Fearless Mob Boss Series Sneak Peek Saturday Writing

Sneak Peek Sunday; FEARLESS

I know, I know. It’s supposed to be Sneak Peek Saturday. But better late than never, right?


While RUTHLESS is killing it in the Amazon rankings, I’m already ramping up for the release of FEARLESS, book two in the Mob Boss trilogy. The cover is currently being redesigned for the September 7th release of the book. In the meantime, maybe this sneak peek will tide you over.


The car was more animal than machine, its undulating curves sensual even rendered in steel and fiberglass. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Nico was all man — not exactly the type to drive a low-key sedan — and this car wasn’t about subtlety.

“Shouldn’t we be laying low?” she asked.

“We are laying low,” he said. “I had someone change the plates.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Someone? I thought the point of meeting Luca here was to stay under the radar.”

“Trust me. I’ve covered our bases. And when in Rome…” He took her elbow and guided her to the car.

“We’re not in Rome,” she said drily.

“No, we’re in Miami. Now get in the car.”

She slid into the seat with a sigh, sinking into the plush leather interior. He reached across her and buckled her seatbelt, just like he had the night they’d fled New York for Maine. His touch was no less electric now, and she breathed in the scent of him as his fingers brushed her skin, imagining the way he laid his big hands across her naked belly just before he spread her legs to enter her.

He clicked the buckle into place and retreated from the car. A moment later her door slid shut with a quiet hum, and he got behind the wheel. The powerful engine came to life somewhere between a roar and purr.

Like Nico.

He put his hands on the wheel slowly, like he was savoring the feel of it under his hands. He shifted into gear, and then they were flying through the parking garage, Nico taking the turns sharp and smooth until they exited into the Florida sunshine.

They got on the highway and headed south. It was like being in a different world, the bright colors and fast cars standing in sharp contrast to the wild Maine coast, the historical solemnity of Boston. Nico rolled down the windows and looked over at her with a grin, then accelerated through traffic. The wind whipped back her hair, and she was surprised to hear laughter bubble up from her throat.

She wasn’t a car person, couldn’t have cared less about what she drove at home, but the speed and agility of the machine connected with something deeply erotic inside her. She looked over at Nico — his muscled thighs moving as he shifted gears, dark hair ruffled by the wind, eyes hidden behind sunglasses — and grew wet with desire for him. She felt her old life falling away with a startling lack of fear.

A half hour later, Nico pulled into the Coral Gables address Angel had given him. The house was one of many owned by her father — now owned by her and David  — and occupied only sporadically. It wasn’t one of her favorites — she’d always thought it was a little garish — but now she could appreciate the gated entry, the long driveway that led to a brick courtyard at the front of the house. It wasn’t a fortress — as far as she knew it had been built for privacy, not impenetrability — but at least they would have a warning before someone made it through the gate and up the driveway. She didn’t expect anyone to know she and Nico were hiding out here, but they couldn’t afford to take anything for granted.

Nico pulled the car to a stop in the courtyard. He leaned forward, his arms on the wheel, and gazed up at the Spanish-style mansion. It didn’t look huge from the front, but Angel knew it was an illusion. The house was enormous, with eight bedrooms, a wine cellar, and a gym, among other things. The exterior was faced with ivory stucco, the windows framed with blue shutters, and palm trees offered just enough shade to the interior without blocking the sunlight.

“Nice,” he said approvingly.

“Thanks,” Angel said. She heard the note of sarcasm in her voice and felt like she should explain. “I still don’t know how I feel about all of this stuff.”

He turned to loo at her. “What stuff?”

“All the stuff bought with my father’s blood money.”

He nodded. “How do you know the house wasn’t built with legitimate income from Rossi Development?”

She thought about it. Everything was all tangled up together. The good and bad, moral and immoral, love and hate.

“I guess I don’t.”

“Maybe that’s a blessing,” he said, taking her hand.


They went inside, and Angel opened the windows and the doors leading to the balconies and terraces. The house was just like she remembered it, with soaring ceilings, expansive rooms, and an elaborate iron banister that wound upward with the curved staircase to the second floor.

When she was done airing out the house, she returned to the ground floor to find Nico standing on the terrace, looking out over the infinity pool and lagoon, and beyond that, to the open ocean in the distance.

“Will this work?” she asked him.

“It will,” he said. “Thank you.”

She reached up to smooth the crease in his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“I wish you’d go back to New York.”

