Officially, summer isn’t over until September 22nd, but the last of August marks the unofficial end. It’s the time of year when the kids go back to school and vacation time is almost done. The Labor Day weekend is the last kick at holding on to summer.

I get energized this time of year. My school days are long behind me but I still love the big displays of school supplies for sale. I’m a sucker for markers and pens, journals, and all the lovely color-coded folders. It’s the kid in me.

I look at September as a time for new beginnings. Maybe it has something to do with the school year starting. Even more than New Year’s Day, I find this a time of renewal and possibility. I love the crisp autumn air and the splash of color and the start of the holiday season, which begins in October.

But I’m not quite there yet. For now, I’ll hold on to the final gasp of summer, pray for some nice weather, and enjoy it while it lasts. Hope you do the same.

And if you’re looking for a book to read, maybe you’ll check out one of mine.

If you love space mercenaries, you’ll love the Marks Mercenaries. These brothers are tough and focused. Their goal—finding their sister who was abducted years ago.

The first four books in the series have been released—Rescuing Rory, Unexpected Angel, Liberating Lacey, and Salvaging Abby.

Here’s a teaser from Liberating Lacey…

Liberating Lacey

Like a heat-seeking missile, he stayed on target until he hit his target. He’d never wavered in his goal to find his sister and protect his brothers, never faltered.

Until now.

No other woman could have done such a thing. Only Lacey.

And he was going to leave her behind.

Liberating Lacey
Marks Mercenaries, Book 3

Garth Marks and his brothers are space mercenaries and traders. Their life’s mission is to find their younger sister, who was kidnapped ten years before. Their search has led them to Eden, a planet that is home to a cult-like group.

Lacey Freshlan wants to get away from Eden, and the strangers who have come here might be her ticket out. Garth is willing to use the sizzling attraction between them to get information from her, but he won’t agree to take her with him. As much as he’s drawn to her, Garth won’t risk the safety of his family.

When Lacey foils a plot to poison them, Garth takes her with them when they flee. But they are not free yet. Betrayal and lies lead to a battle not only for their safety but also for their hearts.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TW5VSFR/
Evernight Publishing: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/liberating-lacey-by-n-j-walters/
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/946620
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/liberating-lacey-n-j-walters/1132291334
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/liberating-lacey-5

About the Author

N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.

Visit me at:
Website: http://www.njwalters.com
Blog: http://www.njwalters.blogspot.com
Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/gdblg5
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/N.J.WaltersAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/njwaltersauthor
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/NJWalters
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/njwalters
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/n-j-walters

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Are there really? From the expression of Edwin Booth on this 1866 playbill from the New York Public Library’s digital collection, he looks like he’s thinking that might not be such a good thing. I first encountered Hamlet’s sentiment in an eighth grade English class. I always thought it strange that he would feel the need to say it when both he and Horatio have just seen and heard the ghost of Hamlet’s dead father. It is a line that has stayed with me fifty years later as I have pondered just what those “things” might be. Those things we can only detect through a mind open to the possibility of the sixth sense or extrasensory perception (ESP).

There are nine types of ESP that, when explained, show how being attuned to the feelings and/or our surroundings, ESP feels quite logical and for a writer pretty darned cool elements to incorporate into a story.

Precognition – The ability to see into the future.
Retrocognition – The ability to see into the distant past.
Clairvoyance – The ability to see events without being physically present.
Mediumship – The ability to communicate with spiritual world and talk to the deceased.
Clairsentience – The ability to feel the emotions of others.
Clairaudience – The ability to receive messages and information through “psychic hearing”.
Telepathy – The ability to read the minds of others and know what they’re thinking.
Clairalience – The ability to get psychic impressions from the sense of smell.
Clairgustance – The paranormal ability to taste a substance without putting it in mouth.

Check out this link if you’d like more detail on them: https://www.psychics4today.com/types-extrasensory-perception/

Hamlet and Horatio experienced mediumship. I wonder if during the African-American walking tour I did last Fall I didn’t experience it as well. Was it only my vivid imagination that allowed me to feel, see and hear the spirits of those Africans and African Americans striving for freedom, for a better life?

Why can’t a person be so sensitive to another person’s body language that they can feel what someone is feeling? Couldn’t you be so knowledgeable about a place, an era and particular events that when you’re in that place you can connect to the energy still inhabiting that place and see what took place there as if you had actually been present?

