surely I could wait a couple more days. Her “To Do” list had to be pretty full since she’d been away. I reminded myself I wasn’t her first priority and she would get to me when she had a chance.

Monday morning, my husband got up bright and early to get ready for work. I always get up at some point before he leaves and prepare for my day at the computer. That morning, I was a little behind the curve. I was sitting up in bed, still in my pajamas, and my husband had just kissed me goodbye. He was walking out the bedroom door when the phone rang.

Our phone is in the kitchen, which is next to the bedroom, and he was closer. But I’d jumped out of bed and was headed that way. My husband picked up the phone and looked at the Caller ID. It was Privacy Director, the service that filters calls it deems to be from telemarketers to a menu where I get to choose whether or not to answer. I don’t know why, but it always does this when Harlequin calls (sorry, Sally; if I knew how to turn it off I would). My husband was puzzled over the Privacy Director so early in the morning, but I just said, “Give it to me.”

I knew who it was (call it a feeling or a coincidence, but I was positive it was Sally), and I hoped like crazy I knew why she was calling. I answered and heard Sally’s lovely accent as she stated her name. Of course I accepted the call! By this time, my husband had followed me back into the bedroom and sat beside me on the bed. Sally asked me how I was, I think I asked her about her vacation, and then she said some combination of those Magic Words that I can’t remember precisely because my heart was beating so fast: “We want to buy your book.”

I squeezed my husband’s arm. I don’t remember much else, except to say how happy I was. (And I think I was bouncing on the bed, btw.) Sally said a few more things, something about calling my new agent with the details, but I definitely heard “two book contract.” My husband was so happy he said, “Thank you, Sally!” into the phone while I was trying to listen.

After I finished talking with Sally, I called my parents and my in-laws, because I’d promised I would, and then I started telling everyone. I can’t remember most of the morning, other than it was a rush of calls and emails. My husband brought home flowers and a card before I had to take him to the airport for a business trip. I spent the evening of my First Sale eating a frozen dinner and drinking a glass of wine alone. But I was too happy to be upset about it.

And that’s how, at 7:27 AM on Monday, October 6, 2008, I finally got the long dreamed about CALL. Four years since I got serious about my writing, and fifteen years since I first tried to write a romance novel, I sold to Harlequin Presents.

Never give up the dream, friends. It could be you next. Thanks for all the good wishes you’ve sent me, and a major thank you to the editorial team for having the contest and choosing me. This has been a wonderful experience, and I look forward to the future as a Presents author. (It gives me a thrill to say that!)

Change

It’s fall, a time of change in many ways. If you live in North America, these are the changes you can expect. The leaves change. The temperature changes. The light changes as the days grow shorter. You may have to turn off your AC and turn on your heat (not here yet, but it’s coming). You’re dragging out the long sleeves and long pants and putting away the shorts and capris and tank tops. The flip flops are going in the closet and the closed toe shoes are coming out. Coats go to the cleaner if they didn’t at the end of winter, scarves come out.

Basically, for me, fall is a time of new beginnings and new promises. I think it goes back to my school days and the excitement (dread) of a new school year.

I don’t have to worry about school anymore, but I did have at least one big change that’s kinda the equivalent of changing teachers. I got a new editor. I love my old editor, who was with me from the very beginning, but her change is that she got a promotion to a different branch of the company and had to leave all her category authors behind.

So now I have a new editor, who is just as fun to talk to on the phone as the old one, and I’m both apprehensive and excited about what the next phase of my career brings. Fortunately, my new editor didn’t blink an eye this morning when I said, “So, for the next book, there’s this guy, and he has this thing, and he might come from this place–but I’m not sure–and then there’s this girl, and she’s from here and she does this, and then this is what happens. Or I think that’s what happens, but it could change.”

Thank God. Honestly. They get me over there in the London office, and I am so grateful to have them.

Change is good. Change is necessary for growth. It’s scary sometimes, but we can’t go through life without change. So learn to embrace those changes and make them work for you!

I leave you now with this awesome video interview with Nora Roberts. She is an inspiring woman, is she not? I love the part where she says writing isn’t easy. It’s not meant to be easy. I’m always glad for that reminder, because it’s easy to feel down about yourself when you’re struggling through a story.

