I’ve always heard “there’s a time and place for everything.” Well, in romance… every time and every place is how it can work… but it’s not always easy to make it happen. Bedrooms… Well, they have beds. Houses, lots of flat surfaces.

But what happens when the right moment put you in a place that isn’t so easy to make it work. (Felt like I channeled Tim Gunn for a minute).

When I was writing Playing With Fire, I had a lot of fun, but part of the fun was finding my characters in a rather unconventional locale—the heroine’s old model VW Rabbit.

Now, I will admit to a certain affinity for this diminutive car. My first vehicle was a 1981 VW Rabbit (I bought it in 1991), and the poor dear wasn’t in the best shape, but it got me all over California during my last three years in college. And while Jefferson Automobile and I had a good time together, I thought it might be a challenge for my hero (six-feet-plus) to attempt a little sexy time in such a petite auto.

So what does any author do when confronted with a question?

That’s right… LOOK IT UP!

Sooo many articles online… Even one that gave suggestions for positions based on Auto Model that included SOUNDTRACK suggestions… *wink* So when you’re planning the “spur of the moment” sexy times…be prepared…

Playing With Fire
St. Raphael, CA Book 2

When Finley tells him that she’s given up on love and done with men in general, Jackson sets out to prove that he’s not only the man she was meant to be with, he’s a firefighter who knows how to heal her heart and soul. Is he Playing With Fire?

Get your copy here!

Excerpt

Finley slipped her hand between them, and curled her fingers into her pocket, withdrawing a small foil packet held loosely between her fingers. “We don’t want to waste this, do we?”

She felt him stiffen against her, and it wasn’t just the hard ridge in his jeans; it was every single inch of him and she smiled. She’d turned the tables on him, taken his impromptu admission to heart.

“Finley, this isn’t the place-”

“It’s the perfect place,” she argued back, taking a quick look around, “there’s no one out here, and even if they were, the trees are so overgrown no one could possibly see us.”

She worked her hand over his length. His open-mouthed groan muffled her soft satisfied laugh.

“You can’t do this to me, Fin.”

“To you? I’m hoping to do it ‘with’ you.” Her next pass along his length brought his zipper down with it, and he leaned into her touch.

It was addicting, she decided, having this power over a man as strong as Jackson. And as she released the button on the waistband of his jeans she heard him swear under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” she asked him in a sweet and playful tone, “I didn’t hear that. What did you say?”

“Dammit, Finley,” his voice ground out between his teeth as he drew in one breath after another, “don’t tease me. There’s no way we’re going to fit in your car.”

“Well,” she flattened her palm over his stomach and slid it down under the waistband of his briefs, “you fit on the drive up here.”

He turned them, bracing his hands on the top of her car on either side of her body. The shift in their positions added enough friction to make him hiss. “That stick shift is going to make one of us very uncomfortable.”

“You have to think creatively.” She leaned closer, pressing her lips against his chest, and wondered if that was really the speed of his heart or her own. “Or you could put yourself in my hands.”

She felt him swell against her palm and licked her lips. “Then again, looks like you already have.”

Reaching out with her free hand she tugged open the passenger door. A moment later she was busy fiddling with the seat. Behind her, Jackson leaned heavily against the car his jaw tightly clenched.

“Finley?”

She heard the impatient edge in his voice and couldn’t help but smile hoping he couldn’t see. “Just a minute.”

“Hurry up.”

The snap in his tone made her laugh outright. “If you want to hurry so much, you could get rid of those jeans.” She heard the rustle of fabric and turned a moment later to find Jackson gloriously naked in the moonlight. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, enjoying the sharp brush of her teeth against the soft flesh. “Wow.”

His shoulders rose and fell as she looked at him, from head to toe and back again, with a long curious pause in the middle.

“Why did you take off the shirt?” Mentally she kicked herself. One didn’t question a panty-melting man about why he took his clothes off. One just enjoyed the view and said, “Thank you.”

Oh my god. “Did I really say that out loud?”

His broad grin was answer enough. But then he opened his mouth and made her go weak in the knees. “It’s going to get hot in your car, Finley.” He gestured at her with a gleam in his eyes. “I think you might want to get rid of all of that.”

She reached for her waistband and pulled it down over her hips, her panties caught up in the motion ended up tangled at her feet. The long hip-length tunic she wore kept her covered in shadow.

“That’s not fair,” he growled the words and moved closer, his hands reaching for the hem. “I think it’s only fair that I get to see all of you too.”

She wanted to cross her arms over her chest and back away, but that would be silly given the number of times they’d been together over the last few weeks.

Once you’ve had a man naked in your kitchen, your legs wrapped around his waist as you tumble half the spice rack into your sink, it’s silly to hide yourself from him when you’re alone and in the dark.

Jackson reached over and slid his fingers under the hem, brushing the back of his hand against her stomach. “Need some help?”

She shook her head. “Get in the backseat and I’ll take it off.”

It took only a second or two for him to climb into the backseat of her car, tucked into the corner with one leg bent and the other leg stretched out the door.

Against the aged upholstery, Jackson sprawled like a mythological god. And when he held out a hand, crooking his finger to draw her closer, she grabbed the hem of her azure tunic and pulled it off, the beaded neckline brushing over her face, another layer of sensation prickling along her skin.

Ducking into the car, she ended up straddling his leg. The heat of his thigh between hers set her skin aflame.

About Reina Torres

Who would have thought that I’d start off as a painfully shy child writing stories and end up as a painfully shy adult writing books and publishing them for others to read? Crazy? That’s me!!

When I was a little girl, I read every book I could get my hands on and if I didn’t have one available to read, I’d get out my pencils and paper and write down stories and scenes. Waiting for my mom to finish working, I’d duck into the ladies’ breakroom and use the typewriter. I’d feel like Jessica Fletcher, happily tap, tap, tapping away until I got to ‘The End.” Couldn’t quite get the flourish after that and end up tearing the paper, but it was cool and scary to sit down and read the book or give it to my friends to read.