A smell, a sound, a taste can thrust us back to a moment and cause us to from the past only be stored in memory?

What if we intentionally trained ourselves to use our five sense to their fullest capacity? It’s a myth we only use 10% of our brains, but I’m willing to bet we’re only fully focused and intentional is using our brains 10% of the time. What if we could harness our ability to see, hear, taste, smell and touch to the point where we transcended time and space?

Being in the moment doesn’t only have to mean we’re only aware of what’s here and now. William Faulkner wrote “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” Being in the moment also means being aware of what came before and by extension what might be to come. I like to think so. How about you?

Better To Marry Than To Burn

Freed Man seeking woman to partner in marriage for at least two years in the black township of Douglass, Texas. Must be willing and able to help establish a legacy. Marital relations as necessary. Love neither required nor sought.

Caesar King’s ad for a mail-order bride is an answer to Queen Esther Payne’s prayer. Her family expects her to adhere to society’s traditional conventions of submissive wife and mother, but Queen refuses. She is not the weaker sex and will not allow herself to be used, abused or turned into a baby-making machine under the sanctity of matrimony. Grateful that love is neither required nor sought, she accepts the ex-slave’s offer and heads West for marriage on her terms.

Her education and breeding will see to that. However, once she meets Caesar, his unexpected allure and intriguing wit makes it hard to keep love at bay. How can she hope to remain her own woman when victory may be synonymous with surrender?

Excerpt

With thanks to God, he pushed past her flimsy drawers to the moist welcome of her center. Her vaginal walls gripped his fingers with surprising force. No amount of twisting or turning wrenched them free. God, to have that grip surrounding his shaft.

He pulled back and studied her face. Eyes still closed, a sly smile bowed her perfect lips. She enjoyed this battling as much as he.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mrs. King?”

Her eyelids rose with the slow grace of sunrise. A gleam as sly as her smile shone in her gaze. “You call that brutal, Mr. King?”

She unclenched her lower muscles, allowing his fingers momentary retreat. With great care, she grasped his hand then slid his fingers between her folds once more.

“Holy Christ, woman. What—?”

The gentle rubbing robbed him of his ability to think.

“Jesus, have mercy,” he wheezed.

She slid his fingers from her wet sex into his mouth. He moaned, lost in her delectable taste.

Without taking her gaze from his face, she raked her gloved hand down his chest, across his belly, to his groin. Anticipation tensed his muscles in the wake of her touch. He watched mesmerized as, with a practiced ease, she unbuttoned his fly, pushed past the fabric, sought, found and stroked his cock. Her woolen gloves imparted a delicious friction he couldn’t oppose, even if he’d wanted. Delight enlivened every muscle in his body, including his jaded heart.

Jesus. This couldn’t be more than arousal. Could it?

Her fingers squeezed and his body arched upward on the yes swelling his spirit with joy. He threw back his head, mouth open, ready to shout as he neared the point of release.

Then she let him go.

He doubled over, slain by the abandonment. His lungs constricted, bereft of air. Reason deserted him too.

She stood and smoothed down her skirts with the hand that had massaged his shaft more deftly than he ever had. Reseated, she grabbed the reins and snapped the leather against his horse’s rump.

“Get up there.”

The wagon jostled Caesar from side to side. Still unable to straighten up, he looked into eyes gleaming with triumph. Her lips curved in a regal smirk.

“Was I too brutal for your enjoyment, Mr. King?”

Buylinks:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2KTaGPH
Wild Rose Press: https://www.thewildrosepress.com/books/better-to-marry-than-to-burn

Not trying to channel Joan Rivers, but can we talk? I feel that I need to have this conversation. Anytime a story begins, “See, what had happened was…” Yeah, you know the ending isn’t a pretty one. So, before I begin, grab a drink and sit back for this tale of cosmetic horror.

Now, listen, I’m not one to beauty shame anyone. By no means am I a beauty guru, but I do like to look cute. (Or at least, I like to pretend that I look cute.)

Listen, I have a problem, not unlike many women. It’s not one that is discussed in polite company, but let’s get real. It happens. So, I’ll just throw it out there in all my shame. I’m a sweater. There, I said it. My grandmother tried to convince me that ladies don’t sweat. They perspire. Gurl! That’s a bunch of bull. I pump out sweat like a human Niagara Falls. Sorry, Grammy, but sell that elsewhere. And you know what? I don’t give a rat’s pahtoot about all these dainty deodorants in their all-too precious packaging and artsy logos. They don’t do diddly-squat to prevent my pits from being soaked. But that I can take. Here’s what I can’t—a runny foundation. OMG!