Enjoy!

Saturday Special – An Excerpt

Y’all, I’m hard at work on my military series while I’m in between Presents, and today I decided to share an excerpt with you. I’ve loved this story for a long time. It’s undergone a few revisions, as I learned how better to tell a story, and looks almost nothing like it did when it was a Golden Heart finalist in 2008. It’s my hope to make this story available in the next couple of months. There’s still work to be done, but I will get it done.

Sharing this extended excerpt with you today is one way to keep me motivated. If I promise you I’m working on it, and you like what you read, how can I break that promise to make it available as soon as possible?

In this story, which has been called HOT PURSUIT for a very, very long time (even before Suz Brockmann published her story by the same title), a sexy Special Forces commander and the hometown girl whose heart he once broke team up to save her sister from a killer.

I’ve given you the prologue and first chapter today. I hope you enjoy it!

PROLOGUE

Two months ago…

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but Captain Matthew Girard felt it in his gut nonetheless. It was an itching sensation across his skin, a buzzing in his belly. Perhaps it was simply the weight of this mission pressing down on him. Though STAG 10 always performed critical missions, this one was even more so. Failure was not an option.

Beside him, Kevin MacDonald lay in the sand, his camo clad form as still as marble until the moment he turned his head and caught Matt’s eye.

Kev’s hand moved. Doesn’t feel right, he signaled.

No, Matt signaled back. Count on Kev to pick up on it too.

“It’s awful quiet in that compound.” Jim Matuzaki’s voice came through the earpiece a few moments later.

“Yeah,” Matt answered into the mic attached to his helmet. Almost as if the tangos inside knew that STAG 10 was coming and had abandoned the compound.

The stone structure thirty meters distant rose two stories high and lacked windows. The roof was flat to enable gunmen to look out on the surrounding territory and defend their position.

But there were no gunmen. Not tonight.

In the surveillance photos, the gunmen were so many they’d stood out against the pale roof like a porcupine’s quills. And now…

Nothing.

Though it was quiet here, gunfire exploded in the distance at regular intervals. A pitched battle between a pocket of enemy forces and a Ranger battalion raged a few miles away. STAG 10’s mission was quieter, but no less deadly.

They were here for Jassar ibn-Rashad, the rumored new mastermind and heir to the now deceased Freedom Force leader Al Ahmad. But this mission was different. Usually, they killed the target. Tonight, they were extracting him. The bastard was wanted higher up the chain, and Matt didn’t question orders from the Pentagon. They wanted him, they were getting him.

Matt and his team had planned the mission to kidnap ibn-Rashad for weeks. Down to the last damn detail. And then they’d gotten word just a few days ago that ibn-Rashad was moving to this location. It was their best chance to get him, so they’d pressed forward with the op.

The intel was good. Damn good. And their contact had been reliable on more than one occasion. Nothing he’d ever told them hadn’t checked out.

But this time?

The bad feeling in Matt’s gut was getting stronger by the second. He’d thought the kid seemed more nervous than usual the last time he’d gone to meet with him. The kid had always been nervous, but he’d seemed to trust Matt’s word. And Matt had trusted him as much as he was able. Trust, but verify.

Which the CIA had done. All the chatter indicated that ibn-Rashad had moved to this location. Nothing indicated that the Freedom Force had any idea they were being targeted. And in spite of the niggling feeling he’d had about the whole thing, Matt had chosen to press forward with the op.

Just then, a light flashed up on the roof and blinked out again. Male voices carried in the night, followed by a bark of laughter.

“Two men,” Marco San Ramos said over the headset. “Smoking.”

Marco and Jim were closer and had a better view through the glasses.

“Richie?” Jim’s voice came through the headset again, calling Matt by his team name.

He knew what the other man was asking. What they were all waiting for. In another location close by, Billy Blake and Jack Hazelton also waited for the signal to go or to retreat. The timeline was tight, and if they didn’t go in now, they’d have to scrub the mission to make it to the extraction point on time. They had precisely twenty minutes to infiltrate the compound, kill the tangos, and extract ibn-Rashad.

If they were going in.