Now, my ‘typewriter’ doesn’t clack the same way and the I don’t even have paper to pull out of it with a nod of satisfaction, but I have the joy and excitement of sharing my characters and books with people all around the world!

I hope you’ll enjoy reading my books, because I’m going to keep writing as long as the characters are feeling chatty!

Amazon Page http://www.amazon.com/author/reinatorresromance
Bookbub https://www.bookbub.com/authors/reina-torres
Reina Torres Facebook Page https://www.facebook.com/ReinaTorresRomance/
Reina’s Readers https://www.facebook.com/groups/ReinaTorresReaders/

CONTEST

Tell me your favorite car/vehicle. Either one you’ve owned or want to own… and what was its name?/would be its name?

Prize—Two winners, for an ebook of Playing With Fire or any other of my St. Raphael, CA books

UPDATE: The winner is…Booklady!
*~*~*

It’s finally here! 322 pages of goodness! My latest anthology, filled with wonderful stories—some action-packed, some poignant, some funny! All of them are sexy! I can’t wait to hear what you all think. And after you’ve had a chance to dive in, I want to hear what you’d like to see me do next. My plan is to publish at least one a year, depends on how busy I am. As always. 🙂

Anyway, I’ll give you an overview of the book then an excerpt from my shorty, which is a prequel to another Montana Bounty Hunters story (to be written soon!). My entry is entitled “Quincy Down Under”, and you’ll get the joke/double entendre when you read it. LOL

And there’s a contest, of course! You’ll have a second chance to win if you head over to the Collections website and comment there, too!

Contest

Comment for a chance to win a download of one of the full-size books below. You can tell me whether you love short stories. Tell me what theme you’d like to see for the next one. Or just ramble about what you’ll be doing while you’re reading the sexy shorties in this collection (passing time in a dentist’s office, reading sexy stories to your significant other in bed at night, etc.). Just be sure to comment!

Here’s what you might win (click on the covers to learn more):

Stranded: A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology

Get it in Print or eBook!

The stories inside…

A Stranger’s Kiss by A.C. Dawn – Sparks in the sky ignite an inferno when a millionaire bad boy rescues a struggling romance writer stranded in an airport

Shelter from the Storm by A.J. Harris – A rogue super soldier and an ocean-dwelling scout discover the keys to surviving enemy soldiers and giant super-storms on their flooded world may be each other

Reviving Artemis by Ara Geller – Defying her alpha’s direct orders, a young warrior braves a pack of hunting werewolves to finally claim her Mate

Quincy Down Under by Delilah Devlin – A bounty hunter following a lead is trapped in an underground-bunker-turned-beauty-salon with a pretty beautician

Rescuing Alaska by Elle James – A Coast Guardsman on an Alaskan fishing trip jumps into frigid waters and dares a bear-ridden island to rescue a beautiful deckhand

Hourglass by Kenzie Mathews – With danger all around them, time-hopping graduate students find it hard to keep their clothes on while their time machine glitches

Out of This World by Kimberly Dean – When an astronaut is stranded without a research partner, her mission’s bad boy commander volunteers to help her complete her studies…on sex in space

Burning Stars by Kimberly Lithe – Heated glances and flirtatious banter ignite into a fever pitch when a mechanic aboard a stranded starship looks for her rescue from an intergalactic criminal

Switching Call by Lucrecia Christina – Stranded in a field, a tow truck driver learns from his sassy rescuer that there’s more to getting stuck in the mud than spinning tires

A Change in Predicament by Melanie Jayne – A doctor with a death wish and a history of bad decisions uses her wits to survive a kidnapping by the wounded leader of a dangerous gang

Put it in a Book by Michal Scott – Trapped in a book by a sorcerer for rejecting his sexual advances, an ex-slave’s daughter discovers one hope of rescue – a nosy thief

Undercover Lover by N.J. Walters – A DEA agent working undercover as a waitress in a dangerous biker bar is stranded without backup until a man from her past walks in

Too Deep by Sam Heathers – When an undercover officer loses her handlers in the outside world, she must trust the top lieutenant of a gun-running gang to survive

Going Down by Sukie Chapin – One broken elevator, one sexy boss, one hot night…maybe falling isn’t so bad after all

An Excerpt from “Quincy Down Under”

Meet my heroine…

“Looks like a damn hickey,” the elderly beauty operator said in her raspy voice as she set the straightening wand in its metal stand.

Tamara Adams rose from the seat at Miss Gracie’s station and leaned closer toward the marquee lights. Yup, the tender mark on her neck did indeed look like a love bite. She touched her finger to the burn and hissed.

“A little aloe vera will fix you right up,” Miss Gracie said and rummaged through a drawer to pick up a tube that looked to be twenty years old and squeezed of all its precious cream.

Tamara bit back a grimace and waved the woman away. “Thank you so much for straightening the back of my hair, but I’ll take care of the burn. You have a dinner at the senior center. Don’t want to be late,” she sang.

Miss Gracie’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Thanks for reminding me.” She quickly retrieved her purse from her bottom drawer and headed toward the door leading out of the beauty shop.

The older woman glanced down at the cinder block holding the door open then gave Tamara a pointed stare. Tamara waved her hand in acknowledgement of the issue she still hadn’t addressed, and then held her breath as the woman slowly climbed the steep steps. Miss Gracie disappeared into the sunlight that filtered down the metal staircase—the only natural lighting in Tamara’s tiny shop.

When she was alone, Tamara moved toward her own station, her Sketchers sticking to the misting of hairspray that always surrounded Miss Gracie’s chair, making a sound reminiscent of Squidward’s tentacles.

She opened her own drawer, pulled out a tube of concealer, then did her best to mask the nasty red burn. So, maybe she should have treated it with antibiotic cream first, but she planned to hit Slim ’n’ Shorty’s for a drink as soon as she finished cleaning up and counting her earnings for the day.