She dropped her arm, stung by his words. “You don’t want me here?”

“That’s not it.” He pulled her into his arms. “Sometimes I think I can breathe without you.”

“Then why?” she asked.

He looked down at her. “I won’t be able to live with myself if something happens to you. You know that, right?”

She nodded, then stretched to kiss him. “Which is why nothing is going to happen to me. We’re going to meet Luca, get a handle on what’s going on, and decide what to do next. No one even knows we’re here, and it’s not like anyone would suspect I’m hanging out with my former kidnapper.”

A brief flash of misery crossed his features in the moment before he was able to hide it, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” his voice was gruff.

“Don’t torture yourself over the past,” she said. “Trust me, it doesn’t change anything. And I don’t think I’d want to change it anyway.”

He shook his head. “You can’t mean that, Angel. If I hadn’t had Luca and Dante kidnap you, your life would be just as it was before.”

It was what she’d once wanted. Her old life back. Her old naivety. But that meant not knowing Nico. It meant never feeling the mysterious and powerful connection to the man now who felt like part of her. Would she wish him away? Wish away what they had? The answer was obvious; she wished her father hadn’t died in the flat in London, wished she and David had a chance to talk to him about all the lies he’d told. She wished finding out the truth hadn’t been so painful. But that was where her wishing ended. To wish anything else would be to undo what had happened between her and Nico, and whatever the future held, she was surprised to realize she didn’t want to undo what had happened between them.

“What I had before was a lie. I’ll take the truth.” She pressed her body to his. “I’ll take this.”


Buy RUTHLESS on Amazon

Buy RUTHLESS on Barnes & Noble

Buy RUTHLESS on iBooks

Fearless Mob Boss Series Ruthless Sneak Peek Saturday Writing

Sneak Peek Saturday – FEARLESS

Giving you guys a sneak peek of FEARLESS, the second book in the Mob Boss series, as part of Sneak Peek Saturday!

FEARLESS will be out in less than a month (wheeee!). I hope you all get a chance to read RUTHLESS, the first book in the series, before then.

In the meantime, here’s a Nico and Angel fix to tide you over.


She stepped onto the porch and made her way toward the shadow. He came into view a little at a time, and she had to resist the urge to sigh when she finally saw his face. The chiseled line of his jaw, the sharp planes of his cheekbones under a shock of dark hair so lush she had a sudden memory of it, silky and thick, in her fingers. But all of these were nothing compared to his eyes. In an instant, they pierced the armor she’d built over the past six months, and she was again willing prey to Nico’s predator.

Except now she was under no delusion that she wanted to escape.

She almost forgot to breathe while she was held captive by his gaze. His body was mere inches from hers, and she caught his scent — raw masculinity, leather, and soap — on the ocean breeze.

He headed for the back of the house, then turned to look at her. “You coming?”

They entered through the glass doors off the living room. A fire burned in the hearth, and she had a memory of Nico, his naked body entwined with hers on the sofa while rain pelted the windows. She forced her eyes away from the fireplace, taking in the sweep of wood floor, the stone walls, the glass that made the ocean feel like it was part of the house. She’d forgotten how much she loved this place, how at home she’d felt here.

Nico reached for her bag, and a shock of desire winged through her body when his skin brushed her cold fingers. He set the bag on the ground and crossed the room to pull a blanket off the back of the sofa. She watched as he made his way toward her, his eyes locked on hers while he leaned in to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. She hadn’t realized she was shivering until the warmth settled over her skin. He let his hands rest on her arms for a moment before turning away, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She had forgotten how hard it was to breathe around him.

“Drink?” he asked, already heading for the bar.


He poured something into a glass and returned to hand it to her.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and gestured at the couch. “Please, sit.”

She took a seat on the sofa and felt the sting of rejection when he sat at the other end. Complicated was an understatement for all that was between them, but she couldn’t deny that all the old feelings were still there. Was it simpler for him? Had his feelings for her changed?

“How are you?” he finally asked.

She took a drink, then looked down at the whiskey in her glass. “I’m… okay. Still getting used to everything the way it is now.”

“And David?”

She looked up, somehow surprised that he would mention her brother. “He’s okay, too,” she said softly. “Dealing with all the unfinished business between him and our father.”

“I’m sure that’s very difficult,” Nico said, his voice full of regret.

She nodded, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about Carmine.”

“Thank you.”

She looked into his eyes. “What’s going on, Nico?”

“I thought you might know,” he said.