So, here is my tale of woe. For much of my life, I’ve been a drugstore beauty type of gal; that is, until, I grew sick of these companies taking my shades off the market. I understand that companies need to update and progress with the times. I get that consumer wants and interests change and evolve. But seriously, can the replacements not be crappy or, at least, easily found? But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind. Read the rest of this entry »

UPDATE: The winner is…bn100!
*~*~*

It seems that every time I turn around someone I know is making the declaration, “I’m going to quit writing. I quit. I’m done with this.” The list goes on and on. Perhaps it is the humidity or that summer seemed to last about three weeks before schools went back in session. We didn’t get any lazy days or time to recover.

A week ago, I celebrated a birthday, and I try to use the night before “my” day to take stock and reflect. Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to purge blatant negativity from my world. No-I don’t have a magic wand but I can turn off, unfollow, and choose to not read things that a.) I cannot change b.) I can’t control c.) I don’t have the energy to engage in anymore.

These are small changes, and I have seen progress. I identify the negatives faster, and I am more decisive about dealing with them. I also am much better at using the stopper, where I ignore and don’t feel that I am missing out by not continuing.

If you follow any form of social media, I am sure that you have seen an author declare they are quitting the business. Some are tired of working and getting nowhere, or putting in the same effort and back-sliding. Others believe that their work is devalued for a variety of reasons, and they can no longer afford to publish. Some are tired of going unnoticed, of not being heard.

I understand their anguish. There have been many days I wonder if anybody cares if I produce another word. I see the lists, and sometimes wonder at those titles. I’ve looked at a royalty statement and felt disappointment. The lure of sitting on the porch and watching the clouds is strong, but I decided to pursue this dream. I decided to try writing romance because I had voices in my head. I would watch a TV show, and then, before I fell asleep, rewrite it. As I drove to work, names, places, and personalities popped into my head. I’d weave these ideas into stories to help me fall asleep at bedtime. I decided to make a concentrated effort to write a manuscript. Of course, that try was a disaster, but I enjoyed the process—the fulfillment of seeing a blank page become full of words that came from my soul, the thrill of finding the perfect adjective to describe an emotion, the joy of creating a scene and knowing that it will make someone smile or cry… I was addicted. I took classes, found mentors, made mistakes and learned from all of them. I rejoiced every time that I typed “The End,” and celebrated every small victory (and some were tiny). I do the same today, six years in.

There have been disasters, heartbreaks, and frustration. In order to succeed, many pieces of the puzzle have to fall together perfectly. I can produce a great story, design an eye-catching cover, and market the hell out of the book, but it might not catch on. Readers are very much like horses being led to water—you can’t make them do anything.

The other lesson I have absorbed is that life is not fair. The world of Publishing is a crapshoot. Readers can be fickle and unreliable. The hot trend today can be dead tomorrow. The editor that loved your book can be without a job overnight. What your Beta Readers praised in your last book doesn’t work for them in this one. It is a topsy-turvy world.

This career isn’t for the weak. I spend time outlining, writing, revising, and worrying about an early draft of a story. I then send it to my trusted editor, and although I know in my heart she is on my side…I dread reading her opinion. I know she is working with me to make this product the best it can be, but with sixteen stories published and four more in the pipeline, it still takes me hours and sometimes days to open up her e-mail. After two rounds of edits, three or four proofreads, plus my final read-through — the book is birthed and ready for public consumption. There are huge parts of my heart, soul and bank account attached to the baby, but now it belongs to the world, and it can be ignored, loved or hated.

And that is hard for writers. We pour so much time and self into each project that when we feel it isn’t getting the proper attention, a part of us wilts. Each time I hear another writer say they are done, a part of me hurts for them, but then I hear another voice that comes from deep inside of me saying, “Keep pushing, keep working… Don’t give up. You can do this. You are doing this.” The voice sounds a little like Vin Diesel. I like to think of it as my Dark Guide — the part of my soul that will keep me upright when my world crumbles, the gritty slice that will fight back until my last breath.

Every morning, I rely on it to make me settle into my chair, to focus on my manuscript, and to do so the next day and the next. Deciding to quit is not easy, but sticking with writing isn’t for the weak.