Tamara snorted. Wouldn’t take a minute to empty her cash drawer. Miss Gracie’s elderly clients, the ones who could make it down the steep steps, had been the only customers that day.

Staring into her well-lit mirror, Tamara didn’t get it. She was a walking advertisement for her skills. Her messy-wavy, chin-length bob was all the rage in Hollywood. The platinum color with the lone rose-pink streak was flawless.

But she knew the problem was the location of her shop, and the fact she needed more noticeable signage for customers to even find it. Again, she snorted.

Hell, a billboard wouldn’t be enough to convince women to make the trek down into her doomsday-bunker-turned-hair-salon.

Footsteps sounded on the metal staircase, and she whirled, excited that she’d have at least one paying customer this day. However, the huge man descending the steps wiped her smile away. There was something about him that told her he was trouble. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She’d have to remember to take a razor to them later.

Read the rest of this entry »

Just after I moved to the area where I now live (New South Wales, Australia), I checked out possibilities for classes as I’m always interested in learning new things. Finding a six-week evening course on making silver jewelry, I asked if it would be suitable for a complete beginner; assured that it was, I signed up. Well, it wasn’t. The tutor preferred to work with the seven others all of whom who had done a course with her previously. She started me off cutting silver, and only later did I realize she hadn’t given any occupational health and safety information surely essential in a studio with sharp tools, soldering and electrical equipment, and a gas-heated dish. I pestered her with “Is this OK?” and “What do I do next?”, and filled a notebook with instructions. After the six weeks, I ended up with a ring, two pairs of earrings and an unfinished pendant. The ring was too small, one pair of earrings too heavy while the other, on which I etched a simple design, was definitely wearable.

But I did come away from this unsatisfactory experience with something worthwhile: an idea for crafting a story involving a silver jewelry designer. My contemporary romantic comedy, Silver Linings, was hatched. I’d recently completed Hot Ticket, which is located in tropical Darwin, and I wanted to set this new romance at the other end of Australia, in an isolated area with harsh winter weather. I love researching, and if it involves travel, so much the better! So I explored southern Tasmania, conceiving a wild island on the edge of the Southern Ocean. I also spent time in Hobart and nearby areas visiting galleries similar to where my characters could sell their creations, and inventing a funky bar where Alistair takes Cassandra after he almost runs her over. No one almost ran me over but I did get to a funky bar…

Silver Linings

He almost runs her over, she breaks a shoe in a drain…what can he do but play Prince Charming? This near accident caused by Alistair is Cassandra’s introduction to life in the fun lane. Both fresh out of inappropriate relationships and jobs, each is novelty value for the other. But their exes are pulling tricks to be reinstated, offering lifestyles where income is guaranteed. So can Cassie’s passion for fashioning silver jewellery and Al’s for re-purposing driftwood timber keep them fed?

Excerpt:

Friday, bloody Friday. Why did it always rain on Fridays?

Waiting at a red light, Alistair drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Might as well rain forever. No job, retrenched this sodden morning after four years, downsizing they called it. No girlfriend, ditched last soaking Friday after two years, upsizing Toni called it.

By the time the light condescended to turn green, he could have become fluent in Urdu. He flicked the wipers to fast, the heater to high, and the headlights on as he joined the five p.m. traffic crawling towards Hobart’s Tasman Bridge. July in southern Tasmania made a man hallucinate about a tropical Queensland beach—and yet he loved the island. Which was why he’d fallen onto the singles trash heap. And why he’d probably be jobless until the South Pole’s icecap melted and drowned them all. He didn’t need to open the window to feel the chilly winds of a miserable future.

Jeez! He stamped on the brake. Why the hell didn’t the damn fool woman look? Glancing in the rear view mirror, he sucked in his breath. She was standing in the roadway. Thank God he hadn’t hit her. A bus behind him honked as he skidded to a halt. Just his luck, he’d pulled up at a stop. He inched forward, pushed into park, toggled the engine off and rummaged for his umbrella. He should clean up this post-Toni mess of newspapers, chocolate wrappers, apple cores, and—hey, was this lottery ticket as winner? Nah, nothing in his life was a winner. His fingers located the recalcitrant umbrella. He swung out of the car in time to see the bus driver make a rude sign at him. He returned it and was rewarded with a shower of slimy spray as the bus pulled out.

Cassandra had no desire to do a Cinderella and leave her shoe in the gutter, so she stumbled onto the kerb on one and a half heels. She glared in the direction of a silver bullet of a car. Not satisfied with half-drowning her, that maniac had ruined her shoes. She hobbled to a streetlight to lean against it, took off her left shoe and examined it. She’d felt it catch in a drain as she struggled to save herself from annihilation. Tatters of leather were all that connected the last two inches of heel to the first four.

The sight of her poor battered shoe crushed the last straw holding up her life. Straws had been crumpling for months, and after today’s incendiary stuff in her office, and terminal exasperation with her serial date-cancelling fiancé, she might a well drop out of civilisation. Ex-office, since she’d left her boss in no doubt that she would ever go back. And fiancé? Ex too? Her engagement ring, tossed among the clutter at the bottom of her bag two hours ago when Jeremy had cancelled tonight, was emitting persuasive return-to-sender signals. Then he’d couriered the theatre tickets for this evening, suggesting she took her brother. Getting run over was almost a preferred option to going anywhere with Gordon.

She sighed, regarded her shoe with displeasure, and pushed her foot into it. It would have to get her home, if she could ever manage to cross the road to her bus stop.