“Mission is a go,” he said, making the split-second decision in spite of the acid roiling in his belly. What if they didn’t get a second chance at this? Lives hung in the balance with ibn-Rashad remaining free. This mission had always been risky, but what did they ever do that wasn’t? “Repeat, mission is a go.”

“Hoo-ah,” Jim replied, giving the standard Army acknowledgement. The rest of the men chimed in. Seconds later, two cracks rang into the night. And then Billy’s voice came over the headset. “Targets on roof neutralized.”

Jack “Hawk” Hazelton could always be counted on to make the difficult shots. The dude was probably the best sharpshooter Matt had ever seen.

Everything went like clockwork from that point on. They converged on the compound from their separate locations. Kev set a charge on the door and then it exploded inward. Billy Blake tossed a flash-bang into the opening. It went off with a loud crack, the light flaring as bright as a nuclear flash for a split second. Whoever was in that room would be blind and disoriented after that baby went off.

The team rushed through the door, going right and left in succession, guns drawn as pandemonium reigned among the unsuspecting terrorists. STAG 10 worked like a well-oiled machine. Each man knew where to shoot instinctively, could have done so blindfolded if necessary.

Within seconds, the terrorists lay dead and gunpowder hung heavy in the air, along with the odors of smoke and stale sweat.

Sweat also trickled down the inside of Matt’s assault suit. He didn’t have time to be uncomfortable. Instead, he and Kev raced up the steps along with Marco and Jim, searching for ibn-Rashad, while Billy and Jack secured the perimeter.

A methodical sweep of the rooms proved futile.

“He’s not here,” Marco spat. “There’s no one else.”

“Goddamn,” Matt swore. The skin-crawling sensation he’d had from the beginning of this op was now a full-blown assault on his senses.

Kev looked at him, his face bleak behind the greasepaint, his eyes saying everything Matt was thinking.

Jassar ibn-Rashad was supposed to be here. He’d been reported here as of this afternoon, in fact. There was a price on the man’s head, and no reason to move from this location…unless he’d been tipped off they were coming.

Sonofabitch.

“Do another sweep for information. West side. Three minutes, and we’re out,” Matt ordered.

“Hoo-ah,” Marco said. He and Jim headed for the west side of the house while Matt and Kev split up to cover the rooms on the east end. Matt swept into each room, weapon drawn, helmet light blazing. There was nothing. No papers, no computers, no media of any kind. Nothing they could use to determine what ibn-Rashad was planning next.

He hit the hall again, met up with Kev, who shook his head.

Jim and Marco arrived next, empty handed. The four of them pounded down the stairs. Another quick sweep of the rooms on the ground floor, and they were back into the night with Billy and Jack, running for the extraction point five miles away.

They hadn’t gone a mile when bullets blasted into the air beside them. A hot, stinging sensation bloomed in Matt’s side. He kept running anyway. Until they crested the dune they’d been traveling up and came face to face with a series of rocket-propelled grenade launchers pointed right in their faces.

Fuck. The mission was definitely a bust, and in the worst way possible.

CHAPTER ONE

Rochambeau, Louisiana

“Mm-mm, look at that Girard boy, all grown up and better looking than a man ought to be,” said one of the ladies under the row of hairdryers.

Evie Baker’s heart did a somersault. Matt Girard. Dear God. “Careful,” Stella Dupre yelped as warm water sprayed against the side of the sink and hit her in the face.

“Sorry,” Evie replied, shifting the hose. She was a chef not a shampoo girl, but she didn’t suppose that distinction mattered anymore since the bank now owned her restaurant. Shampoo girl in her mama’s beauty salon was just about the only job she could get right now.

Mama glanced over at her, frowning even as the snip-snip of scissors continued unabated. The ladies in the salon swung to look out the picture window as Matt strode along, and the chatter ratcheted up a notch. The odor of perming solution and floral shampoo surrounded Evie like a wet blanket, squeezing her lungs. Her breath stuttered in her chest.

Matt Girard.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since that night when he’d taken her virginity and broken her heart all at once. She’d known he was back in town—hell, the whole town had talked of nothing else since his arrival yesterday. She’d even known this moment was probably inevitable, except that she’d been planning to do her best to avoid all the places he might be for as long as possible.