“Me?” She shook her head. “I’m not involved in the Boston operation, but I doubt Frank has the ambition to come after you.”

“I thought the same thing,” he said.

“Besides,” she said, “why would someone kill Carmine? Wasn’t he just a Consigliere?”

She was still learning the terminology of her father’s illegal businesses, but she knew that Carmine had been a kind of advisor to Nico, the same way Frank had advised her father. Consigliere’s weren’t supposed to be part of the battlefield.

“I’m not sure I would use the word “just” to describe Carmine — or anyone in that role.”

“You know what I mean.” It came out sharper than she intended. She didn’t know much about the business, but she wasn’t stupid.

She thought she saw a flash of appreciation in his eyes. Figures. Nico wasn’t the kind of man to be turned on by complacency, however much he might have railed against her stubbornness.

“I do,” he said. “And you’re right. Someone in Carmine’s position isn’t usually a target for this kind of message.”

The whiskey and blanket conspired to make her more comfortable than she should have been, and she let the blanket slip off her shoulders. “What kind of message is it?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was designed to remind me that my allies are rapidly decreasing in number.”

“Why would someone want to do that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “There could be a hundred reasons.”

She thought about it. “If why isn’t the place to start, how about who?”

“If I knew that,” he said, “I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“There isn’t anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you?”

A smile touched the corners of his lips. “There are a lot of people who want to hurt me.”

She took a drink of the whiskey, savoring the way it worked its way into her system. Already everything seemed a little less intense. Nico was so close. It would be nothing to cross the space between them, to take his face in her hands and touch her lips to his.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

He stood, then walked to her end of the couch.“I’m going to go to bed.”

He held out his hand.


Buy RUTHLESS on Amazon

Buy RUTHLESS on Barnes & Noble

Buy RUTHLESS on iBooks

Sneak Peek Saturday Things I Love

This Wicked Game Sneak Peek


It’s been awhile since I’ve done a Sneak Peek Saturday, and since Sneak Peek Sunday sounds just as good and THIS WICKED GAME comes out in only ten days, I figured I’d give you guys a little look.


The house was noisy, conversation and laughter coming from every direction. She moved unseen through the clusters of people, drifting down the stairs and into the front parlor.

People stood in groups, many with drinks in their hands, talking animatedly as children ran around them. One of them, a dark-haired boy, knocked a picture frame off an end table. A svelte woman in a linen suit smoothly reached out for his arm, her gaze steely. The boy dropped his eyes, picked up the frame, and returned it to its rightful place.

The woman smiled, patting his cheek. “There’s a good boy. Now go outside and play where you won’t do any damage.”

The boy ran off. Claire, in her dream state, followed him down the hall, through the dining room, and onto the back terrace.

Claire’s eyes were immediately drawn to a woman, standing with a drink in one hand, a loose dress flowing over her slender body. She looked different, with chunky shoes and her hair falling in waves down her back.

But it was definitely Pilar Kincaid.

Claire floated over the lawn, as invisible as ether, as she wound her way through conversations.

A loud clap sounded near the terrace doors, and Claire turned, her gaze resting on her father, holding a fancy black camera.

He smiled at the crowd. “Time for a picture!” he shouted. “Everybody get together over there, at the side of the house.”

The crowd began to move, Claire’s mother shepherding everyone to the grassy area at the side of the Kincaid property. The hands of the smallest children were grasped by parents or older siblings, the wriggling little bodies sometimes carried against their will.

There was some confusion as everyone moved into place, couples standing together with their children, the single people standing according to height.

Suddenly, there was a prickle of awareness, the sensation of being seen. Claire followed the energy, her eyes resting on a pale, dark-haired man at the edge of the crowd. He seemed to see her, though no one else did.

Claire recognized him immediately as Maximilian Constantin.

He stood in the back row, in front of a little girl in a wheelchair. The girl was pretty, with deeply black hair and sad blue eyes. Her gaze was fixed in the distance. She seemed to see something beyond the scene in front of her.

Claire’s dad—young, with a scruffy beard growing at his chin, though all the other men were clean-shaven—came forward, issuing instructions to the group, telling them to squeeze in. Everyone did, though some laughingly protested.

When everyone was finally in place, her dad backed up a few feet. “Everybody smile,” he instructed. “Ready.
. . . One . . . two . . . three.”

The crowd groaned as the flash went off in a blinding burst of light.