Priscilla Brown
www.Amazon.com/dp/B078Y6RW7Z
https://priscillabrownauthor.com

Ida B. Wells-Barnett: Womanist Original Gangster

The term “womanist” was developed by African-American theologian, Delores Williams, to distinguish the feminist theology of African American women like herself and Katie G. Canon from the feminist theology of their Caucasian counterparts, where sexism in the church and the larger society was being addressed, but not racism. As African Americans in a predominantly white denomination, Williams and Canon and those who came after them, knew there could be no progress for African American women in the church, and by extension the larger society, if racism was ignored. I knew both Delores and Katie, studied alongside them, and belonged to the same denomination. I was privileged to call them colleague and friend. What Delores and Katie started doing in their writings in the 1980’s, Ida B. Wells-Barnett was doing in the 1880’s, and beyond, in hers.

Born into slavery in 1862 in Mississippi, Wells-Barnett lived as a life-long activist, confronting racial injustice wherever she encountered it. She sued a train car company when she was put off a first-class train even though she had a ticket. She marched in the integrated Illinois delegation to a 1913 suffrage demonstration, despite the handwringing racism of the march’s white organizers. She’s probably best known for her anti-lynching exposé, “The Red Record and Southern Horrors Lynch Law in All Its Phases” where she exposed lynching justifications for the lies they were. She continued her crusade here and abroad, despite having her presses of her newspaper burned and her life threatened numerous times. She married, raised a family and continued her activism until her death in 1931.

James Weldon Johnson wrote these words in his poem “Lift Every Voice and Sing”:

We have come over a way that with tears has been watered
We have come treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered
Out from the gloomy past
Til now we stand at last
In the white gleam
Where our bright star is cast

Johnson’s brother, John Rosamund Johnson, set the poem to music, and we in the African American community sing it as the Black National anthem. The hope and pride reflected in the words of “Lift Every Voice” have always warmed me with pride when I sing them. Knowing about this Reconstruction-era woman whose life and work embodies the anthem’s ode to perseverance inspires me as well.

“Put It In A Book” by Michal Scott
from Stranded

The daughter of ex-slaves, Aziza Williams uses her freedom to teach slaves to read, a law-breaking activity that forces her to flee the United States for the Free and Independent Republic of Liberia, where her independent and injustice-confronting ways garners the unwanted sexual attention of a dibia, Dulee Morlu. In a cruel twist of fate, Morlu uses Aziza’s love for education against her and imprisons her in a book. He declares she will remain there until she submits to him. After a month of imprisonment, Aziza despairs that Morlu is right: no one will ever read her book. Fear that she may surrender to him begins to overwhelm her. Then one day hope flutters through her spirit as she senses the unfamiliar touch of Sekou Caine, an audacious and inquisitive thief, leafing through her pages…

Excerpt:

“Well, you’re free now.”

She looked toward the window. “Not for long.” Sadness glittered in the tears pooling in her eyes. “Many times with great delight he stated that only by giving myself to him, or having someone take my place, will I be free. If neither happens, I’ll be forced back into the book at sunrise.”

Sekou frowned, anxiety rolling in his gut.

“It’s how my story ends,” she continued. “He read it to me so often I have it memorized.” She closed her eyes and recited…

“Only two paths lead to freedom. Two paths she will never traverse: becoming the dibia’s slave or allowing another to make love to her and then replace her in the story, so now the story becomes his. So, in this story she will remain, too proud to yield and too principled to ask another to pay so high a price.”

She looked at Sekou.

“Why do you believe him?” he whispered.

“Because it’s true. I’ll never submit to him or let anyone be stranded as I was.”

A feeling swelled inside Sekou. He touched her hand and hoped the courage moving inside him might move in her. “We can change that ending,” he said, his heart thudding in his chest.

Aziza frowned. “How?”

He cupped her cheek. “Let me make love to you.”

She pulled away, horrified. “I couldn’t. Just these few moments of freedom…” She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t live knowing I’d stranded you within the pages of that book.”

He touched her cheek and offered her a half-smile. “I’d happily live in a book if I could free you.” And he knew his words to be true. He’d sacrifice himself for her, although they’d just met.

Pre-order link: https://amzn.to/2JyIK4V

About Michal Scott

Michal Scott is the penname of Rev. Anna Taylor Sweringen, a retired United Church of Christ and Presbyterian Church USA minister. A native New Yorker, Anna is a recent transplant to the Southwest and is enjoying the great weather along with her husband of twenty-nine years and their two cats. Her love of history and romance came together in her first novella with Wild Rose Press, One Breath Away.

Anna has been a member of Romance Writers of America since 2003 and holds membership in six of their chapters. She also writes inspirational romance as Anna Taylor and gothic romance as Anna M. Taylor. You can connect with Michal on Twitter @mscottauthor1 and learn more about her writing at www.michalscott.webs.com.

Over the last year and a half, I’ve developed an intimate relationship with grief and loss. Among several passings of family, friends, and colleagues, my family lost our beloved grandmother last year, and my amazing uncle at the end of last month. A few evenings ago, I attended the memorial for a friend who we lost to cancer at the end of February, and I was struck by something one of the speakers said. Our friend had been a long-time and well-known member of the folk dance community in Seattle. The speaker talked about the “village” coming together to help the family both financially and in any way to help ease his journey to whatever was next for him. Up until and through the night he died, the village came out to sing, play music, and bring food and relief to him and his family. Her comments reminded me about the village I had for each loss. Our family rallied around both our grandmother and my uncle as they declined and left us. Friends in the acting community came together to offer support to each other for the fairly sudden losses of two of our colleagues in the last year. And the village came together to throw one hell of a wake for our dear friend in the dance community. He said to “Dance every day,” and that evening, we danced in his honor.

Over the course of the last year, I considered the loss of my grandmother and the impending loss of my uncle while writing Saving Parker. Our protagonist, Parker Rice, is dealt a difficult hand. His father died a hero in the military when he was eight, and his mother never got over her husband’s death. Parker further deals with the loss of his mother, first emotionally when she refuses to protect him through a parade of physically abusive men culminating in the worst of them, Earl, taking her away physically. Alone and closed off, he has a hard time trusting anyone. As the novel continues, Parker suffers more losses, but he finds a village of people ready to lift him up. People who would do anything for him and believed in him even in his darkest hours. Parker discovers the mechanisms to deal with each loss and push forward to improve his life and situation with the help of his friends and the man he finds to love.