Contest

Comment for a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift card!

About Melanie Jayne/M. Jayne

M. Jayne/Melanie Jayne has the best life. She spends her days chatting with feisty females, waking up to sexy men, eating chocolate and wearing pajamas. Her books predominantly feature characters over the age of thirty-five, facing life head-on. They are woman-positive and advocate empowerment. She writes paranormal romance, The Novus Pack Series, and several contemporary series.

She lives a quiet life on a grain farm in central Indiana with her very patient husband and mastiff, Duncan Keith. She is grateful to all that have helped her with her writing career and in turn, is giving back to new and aspiring writers.

Learn more about Melanie Jayne:
https://www.facebook.com/MelanieJayneAuthor
www.ReadMelanieJayne
@1MelanieJayne on Twitter
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/m-jayne ReadMelanieJayne on Instagram

Thank you, Delilah, for inviting me to guest post on your blog today. I’m happy to be here.

When I began writing, romance seemed to be the most logical genre choice. I’m a sucker for happy endings, even if it’s rough going for the characters while getting there. And, as love can happen in any century, I tried my hand at both historical and contemporary, creating two full series and a collection of short stories in the romantic realm before deciding I needed a change. Or, more like, my writing was begging for one.

To this day, I’m not sure what caused me to land on cozy mysteries as a genre choice. I’d never read one; had never viewed an episode of Murder, She Wrote, either, but as with everything else I do in my life, I dove headfirst into the story, making the appropriate adjustments along the way to stay true to the trope. Now, other authors may not find this to be true, but I’ll admit it was difficult for me to alter my writing style, especially when it came to the romantic aspects of the tale. Not that cozies can’t have a little romance; the challenge was learning to keep it simmering in the background while bringing the mystery front and center — a lesson I aced (don’t you love my confidence?) in Finn-agled, my very first cozy.

As a huge proponent of writing “authentically” — letting the story flow with little regard to the rules, aside from good grammar, accurate spelling, and precise punctuation. (Excuse me for a moment while I collect myself . I’m laughing because no matter how thoroughly I comb through my manuscript after a dozen different pairs of eyes have read it, mistakes still slip through. Okay; I’m better now. Back to my point) Writing from your soul should be the goal of every author. The thing to remember is that readers have certain expectations when it comes to their favorite genres, and while it’s our job to meet them, we shouldn’t let that hold us back from taking the opportunity to write something different; something new and exciting.

Trust me, if I can do it, anyone can!

Finn-agled
(A Finn’s Finds Mystery)

A secret message hidden inside of an antique wooden box, an unidentified dead body, and a mother determined to marry her off to the high school crush whom she hasn’t seen since…well…high school. There’s no doubt about it; Finn Bartusiak’s life in the seaside town of Port New is about to get interesting.

Coming into possession of a 19th-century, bronze and mahogany writing box under somewhat suspicious circumstances, Finn’s accidental discovery of a coded note leads her and Spencer Dane, bestselling novelist and love of her life (though he doesn’t know it yet), on a quest to unravel the mystery behind the jumble of letters. But they’re not the only ones interested in the cryptic message. There’s a con man on their trail, and he’ll stop at nothing, including murder, to claim the ‘treasure’ for himself.

Buy link – https://books2read.com/finnagled

Excerpt from Finn-agled (A Finn’s Finds Mystery)

A slip of paper slightly larger than an index card fell from between the seams and floated ever so gently to the floor. Almost dropping the case in my elation (wouldn’t that just be my luck?), I set it gingerly on the table and retrieved the note.

Zubcd Yefemeby
Xlw k Wrlm no
Vpqre Upbpqee

Huh? What kind of crazy language is this?

I attempted to sound it out, tripping over my tongue because – let’s face it – it’s impossible to pronounce words that have no vowels. Thinking I’d stumbled onto either an ancient, and possibly forgotten, language, or a secret military code, I hopped back on the computer for some serious research. It wasn’t until the Gothic cathedral mantel clock perched on the shelf above a row of whiskey barrels chimed twelve that I realized I’d been staring at the screen for the better part of three hours. That would explain my grainy eyeballs.

“Time to call it a night. Come on, Garfunkel. Let’s go home.”