Claire turned, spurred forward by some instinct, an unseen but guiding hand that pulled her back across the lawn, up the stone steps of the terrace, through the dining room doors.

The noise of the party faded into the background until it disappeared completely.

Now it was night. Table lamps were lit around the house, the crowd long gone.

Claire drifted, finding herself in the study that was her father’s domain. Her dad was sitting at his desk, his hands busy under the focused light of the desk lamp. She moved closer, wanting a better look.

It was the photograph, the one she’d seen him take on the lawn. He was putting it inside a wooden frame, pressing it into place and locking the clasps at the back of the frame, a penknife at his side.

He turned the picture over, surveying it with studious eyes as he rose from the chair.

Walking across the room, he stopped next to the fireplace. The wall was already cluttered with photographs, but Claire could see that her dad had cleared a spot for the newest addition. He placed it on a hook, leaning back to analyze its placement. After making a few adjustments to make sure it was even, he turned and went back to his desk.

Claire floated out of the study, continuing toward the stairs. The house faded around her as she went, the edges of her dream-vision slowly fading to blackness.

Then she was in the place between wakefulness and sleep, her mind already trying to grasp the significance of what she’d seen.

Sneak Peek Saturday Writing

Sneak Peek Saturday – Adult Fantasy WIP

This book has been an obsession since I started it last year. Unfortunately, I’ve had to set it aside several times for pressing deadlines, leaving it as about 35,000 words, which is where it still stands. One of my goals this year is to finish it.

This is the first chapter, which doesn’t really hint at the fantasy element in the rest of the book. But this is me we’re talking about, so trust me; it’s there. You can get another hint about the book from the picture.



Hope you enjoy it!


I tried not to look suspicious as I sat across the street from the school, waiting for the kids to stream out the back door.

I shouldn’t have been worried. I’d been careful to dress like the moms I saw in the grocery store, the ones wearing faded jeans and stretched out t-shirts, their hair usually in a ponytail or cut short for minimal styling.

I’d forgone my usual skinny jeans and black t-shirt, digging a cardigan out of my bottom drawer to wear in place of my leather jacket. I hadn’t worn the sweater since Abby’s last birthday, and I’d lifted it to my nose when I pulled it from the drawer, inhaling deeply. It was stupid. It wouldn’t smell like her, and I wouldn’t know if it did. Like so many things about Abby, I could only imagine what she smelled like.

I’d finally put the sweater on, getting a whiff of wool and old wood as I tugged it up over my shoulders. I’d pulled my long brown hair into a ponytail and slipped on some tennis shoes before getting in the car and driving across town to Verrazano Elementary School. I knew it was Abby’s school both because I’d used the Moser’s address to look it up on the district map and because Grace Moser had mentioned it in her yearly letter, something that made me squirm a little in the car, guilt worming its way through my veins.

Grace wouldn’t like the idea of me sitting across from the school, watching Abby. It’s not that she would be angry. She’d just wonder why, if I was starved for a glimpse of my daughter, I didn’t take her and Dan up on their offer to have me over. And that was something I’d never be able to explain. I couldn’t even think about it long enough to explain it to myself.

A breeze, the perfect mix of late summer warmth chased by the slightest chill, drifted through the open car window as a bell cut through the air. I sat up straighter, eyes trained on the school. Ten seconds later the side doors opened with a clang, and a stream of small bodies emerged, some bounding down the steps, others showing more caution.

Abby was one of the first ones out. She hit the blacktop behind the school with so much speed the momentum seemed to carry her forward, her blond hair streaming out behind her like a handful of yellow ribbons. My hands rose from my lap, reaching for the window, as if I could catch her from where I sat in the car.

But she didn’t fall. She just kept running, her pale legs bare under a green dress.

My breath caught in my throat. She was bigger than she’d been last year, just like she’d been bigger last year than the year before that. For a minute, I saw it; the years and years ahead when I would only bear silent witness to Abby’s growth. Years when the loss of her would etch itself deeper into my bones until they were worn as smooth as a river stone.

I shut the thought down before it could cripple me.

I lifted the picture in my hand, comparing it to the little girl running back and forth across the playground, playing tag with some of the other kids.

Abby’s hair was longer now. Ditto her legs. Her face was slightly less round, and every now and then, I thought I caught a glimpse of the girl she would be in a few years. I tried to project myself forward five, six, seven Septembers into the future, to see her sitting with other girls at recess, their heads bowed as they shared secrets and talked about classmates.