The fifth installment of the Rain City Tales, Saving Parker, is now available for download on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo. Saving Parker follows Parker Rice, an abandoned and abused thief who needs a second chance, and the attorney with the unconventional family, Anthony Swifson, who falls hard for him but can’t reconcile the eleven years between them. Stay tuned for Rain City Tales Book 6: Song of Salvation due out in July 2019.

Saving Parker

You can order the first Rain City Tales story, The Officer’s Siren, here, Rain City Tales 2, Past Secrets Present Danger, here; Rain City Tales 3, I’m Yours, here; and Rain City Tales 4, The Wedding Weekend, here. Checkout Brent’s website for more details on upcoming books.

Excerpt:

Sunlight streamed through the open blinds of the window, shining against Parker’s closed eyelids. He turned and opened them with a groan. The events of the prior evening flooded his thoughts, and he endured another round of shivers. Even with Anthony’s assurances, Parker didn’t believe for a moment Earl wouldn’t be back.

With a deep breath, he collected his wits and pushed himself up to sit, dangling his legs off the bed. He stared out of the window, taking in the blue sky and the clouds pushing their way across. A cool breeze blew in through the open window, and Parker tugged the blanket around his shoulders. He rose and closed the window, staring across the lush, green lawn to the guest house. A few windows stood open, but he saw no sign of Anthony.

Turning away, he let the blanket fall. He pulled on the boxer briefs next to the bed. Shuffling into the bathroom, his feet met the cold, tiled floor. With a flinch, he stepped onto the small rug and stared into the mirror over the sink. An angry, purple bruise adorned the spot between his collarbone and the left side of his neck. He turned and found four more between his neck and shoulder where Earl’s fingers had dug in. The rest of his bruises from the prior week’s kicks had largely disappeared, but the fresh marks heightened Parker’s anxiety that his mother’s boyfriend would return to exact revenge for the arrest and the injuries.

A soft knock at the door drew his attention. Anthony’s voice filtered into the bedroom. “Parker? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he called and shuffled back to the bed. He grabbed the T-shirt he’d worn the prior evening and pulled it over his head. “You can come in if you want.”

The bedroom door opened to reveal Anthony in a long-sleeved pullover and jeans. “How are you doing this morning?” He stepped inside, but kept his distance, his gaze raking over Parker’s legs.

Parker sat on the bed, staring at the floor. “I’m fine.” He felt the wall of his defenses go up. Even if Anthony never laid a hand on Parker, he would still abandon him like all the others. He fidgeted with his fingers.

“You don’t look okay,” Anthony replied, his voice soothing and patient. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

With a shake of his head, Parker pushed onto his feet. “I should get a shower.”

“Parker.” Anthony’s voice hardened. “Please sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

The tone brooked no argument, so Parker returned to the bed. He continued to stare at the floor but said nothing.

Anthony stepped across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Though within reach of Parker, he kept a respectful distance between them. “You’re thinking about Primack, right?”

Parker nodded, not wanting to discuss the situation but also not wanting to lie. After Anthony had stuck up for him and decked Earl, Parker had enough respect for the attorney not to withhold the truth.

“I’m not sure how to convince you that he can’t hurt you anymore, but can you trust me to follow through on my promise?” Anthony’s calm voice and soothing tone broke a hole in the brick wall Parker had erected.

A breath caught in Parker’s throat. “Trusting guys hasn’t worked out for me.”

With a sigh, Anthony brought a hand to his shoulder, the now familiar gesture adding a modicum of comfort. “I understand. It takes time to build up trust, but I think we’ve both gotten off to a good start. You saved my life last night.”

Parker hazarded a glance at Anthony. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

“Why not?”

Hesitating, Parker considered why he’d rushed to Anthony’s defense instead of fleeing the house. He’d never been able to protect himself, but the thought of Earl hurting Anthony stoked an anger he’d never experienced before. This man who hadn’t turned him in to the police, who’d fussed over his bruises and had taken him to the hospital, and most importantly, who’d defended him from his abuser. Anthony cared like his dad had cared.

But even his father had abandoned him.

The barrier he’d erected sealed again, shutting Anthony out, and Parker dropped his gaze. “You’re a nice guy. It wasn’t a big deal.”

Anthony frowned. “Yeah, it was. You put yourself in danger for me. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me, at least until we can get you into college.” He removed his hand from Parker’s shoulder. “In the meantime, I’ve made us breakfast.”

Parker’s traitorous stomach rumbled its approval.

With a chuckle, Anthony strode to the door. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ve got biscuits and gravy with poached eggs and link sausages. Sound good?”

After another stomach rumble, Parker sighed. “I’ll be down in a minute.” Once Anthony had left the room, Parker tugged off the T-shirt and moved to his duffle. He couldn’t trust Anthony not to abandon him. Just finish your sentence and move on. Story of your life.

About Brent

Brent Archer began writing in 2011 at the nudging of his cousins. His first story sold, and he was hooked! Keep up with Brent Archer and his current releases at his website, and follow him on Twitter: @brentarcherwrit.

Maybe you only know me as a writer of action-adventure/military heroes/cowboys — Uncharted SEALs, Montana Bounty Hunters, Texas Cowboys, etc. — but I also write paranormal romances. They are, in fact, what I love writing most. I began with my Night Fall vamps and weres, moved on the write more vamps, weres, and ancient demigods in the Dark Realm series, and have written witches coupled with various forms of shapeshifters for my Beaux Rêve Coven series, but the two stories I feel are my best in the genre are my Caitlyn O’Connell stories, Shattered Souls and Lost Souls.