“Heard he got shot out there in Iraq,” Mrs. Martin said as Evie’s mama rolled a lock of grey hair around a fat pink curler.

“Yes indeed, got a Purple Heart,” Mama said. “The senator was right proud, according to Lucy Greene.”

“That’s not what I heard!” Joely Hinch crowed. “Miss Mildred told me he’s being kicked out of the Army because he didn’t obey orders.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Martin said. “That boy bleeds red, white, and blue. Same as his daddy and every last Girard that ever was born up in that big house.”

Joely crossed her arms, looking slightly irritated to be contradicted. “You just wait and see,” she said smugly.

“Shush up, y’all,” Mama said. “I think he’s coming in.”

Evie’s heart sank to her toes. She finished Stella’s shampoo and wrapped her hair in a towel. “I’m not tipping you, Evangeline,” Stella said with a sniff. “You have to be more careful than that.”

“I know,” Evie replied. “And I don’t blame you at all.” Except, of course, she desperately needed every penny she could get if she hoped to escape this town ever again. It wasn’t that Rochambeau was bad—it’s that it was bad for her. She glanced out the window.

Matt was definitely coming this way.

Magazines snapped open in a flurry as the ladies tried to appear casually disinterested in the six-foot-two hunk of muscle about to open the glass door. More than one pair of eyes peeked over the top of the glossy pages as he stepped up to the sidewalk from the street.

No way in hell was she sticking around for this. It wouldn’t take these ladies more than a few moments to remember the scandalous rumors about her and Matt, and she didn’t want to be here when they did.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some things out of the back,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she strode toward the stockroom. Rachel Mayhew, Mama’s regular shampoo girl, looked up and smiled as she passed. Rachel was only twenty, so she probably didn’t know about Evie’s disastrous night with Matt. Or maybe she did considering the way this town talked.

Evie wasn’t sticking around to find out. As if life hadn’t beaten her up enough already.

A month ago, she’d said goodbye to her dream. It still hurt. Her lovely little bistro in Florida was now in the bank’s hands, and all because she’d trusted a man. A man who’d shared her bed, robbed her blind, and ran off with another woman. The authorities thought that David had ties to organized crime and that he’d been skimming money along with other, more nefarious schemes. She hated to think about it. Evangeline’s had been everything she’d ever wanted when she’d shaken off the dust of this one-horse town and gone to cooking school a few years ago.

But here she was again, back in Rochambeau and washing hair in her mama’s salon, just like when she’d been in high school. Loser. All she wanted was to get out again at the first opportunity. Before that loser feeling wrapped around her throat and squeezed the rest of her dreams away.

Matt reached for the door, and Evie darted behind the stockroom curtain. Her heart slammed against her ribs as the tinkling bell announced his arrival. She turned to lean against the doorjamb, pushed the rose-print polyester aside with one finger. She was being silly. He wasn’t here because of her. He was here because his sister had sent him on some errand or other for her wedding.

Hell, he probably wouldn’t even recognize Evie if he ran smack into her.

Evie frowned. She damn sure recognized him. Her eyes slid down his body, back up again. He was still something to look at.

Something easy on the eyes and hard on the senses.

He’d changed in ten years, but some things were the same. That cocky swagger as he’d approached the shop. He’d always walked like his daddy owned all the oil in the Gulf of Mexico. Which he damn near did. The Girards had been Rochambeau’s wealthiest family for as long as anyone could remember.

Matt’s dark hair was cut very short, and his shoulders were much broader than when he’d been seventeen. The fabric of his white cotton T-shirt stretched across a wide chest packed with muscle. His bare arms made her throat go dry.

Something quivered deep inside her. Something hot and dark and secret. Evie squashed the feeling ruthlessly.

He pushed a hand through his hair, every muscle of his torso seeming to bunch and flex with the movement. She would have sworn she heard a collective sigh from the ladies in the salon. Rachel absently ran water in her sink, cleaning out the soap bubbles from the last shampoo. When she got too close to the edge, the water sprayed up into her face.

Evie would have laughed if she too weren’t caught up in Matt’s every move. She’d adored him ten years ago, worshipped him from afar until the night she’d screwed up her courage—thanks to a single shot of liquor—and asked him to be her first.