Then again, that was just the way I imagined it would be. The way I hoped it would be for Abby. The truth was, I didn’t have a clue. My own childhood had been about as far from normal as you could get. But normal was what I was hoping for for Abby. What it had been all about.

I watched her run, her laugh falling through the air like glitter. I wondered if her happiness was a product of her environment or if it was some kind of throwback gene, some long-lost chromosome that allowed her to play and smile and be carefree without worrying and wondering and being afraid. She definitely didn’t get it from me.

I took one last look, committing every detail to memory even though I knew Grace would send me a picture taken on this very day. She always sent me a birthday picture.

Still, this was the last time I’d see Abby in person until next year. I would need to call up the image of her countless times to make the journey from now to then, and I drank her in until my heart was so full of her it felt like it would explode.

“Happy birthday, Abby,” I said softly.

I put the picture back in my purse and started the car.

* * *

It had been an open adoption. Not because that’s how I wanted it, but because Daniel and Grace Moser didn’t believe in keeping secrets. And I had my heart set on Daniel and Grace Moser.

I’d looked through hundreds of profiles before I’d chosen them. Daniel was a Senior Vice President for a computer consulting company. Grace was an artist who liked to cook and wanted to stay home with their adopted child. They made a good living, but not enough to make them a member of the financially elite. I liked that. I wanted Abby to have a happy, stable home. I wanted her to have a normal life. Extremes went both ways, and while I didn’t want her to worry about where her next meal was coming from, I didn’t want her to become some stuck-up little bitch who thought she was better than everyone else, either.

The Mosers were perfect. Sweet and sincere, Grace had the kind of inherent warmth that made me wish she was my mother. Daniel was a big, solid man with intelligent eyes. I liked the way he put his hand on Grace’s back when they’d entered the room at the adoption agency, the way he seemed to watch over her even when we were just talking. They talked about how they liked classical music but listened to Otis Redding when they cooked dinner, and I had a flash of my child, dancing around a homey kitchen to Sitting on the Dock of the Bay or doing homework with Brahms playing the background.

Choosing them had felt right, inevitable. They’d supported me through my pregnancy without being obnoxious, giving me small gifts to make me more comfortable and covering all of my medical expenses. But they never intruded. Never asked questions about what I was eating or whether I was taking the prenatal vitamins or getting enough rest.

Maybe they just knew they didn’t need to worry. For once, it had been easy to be good to myself because everything I did for myself was really for Abby.

After Abby was born and they’d taken her home, Grace and Dan had offered to have me over. It was a standing invitation, they’d said when I declined. As Abby got older, they even offered to tell her I was a family friend, if it would make me more comfortable.

But I just couldn’t. I felt like if I saw her up close, the scream that had been building inside me since the night I’d let her go might finally wrench itself free, and I’d never be able to stop. I’d consigned my memories of her birth to the shadowy place in my heart, the place where I swept all the things I couldn’t bear to think about. I allowed myself one day a year — this day — to see her. To think about her. I was already shuffling through life. Already trying to find a way forward, a way to navigate the world and the people around me the way everyone else seemed to do so easily, so effortlessly.

It was all I could do. I’d already learned that spending too much time in the past would undo me completely.

Reading Sneak Peek Saturday This Wicked Game Writing

Sneak Peek Saturday – This Wicked Game

This week I’m giving you the first chapter of THIS WICKED GAME, in honor of the gorgeous cover, revealed just yesterday.

I’m super excited about this book, which features a moody setting (New Orleans), creepy subject matter (voodoo!), and an awesome, multicultural cast. It’ll be out this November form Penguin/Dial.

Stay tuned for more details!


Claire was at the front of the store, uploading a new batch of photographs while a pot of wax melted behind her, when the woman entered through the unmarked door.

Claire pulled her eyes away from the pictures flashing across the computer screen. It wasn’t unusual for customers to use the private entrance. Other than the staircase leading to the house, the door was the only way in, and there were plenty of people in New Orleans who had a key.

But Claire had never seen the woman before, and that was unusual, especially since she had been working in the store since before she was tall enough to see over the counter without a step stool.

Still, rules were rules. The fact that the woman had a key meant she was authorized to make purchases, no questions asked.

Claire turned down the temperature on the wax and closed her laptop as the woman approached the counter. She was startlingly beautiful, her milky skin contrasting with the red lipstick that shaped her full mouth. Her clothes were expertly tailored, the white button down nipped in at the waist, the hem of her navy trousers just grazing the floor as she walked.