Today, I’m introducing you to Lost Souls. Here’s what it’s about…

Private Investigator Caitlyn O’Connell is tapped by Memphis PD to discover who has been using a Memphis hotel as his killing ground. Women are going missing, and their bodies are found inside the walls of the hotel. But the bodies themselves? They appear to have been murdered in the distant past. With ghosthunters and cops crawling all over the crime scene, Cait and her detective ex-husband Sam Pierce race to find the demon responsible before he kills again.

Now, that doesn’t even begin to describe a book that delivers one of the biggest shocks I’ve ever written. Enjoy the excerpt below!

Comment for a chance to win a download of one of my
Caitlyn O’Connell stories!

Darkness sank as murky as the sultry summer air, as heavy as a blanket pulled over a child’s head to hide the monsters lurking in a shadowy closet. Street lamps popped and sizzled, darkening then lightening, but failing to flare bright enough or long enough to chase away deep pockets of inky black. Cait was creeped out, since all she had were glimpses of silvery light from a full moon rimming buildings and casting deeper shadows to cloak alleyways and doorway stoops.

Another full moon. An event she was acutely aware encouraged monsters, both human and supernatural, to come out and play. Edgy and beyond bored, she almost wished for something out of the ordinary to happen, but then quickly changed her mind. The last time her job had given her a real challenge she’d battled a demon in an attic while a wraith latched its freezing fingertips around the man sitting beside her, slapping him around like a rag doll.

For just a second, she relished that last memory. At least Jason had been awake.

For the umpteen thousandth time that night, Caitlyn O’Connell sighed. This time exaggerating the sound. Loudly. Actually, more of a groan than a sigh. A sound that invited Jason Crawford, lying back in the seat beside hers, to wake up and keep her company. She was bored as freaking shit. Surveillance was the one part of her job she truly hated. In fact, she thought she might like having her ingrown toenails cut better than sitting in a dark alley waiting for something to happen.

The weather irritated her even more. Although she’d stripped down to a tank top and jeans, the insides of her boots were damp from the oppressive summer heat. Not a trace of a breeze stirred, and they’d shut off the sedan’s engine to be able to hear vehicles approaching, so the AC sat silent.

What good was having magic if she couldn’t even muster up a spell to start a breeze? She’d tried waving, punching, wiggling her nose, but nada. Worse, she’d tried to come up with a poem to appease The Powers That Be, but hadn’t found a line that sounded even remotely elegant with “wheeze” tacked on the end.

She supposed she’d used up her last favor asking for intervention with Worthen’s monstrosity, the Civil War–era demon resurrected in his tomb, for which she’d had to beg The Powers and a certain sorcerer for help defeating. Or perhaps they didn’t like how she’d ignored Morin since she’d fought the demon and won. Whatever. She was a PI, not a witch. And right now, she had a job to do.

So why couldn’t she and Jason be watching the Peabody Hotel? Or any of the nicer hotels in the downtown area? The Deluxe Hotel was anything but deluxe. The marquee above the entrance was missing a few letters and read, DELUXE HO, which on second thought appeared apropos for the sleazy dive.

The whole area had an aura of neglect. Trash overfilled bins and cluttered the gutters. Worse, a small tattered sign was taped to the hotel’s glass door: AA MEETING, 9 PM SATURDAY.

Mocking her. The very thing her ex-husband, and now sometimes boyfriend, had been nagging her to locate.

And worse yet, the car she sat in reeked of stale onion-and-anchovy pizza. If she didn’t know him better, she might have thought her partner had ordered it on purpose. But he’d munched away happily, while she’d chosen to drag in the scents from the overfilled bin they’d parked beside. Better unknown trash than fishy-smelling onion breath.

Her cheeks billowed around another harsh exhalation. How the hell could Jason sleep through all the noise she’d been making? She aimed a scowl his way, caught the quick lowering of his eyelids and a twitch at the side of his lips.

She gave a grunt and turned back to watch the entrance of the seedy old hotel where Mrs. Oscar Reyes was scheduled to meet up with her boy-toy. Or so Mr. Reyes had informed them this morning after hacking into his wife’s Facebook account.

“Get me pictures of the bitch,” he’d said, clearing his throat when Cait had given him a narrow-eyed glare. “I won’ believe it ’til I see.”

She’d eyed his oily hair, brushy mustache, and stocky frame and wondered why he was so surprised his wife had sought the attention of a lover who called her his “mariposa rubia.”

“Blonde butterfly,” Jason had translated under his breath since Cait’s Spanish was limited to curses.

Oscar Reyes was the typical slimy client they attracted—spouses seeking ammunition for divorce court, employers wanting an employee followed for proof they hadn’t been injured badly enough to warrant workmen’s comp.

Since Oscar had already done the legwork and found cyberproof of his wife’s infidelity, Cait wondered why the hell he’d hired them to snap the shots. A $500 retainer plus their hourly fee would rack up quite a bill in no time. But she’d refrained from asking him.

The nice fat check they’d gotten from the Memphis PD for helping find her first partner’s killer and three young women who’d been kidnapped by a demon hadn’t lasted long. So she and Jason were back hustling for smaller fish.

Which reminded her again of the half-eaten pizza in the backseat.

Ready to pitch the box into the trash bin, she paused when headlights flared as a car turned onto South Front Street. A low-slung sedan stopped in front of the hotel.

Cait waited for the beams to extinguish, and then raised her camera with its night-vision lens and took a look. Just as Oscar had predicted, Sylvia Reyes stepped out of the car, her bleached-blonde hair neon bright in the viewfinder. She wore an ass-hugging mini-skirt, four-inch heels, and a top that rode the curves of her full breasts.

Cait clicked off a couple of shots of the woman entering the hotel, then reached out and backhanded Jason’s belly. “Time to move.”

“Mmm, wha’?” he said, pretending to waken from a deep sleep.

She rolled her eyes. “Like you’ve been sleeping? It’s Reyes’s wife. Let’s follow and see if we can catch her with her boyfriend.”