Shutting off the computer, I slipped the note into my pocket, leaving the writing case in my office for the time being. Who knew what other mysterious messages might be hidden inside? Turning off the light, plunging the room into darkness, I walked out front to collect my sleepy hound, dim lumens from the streetlamp outside filtering in through the plate-glass window, illuminating my way and casting shadows along the floor and walls. Headlights from a passing car briefly lit up the interior of the shop, glinting off the wind chimes that hung over the front door.

If only I’d had the forethought to hang a set of chimes over the back door as well. Then, perhaps, they would’ve warned me about the person who jimmied the lock, crept up behind me, and wrapped his fingers around my neck, squeezing until everything went black.

About the Author

Kristine Raymond didn’t figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up until later in life. Since writing and publishing her first book in 2013, she’s gone on to complete two romance series – one historical western and one contemporary; a humorous non-fiction story; a collection of seasonally-themed short stories; a contemporary erotic drama; and a cozy mystery. She also hosts a podcast called Word Play with Kristine Raymond.

When not writing, she’s navigating the publishing and promotional side of the business. When not doing that, she enjoys spending time with her husband and furry family, reading, gardening, and binge-watching shows on Netflix.

Social media links:
Facebook
Instagram
Book + Main
BookBub
Website
Twitter
Word Play podcast

As writers, we’re totally consumed with words—the style, the quality, the grammatical correctness, the tense, the appropriateness, the number, the… ACK!! Before you know it, you’re curled up in a corner with a glazed look in your eyes, mumbling verses like:

I write them short
I write them long,
But still can’t weave
An author’s song.
My keyboard’s hot
But still no words
That sound much more
Than worthless turds.

Been there, done that. No matter how hard it is to write and re-write, words are our business and their importance can’t be overlooked. Here’s an example of how vital communicating the right word can be.

It was a hot Saturday evening in the summer of 1964 and Fred had a date with Peggy Sue. He arrived at her house and rang the bell.

“Oh, come on in!” Peggy Sue’s mother said as she welcomed Fred. “Would you like something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea?”

“Iced tea, please,” Fred said.

“So, what are you and Peggy planning to do tonight?” Peggy Sue’s mom asked when she brought the drinks.

“Oh, probably catch a movie, and then maybe grab a bite to eat at the malt shop, maybe take a walk on the beach…”

“Peggy likes to screw, you know,” Mom confided.

“Really?” Fred raised his eyebrows.

“Oh yes,” she continued. “When she goes out with her friends, that’s all they do!”

“Is that so?” asked Fred, incredulously.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, she’d screw all night if we’d let her!”

“Well, thanks for the tip!” Fred said as he began thinking about alternate plans for the evening.

A moment later, Peggy Sue came down the stairs looking pretty as a picture, wearing a pink sweater set and a pleated skirt, and with her hair tied back in a bouncy ponytail. She greeted Fred.

“Have fun, kids!” her mother said as they left.

Half an hour later, a completely disheveled Peggy Sue burst into the house and slammed the front door. “The Twist, Mom!” she yelled to her mother in the kitchen. “The damn dance is called the Twist!”

Poor Peggy Sue. Poor Fred.

So, how can we tell if we’re communicating the right words? Well, there are a few of ways I use. I won’t kid you, they’re all difficult as heck, but they work most of the time.

1. Find overused words like really, that and just and only. I use two ways to do this and both are good.

a. Use the Search feature. Each time one of those words is found, read the sentence and make sure the word is required for the meaning you’re trying to convey. If not, cut!! Yes, really!

b. Read your work out loud. Yes, all of your work, even those hotter than blazes sex scenes. If you have to take a flashlight into the closet to be alone, I can’t emphasize enough how helpful this can be, and for more than finding unneeded words.

2. Reading aloud helps you notice words repeated in close proximity.

*He wore a serious expression.

“We’re in serious trouble,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, “I’ve hardly ever been in such a serious position.”*

And that’s before they got into bed.

3. Unneeded words bog down your writing. Pay particular attention to the ending of sentences and words immediately after verbs.

*He shrugged his shoulders before answering.* What else would he shrug? his shoulders is not needed.

*“Get out,” she said to her.* If there’re only two people present, to her is not needed.

*Her heart pounded in her chest.* Well, yeah.

*I must get out, she thought to herself.* Yes, if she’s thinking, she’s doing it to herself. No need to say it.