What a mistake. Not because sex with him had been awful. No, it’d been pretty exciting all things considered. It was what had happened afterward that ruined it for her.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Matt said, tipping his head to them.

“Afternoon,” they murmured in unison, voices sugary and lilting, eyes assessing and cataloging him.

“Miz Breaux,” he said as he took her mother’s hand and kissed it like a courtier.

“Oh, shoot.” She smacked him playfully on the shoulder. “What do you want? Don’t you know this is a beauty parlor? Sid’s Barber Shop is on Main Street.”

“Well, ma’am,” he said, grinning that devil-may-care grin of his Evie remembered so well. “I figured Old Sid can’t see so well anymore and I’m still fond of my ears. I’d much rather have a lady’s touch, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my,” Mama said. Then she giggled. Giggled.

Evie rolled her eyes. No wonder she couldn’t pick a decent man. She came by the defect naturally. Mama had been divorced three times. She’d gone back to using her maiden name after the second one in order to avoid confusion. Evie had her daddy’s last name, her sixteen-year-old sister had a different name, and Mama had yet another one.

But at least she’d never let a man ruin her business, a mean voice said. Or turn her into the town joke.

Shut up.

“You don’t even look like you need a haircut,” Mama was saying.

He scrubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “My sister thinks I do. And it’s her wedding.”

Mama giggled again. What was it about that man that turned even the smartest woman into an airhead? “Well, we can’t let Christina be disappointed then, can we? But you’ll have to wait until I finish with Mrs. Martin.”

Mama gestured toward the pink vinyl seats in the front of the shop, and Matt gave her that famous Girard smile that used to melt the female hearts of Rochambeau High School. Evie felt a little hitch in her heart, in spite of herself.

Why did he still have to be so damn good-looking? Was it too much to ask for him to be balding, growing a potbelly? Apparently so. Mother Nature was cruel.

“Sure thing, Miz Breaux.”

Before he’d taken three steps toward the waiting area, Mama said, “You remember my daughter, Evangeline, don’t you? She was a year behind you in school.”

Evie’s heart crashed into her ribs. The ladies in the shop grew quiet while they waited for his answer. She knew what they were thinking. What they were waiting for. Why should it bother her what they thought? What any of them thought?

It had been ten years ago, and it didn’t matter anymore. She was grown up. Matt was grown up. Who cared?

Except that’s not how Rochambeau worked, and she knew it. It might have been ten years, but he’d humiliated her. He’d broken her heart and tossed her to the wolves when she wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences of her actions. Not that anyone knew for sure what had happened, but the rumors were usually enough in Rochambeau.

Bastard.

“Yes ma’am, I sure do. How is she?” He didn’t sound in the least bit remorseful. But why would he? He’d gotten what he wanted out of the deal. She’d been the one left to pick up the pieces of her life once he’d gone.

“Evie’s great,” Mama announced. “Been living in Florida, but she’s home now. Maybe you can talk to her while you wait. Y’all can catch up.”

Evie’s stomach plummeted to her toes. Oh no. No, no, no. What if she went into the bathroom and refused to come out? Or just quietly slipped out the back door and disappeared for a couple of hours? It was time for her lunch break, and—

Coward. Evie stiffened her spine. She wasn’t running away. If it weren’t now, it’d be some other time. She couldn’t avoid him forever. And far better to get this over with in public, while she could maintain her dignity and show the good people of Rochambeau there was nothing whatsoever to talk about.

“That’d be great,” he said in an aw shucks way she didn’t buy for a second. He might talk smooth and act all friendly and gee-whiz ma’am, but she knew better. God, did she know better.

“Good,” her mother said as if it was the best idea in the world, her gaze sweeping the shop. “She was here just a minute ago. Evie? Evie?”

“She went in the back,” Stella offered with what Evie was convinced was an edge of glee. Bitch.

Right. There was nothing Evie could do except face the music. Because there was no way on earth she’d ever let Matt Girard humiliate her again. She’d learned the hard way, but at least she’d learned.

“I’m right here, Mama,” she said, whipping off her smock and pushing back the curtain.
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