“Sound grumpy.” Jason flashed her a smile. “The anchovies gettin’ to you?”

She shrugged, pretending the stench hadn’t made her slightly nauseous. “It’s your car. The smell’ll be here for a week.”

With quiet moves, they opened their doors. Cait quickly replaced the special lens and hung the camera on her shoulder before jogging to the entrance. She pushed through the grimy glass, lifted her head in a vague nod to the clerk at the reception desk, and walked to the elevators, eying the red digital numbers above the doors. There were two elevators. Only one was moving, and it stopped and held at floor three.

She elbowed past two men and a woman laden with cameras and equipment bags. One held out a device Cait thought might be a light meter, but she changed her mind when a red light beeped on the top and it clicked like a Geiger counter.

“Do you see that?” the chubby man with a Fu Manchu said, elbowing the skinny dude beside him. “We’ve got something here.”

“Told you there’s lots of activity in this old place.”

Activity? She eyed them again, read the logo on their bags, and rolled her eyes. REEL PIS: PARANORMAL INVESTIGATORS. As if. She stuck her finger in the elevator button, doing her best to ignore the morons. She hadn’t heard so much as a whisper or a wail since she’d entered the hotel.

“Faster goin’ up the stairs,” Jason said, pulling her arm with one hand and pointing toward the stairway door. He flipped the door handle and pushed through. “After you,” he said with a flourish of his hand. His grin said he knew how much she disliked racing up three flights.

She gave him the stink-eye and started the climb. When she reached the third-floor landing, she glanced through the door’s rectangular window, saw no one in the hallway, and opened the door.

The corridor smelled as bad as it looked—urine to complement the yellowed beige walls, mildew to enhance the brown-and-green plaid carpet.

Gasping to catch her breath, she looked left, then right, and caught a flash of impossibly blonde hair a moment before Sylvia Reyes turned the corner farther down the hallway. Cait hurried after her, on the scent of a woman about to cheat on her husband. She turned the corner, entering a hallway marked by a door frame for a double door that no longer existed. The corridor was empty. No room doors along the short hall closed to indicate where their target had gone.

Jason drew up beside her, his eyebrows rising. “What now? Listen for moaning?”

Giving him a shove, she took a step past the hallway door frame, and then halted, some instinct keeping her from pushing forward. Or maybe what stopped her was the yellow police tape covering one of the doors. Not something she had time to ponder right that moment because a strange hum sounded. A bulb popped, plunging the hallway into darkness. The hairs on her arms lifted a second before electricity arced from a light switch, sending out a bolt like lightning that shot toward the ceiling, then turned, traveling toward her, hitting doorways as though searching for ground. The jagged dagger of electricity darted, then blinked out, but not before she saw a figure, one in four-inch hot pink heels, her eyes rounding in terror—a figure she could see straight through to the piss-yellow wall behind her.

Darkness took the figure. Then another hissing arc flared from the light switch, brightening the hallway again. Sylvia Reyes was gone.

Jason grabbed her arm, pulled her back around the corner, and flattened her against the wall with an elbow digging into her belly.

The white bolt flickered past the corner, then dove to the floor, sparking out with a fizzle.

“Bad wiring?” he whispered.

She shook her head, shoved away his elbow, and stepped into the hall again. The faint smell of something burning lingered in the air. The hall was once again empty. And dark.

Cait held still, listening, and then she heard the sound. A soft wail. Like a distant echo. “Hear that?” she whispered.

“No. What do you hear?”

She swallowed. “Not anyone living.”

Then the faint sound of whispers rose, maybe half a dozen voices joining in chorus. Her hand dropped to the camera at her side. She flipped off the lens cap, raised the camera, and looked through the viewfinder. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than a really sleazy flophouse. Still, she clicked off a couple of shots. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t want to wait around until she leaves? A shot of the lady kissing her boyfriend good-bye would close this case.”

Cait shook her head, not wanting to voice what she suspected. Not before she was sure of exactly what she’d seen. “No. Let’s get back to the office. I have to look at something.”

Jason knew her well enough not to ask any more questions. The fact she was cutting the surveillance short told him they had a problem.

This time they took the elevator. The sooner she got out of here the better. Well, she’d gotten what she’d wished for. Something out of the ordinary had definitely happened.

Back at the Delta Detective Agency, Cait slipped the memory card from her camera into the slot in her computer. With a couple of clicks, she found the file of pictures and opened it.

There was Sylvia Reyes outside the Deluxe, her small cat-like features coated in too much makeup, her coarse blonde hair flattened to rest limply on her shoulders. Her expression was furtive, but excitement sparkled in her dark eyes. Another shot caught her too-tight skirt hugging her J-Lo butt. Then Cait clicked on the last two shots, unsure what she might see inside the third-floor hallway. Maybe nothing. Maybe something she didn’t want to see.

The shot showed an empty hallway. The photo was blurred, but the differences between the hall’s actual appearance and what was on the computer screen was startling. Gone were the yellowed walls and crappy brown and green carpet. In its place was wallpaper—a foiled gold-and-wine-colored paisley. The carpet was a solid blood red. The fixtures—lights, switches, brass plates on the door—were shiny and new.

“Where’d you take that?” Jason asked, hovering at her shoulder.

“At the Deluxe,” she said, closing out the file. She suppressed a shiver of dread.

“No kiddin’? How come I didn’t see that?”

She didn’t dare look his way. He’d see her shock and ask more questions. Questions she didn’t have any quick answers for.

“Tacky as hell, but—”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “That’s not the way it is.” At last, she shot an upward glance.

Jason pushed out his lips. His gaze settled on her, waiting.

She knew he wouldn’t let her up from the chair until she gave him at least a clue of what was going on in her head. “It’s the way the hotel was.”

His gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”

She rubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t know what I mean.”

A frown dug a line between his blond-brown brows. “I don’t think Reyes is going to pay us for those shots or our time since we didn’t get what he wanted.”