4. Turn your work over to someone else to read. The trick here is to find someone you trust. It’s okay if they like you, but it’s not a necessity.  As long as they’ll be honest about what they read and help you make your work as powerful as possible—meaning with the right words used in the right way—you’re okay. The sad truth is, the same way you easily see errors in someone else’s work, your critique partner will see them in yours. Damn it.

5. Think about what you want each scene to mean. Does each sentence, each paragraph help you accomplish your goal? I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to cut words I really, really loved because they didn’t help the scene get where it needed to go. The same goes for scenes within chapters. This is tough to get used to, but if you read your work and you’re into 2-3 pages of narrative, take a step back and make sure you can’t turn that into dialogue or action. Readers have short attention spans and often don’t appreciate your genius in narrative. What’s a writer to do? Cut!

6. And of course (which are unnecessary words, but hey…), make sure the word you’ve used is the word you meant to use. As shown above, there’s a big difference between screwing and twisting!

Only a Good Man Will Do

Seriously ambitious man seeks woman to encourage his goals, support his (hopeful) position as Headmaster of Westover Academy, and be purer than Caesar’s wife. Good luck with that!

Daniel Goodman is a man on a mission. He aims to become headmaster of Westover Academy. For that he needs a particular, special woman to help him set high standards. Into his cut and dried life of moral and upright behavior, comes Eve Star, formerly one of Europe’s foremost exotic dancers. Her life is anything but cut and dried, black and white. Daniel is drawn to her like a kid to chocolate. Nothing good can come of this attraction. Or can it? He is after all, a good man.

Buy links:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2q7ovi4
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1129630612?ean=2940161770603
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/898008
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/only-a-good-man-will-do

Excerpt:

Daniel took his seat in the Academy dining room with a few of the boys from his dormitory. Each table sat six, with a permanent place for a dorm master or table monitor. Each month, the boys rotated tables, assuring they spent casual dining time with their dorm master and others, and learned proper table manners. Usually, Daniel enjoyed meals with his young charges. They were more willing than the older students to talk about what happened during the day, and he often picked up on budding problems by listening to their conversations. For this reason, even though late afternoon-early evening was the part of the day he had free, he usually liked to attend dinner.

However, he’d changed his calls to Eve from four-thirty to after dinner, and now Daniel counted the minutes until the evening meal ended. He urged the boys not to tarry after dessert and then cursed the fact he had to walk sedately rather than sprint back to the dorm. Once there, he made sure to lock the doors and get comfortable before punching her number on the telephone face. A minor dorm crisis requiring both him and his assistant had prevented their saying much more than hello yesterday, and today, though he’d just eaten, he felt like a starving man.

“Nothing a little sugar won’t cure,” he muttered, using Southern slang for kisses.

At the same moment, a deep, male voice answered. “Well, honey, you ain’t gettin’ it from me.” The man laughed. “Hey, doc. Eve told me to tell you she had to go out, and if she missed you, she’d call back as soon as possible.”

“Hi, Jed.” Of course Eve shouldn’t be hanging around waiting for his calls, but he couldn’t help the disappointment that hit like a sledgehammer. “Say, why’d you call me doc?”

Jed laughed. “Ask Eve.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Well. Daniel set the phone back on the side table. All dressed up and nowhere to go. He looked at the remaining term papers he had to grade, but reading the opinions of high school boys on any subject, much less Romeo and Juliet, a love story that ended tragically, didn’t appeal. What he wanted was to hear the voice of the woman who’d ridden him hard and put him away wet on Tuesday evening.

About the Author

A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. Writing was so much fun Dee decided to keep at it. That’s how she spends her days. Her nights? Well, she’s lucky that her dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy, and nights are their secret. For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join Dee on Nomad Authors. Contact Dee at dsknight@deesknight.com.

Author links:
Website: https://nomadauthors.com
Blog: http://nomadauthors.com/blog
Twitter: http://twitter.com/DeeSKnight
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN
Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/h8t2y6
LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

The enemy was hiding in plain sight…

SEAL Undercover
Dedicated to the SEALs who continue to fight for America’s safety and honor

SEAL Undercover is part of the Suspense Sisters Silver SEALs series.

I hope you will check out all the books. ~Desiree

Max DiSalvo gave his entire life to the SEALs. He would have married—he certainly enjoyed women—but he never could find one who understood his dedication to the Teams, even though many of his team members married happily. It takes a certain caliber of woman to be a SEAL wife and Max just never found one that fit with him. Now, at 48, he is out of the SEALs, running his own commercial fishing company in Maine where he grew up, and waiting for his assignments from DHS.