“Reyes is the least of our problems,” she muttered.

Jason groaned. “It was the anchovies, right? This is your revenge?”

Her mouth tipped up into a smirk. “You think this is all about you? Poor little rich boy.”

He shook his head, grinning, but the fine lines beside his hazel eyes deepened with worry. “Since this case looks like major woo-woo is involved, you have the lead. Where to first?”

Cait grimaced. Once again, she had no doubt they were headed straight down the rabbit’s hole. “I need to talk to Sam about that taped-off room.”

Thank you for having me here, Delilah!

I’m Juno Rushdan and I write steamy romantic thrillers. My debut book, Every Last Breath, comes out April 30 from Sourcebooks Casablanca.

I first began writing while I was an intelligence officer in the Air Force. My husband, who was also in the military, had a tough round of deployments to Afghanistan at the same time we started a family. Handling two kids under the age of two with no support system was brutal, so I left the service. When we moved to the DC area and my eldest entered kindergarten, the idea for Every Last Breath came to me.

My time spent supporting special forces and poring over CBRN (chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear, and high-yield explosive) threat assessments and war-gaming response plans shaped the foundation for the Final Hour series. I tried to convey what it means to be called to serve and the sacrifices one makes through my characters. Readers will find themes that are dear to my heart, such as service before self and fighting for the greater good, along with plenty of action and a sexy romance.

Every Last Breath

48 hours
2 covert operatives
1 chance to get it right

Maddox Kinkade is an expert at managing the impossible for a clandestine agency. Tasked with neutralizing a lethal bioweapon, she must recruit the last person she ever expected to see again: her presumed-dead former lover. Cole Matthews can’t forget or forgive her role in a tragedy that ruined his life. Enlisting Cole’s help may be harder than resisting the attraction still burning between them, but Maddox will do whatever it takes. Soon they find themselves working side-by-side in a breakneck race to stop a world-class killer with a secret that could end everything.

The clock is ticking…

Read an excerpt.

Maddox crossed the room and crouched between Cole’s legs. “I never wanted you restrained, but they insisted.” The note of sincerity from her struck a sensitive chord in him he despised.

Holding his gaze, she patted down his legs, working toward his shins.

Her hand froze on the hilt of his knife. “Nice to see some things stay the same.”

She wriggled his pant leg up, pulled the Ka-Bar, and cut the flex-cuffs on his ankles. Casting a furtive glance toward the door, she hustled behind his chair and freed his hands.

Cole leapt out of the chair and whirled, pinning her against the wall with a hand on her throat, not hard enough to hurt her, only to compel a straight answer from her fork-tongued mouth. But an electric frisson skipped over his skin, stilling him. That magnetic pull to her revived. No matter how much time had passed, it’d never been extinguished.

Talk about fucked up.

“Don’t crowd me,” she said low and controlled, not a flicker of fear in her fiery eyes.

“Or what?”

Tapping on his inner thigh drew his gaze down. She had the tip of his Ka–Bar pointed at his groin. He glanced lower, noticing her shoes.

She wore black tactical field boots. The cushy, expensive kind.

Who had she become? “What’s going on, Maddox? Why are you with those men?”

“We don’t have much time before they come back.” Her gaze darted to the door. “You won’t be able to take the three of us.”

The words had an unexpected sting. “That’s the first time you said us not meaning you and me.” Damn, had that been his out-loud voice?

An unguarded look broke on her face, vulnerable and somber. “You’re the one who left and never looked back.”

She was the one who had wronged him. Every action he’d taken since had been justified. Still, there was a pathetic niggle of regret.

He forced his grip to slacken and stepped back.

She flipped the matte–black blade in her hand like a badass, handle pointing to him. A shimmer of pride and a hint of alarm seeped through him.

He took the knife and shoved it in the ankle sheath. As he stood upright, she handed him the key to his bike.

“I had them get your motorcycle. It’s parked on the west side of the house. Go out through the window. Lay low until nightfall, somewhere the Russians won’t find you.” Honest concern shone in her eyes. “Then come to my place. My address is written on a piece of paper in your pocket. You’ll be safe there and I’ll explain everything.”

She pressed her palms to his chest, her expression softening. He couldn’t help soaking in the bittersweet familiarity of her touch and the intimacy in her gaze. Emotions he’d buried in an unmarked grave in DC, where his previous life had ended, resurrected with a ridiculous kick.

“I need your help. It’s a matter of life or death. Please, come.” Her emphatic tone tugged at him, and he needed a swift boot heel to the head to snap out of it. “I’ll answer any question.”

“Any?” Just like that, she had him hooked. For him, any condensed to one. Why had she betrayed him?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a breath, the faintest quiver running through her, and nodded before glancing at the door. “Hurry, before they come back.”

He hesitated. Would she be okay alone with them?

It was insanity to be concerned for her. Then again, she’d always triggered his protective instincts. At one time, his entire world had revolved around Maddox, and her safety had been more important than his own.

He would’ve sworn by now he was immune to her, but she was an incurable disease out of remission and might put him six feet under for real.

*~*~*

“Every Last Breath is an electric combination of heart-stopping thriller and swoon-worthy romance.” -LEXI BLAKE, New York Times bestselling author

“A spine-tingling thriller you won’t want to put down! Rushdan is a talented new voice in romantic suspense.” -LAURA GRIFFIN, New York Times bestselling author

“Heart-pounding James Bond-ian adventure.” -Kirkus

“Intense and sexy—a must-read romantic suspense!” -CYNTHIA EDEN, New York Times bestselling author

“Rushdan’s fast-paced, gripping debut will…have readers eagerly waiting for the sequel to this arresting romantic thriller.” -Publishers Weekly (STARRED review)

Available for pre-order now:

Amazon: http://bit.ly/EveryLastBreath
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Learn more about Juno at:

Website: Junorushdan.com
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