Regan Shaw, a SEAL widow, is an Intelligence Operations Specialist with DHS, and a woman who Max is drawn to from first sight. Part of her job is analyzing information to assess threats and she’s discovered a doozy—there is a secret group of very wealthy people who, in partnership with a powerful cartel, are using the border with Mexico to smuggle terrorists from the Middle East into the country. And word has come down that a high-level member of the government is clearing the way with them for everything.

The group is about to have one of its executive meetings at an exclusive resort in Texas and that’s where DHS is sending the two of them. Credentials have been arranged that would make him attractive to the group. A story has been set and there is backup for him should he need it. Regan, who has all the information on this operation, will go with him as his wife.

As they uncover more and more of the operation, they realize just how dangerous this group really is. When someone betrays them, and Regan is kidnapped, Max goes into war mode, because in Regan Shaw he’s found the woman he’s waited for all his life and he doesn’t intend to lose her now. But he will need every bit of the skills that he learned as a SEAL to rescue her and bring down this very dirty conspiracy.

Excerpt:

“And what does he get out of it.”

“He thinks he’s getting a free pass on prison and will have the opportunity to live out his life on some island in luxury.”

“He thinks? And what’s really going to happen.”

“That’s above my pay grade.” He walked over to Max. “Anyway, as soon as I saw the picture and heard the name, I knew we had to get you into this. You’ve got all the necessary skills. If you say yes, you’ve got five days to learn everything you need to know to become Max Ferron.”

“What happens then?”

“Their next very private, very secret meeting I told you about? It’s taking place at a lodge hidden away from the world. We believe it’s the final get-together before July 4th. We want you to go in there as Max Ferren and get every bit of information available to bring them down.”

Max gave a hard laugh. “You don’t want much, do you.”

“Listen. You’re our only chance. There’s no one else we can insert. We’ll give you all the protection we can. But, in the end, it may be up to you.” He sighed. “Will you do it, Max? I know this is a cheesy line, but like I said earlier, your country needs you.”

Max stared out the window for a long time. He knew this was risky. He might even get killed. But for the first time since he’d been shot, his blood was stirring and his pulse racing. He had a purpose. This was what he lived for. To serve his country in any way he could.

“Well?” Si prodded.

Max turned. “You knew I’d do it, or you’d never have come here. But I need the morning to get things organized with the boat crews and put someone in charge while I’m away.”

“No problem.”

“Fourth of July, huh? They picked a symbolic day to do this. On purpose, I’m sure.”

“No shit. The assholes. I’d like to take them apart myself.” He paused. “There’s one more thing. I haven’t discussed it with anyone except my boss and Regan.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Part of their attack could include biological weapons.”

Max’s blood chilled, and he had trouble breathing. “Bioterrorism? Are you kidding me?”

“I hope so. We haven’t picked up any chatter about it, but you know it is a favorite of the terrorists in the Middle East.”

Max knew that very well. The possibility of it on missions was always there in the background, which was why they carried special gear.

“Fuck, Si. We need to shut this damn thing down before it goes any further.”

Si nodded. “That we do. Okay, I’ll have the chopper pick us up at one tomorrow. That do it for you?”

“The chopper?” Max chuckled. “Yeah, that’ll be fine, but we’d better do it somewhere away from here or the townspeople will be gossiping twenty/four seven.”

“Gotcha. Oh, and there’s a bonus with this. You’ll have a wife with you.”

“A wife?” Max stared at his friend.

“Yeah. Max Ferron was recently married. No one in the group has met her, but we had Bernardo vouch for her along with his brother.”

“They can’t be too happy about all this.”

Si nodded. “They’re not. But Bernardo’s been a driving force in this group. His arms and munitions are the key to pulling this off. He’s had to reach out to others to gather the quantity he needs, which means they’re no doubt already setting up the beginning of their worldwide network.”

Max stared at the other man. “And who is this woman who’s my supposed wife?”

“She works for DHS as an Intelligence Operations Specialist. Analyzes chatter coming in. She’s the one who first picked up on this. When she did, she was moved onto the Bone Frog staff so we could keep the people in the loop as few as possible. She’s been thoroughly briefed ln everything and will be a big help.”

Right. Some computer analyst who probably thought this would be a walk in the park.

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