Claire wiped her hands on a towel as the woman stopped at the counter. “Hello. What can I do for you?”

“Good afternoon.” The woman’s voice was low and gravelly. Claire figured her for a heavy smoker. Either that or a time-traveling 1940s film star. “I have some things I’d like to purchase.”

“Sure.” Claire pulled out the yellow notepad they used for orders.

The woman opened her slim black handbag, pulling from it a folded piece paper. She pushed it across the counter with her neatly manicured hands.

Claire opened it, glancing at the long list of items. It was a big order, and Claire immediately started transferring the woman’s list to the notepad.

“This is your family’s establishment?” The woman asked the question with the certainty of someone who already knew the answer.

“Uh-huh.” Claire had to resist the urge to add “unfortunately” at the end of the sentence.

Frankincense, black cat oil, anise seed, aloeswood powder…

“It’s quite a store. It seems you have everything.”

“Just about,” Claire said. A strand of her long blond hair fell forward. She tucked it behind one ear and continued transcribing the woman’s list to the notepad.

“And how long does it usually take to fill an order?” the woman asked.

“It depends on what you need. Let’s see…” Claire scanned the list. Everything on the front page was in stock. She turned the paper over to the back. “We should be able to do this while you…”

The words stopped coming out of Claire’s mouth as she came to the last item on the list.

Two (2) vials Black Panthera Pardus Plasma.

She felt her face flush as she searched her memory, wanting to be sure.

“Is there a problem?” the woman asked.

Claire didn’t know if it was paranoia or something else, but she thought there was something new in the woman’s voice. An undercurrent of acceptance, as if she’d known the Kincaid’s wouldn’t have the plasma all along.

Claire shook her head, resisting the urge to call out for her mother. Pilar Kincaid had little patience for Claire’s “lack of commitment” to the family business. Calling her would only highlight Claire’s inability to handle the store on her own. Besides, her knowledge of the craft wasn’t exactly encyclopedic. Maybe she was wrong.

“Um… not a problem. But one of these items might take us a while to get in. I think it’s a special order.”

“And which item would that be?” the woman asked, her voice frosty.

“The black panther plasma. We don’t keep it in stock.”

No one keeps it, Claire thought. As far as the Guild was concerned, there were some things you just didn’t mess around with, even if you were an experienced practitioner.

The woman tapped her manicured nails on the wood counter. “How long do you expect it will take to get it?”

“I’m not sure.” Claire didn’t have time to really think about it. “Maybe a week?”

The woman didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll take the rest of the items now.”

Claire nodded, turning to fill the order. Everything else on the list was in stock, and Claire busied herself filling vials with the powder and herbs and wrapping roots in brown paper. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her back while she worked. It made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck stand on end and caused a prickling sensation behind her eyes. She felt vulnerable, exposed.

Once the order was filled, she turned around, half expecting the woman to have transformed into some kind of monster.

But she was just the same, her gaze unflinching, her eyes so dark they were almost black.

“Here you go,” Claire said, pushing the package toward the woman and turning to the calculator. She consulted the notepad, her fingers flying over the keys. “That’ll be $357. 42, without the panther plasma.”

She had a hard time even saying it. Questions were drumming through her mind. She needed to get upstairs to her mother. She would know what to do.

The woman nodded slowly, pulling a wallet from her handbag and removing four hundred dollar bills.

Claire took the money and made change from the lockbox they kept under the counter. “Would you like us to call you when we find out about the special order?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you one week from today.” She took her change and picked up the package, her unsettling gaze resting on Claire. “Goodbye, Claire.”

She turned and left through the private entrance. Claire watched the door shut behind her, listening for the click of the automatic lock. For a minute, she was rooted to the floor, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing. Then she looked down at the list of items.

Two (2) vials Black Panthera Pardus Plasma.

She took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

The Kincaid’s living quarters were separated from the store by one floor and a two level staircase. Just a few months ago, the door between the two spaces hadn’t even had a lock, but after a rash of break-ins, the Guild families who had stores on-site had taken measures to protect their private quarters from the customers who had access to the supply houses.

The world was changing, Claire’s mother had said as the locksmith installed a heavy deadbolt on the door that separated the store from the two floors above it. Once a secret society of old-school voodoo suppliers and their clients, the Guild of High Priests and Priestesses had become too large to allow for intimate knowledge of each and every member. Now, it was up to the regional leaders to vet and approve new members based on lineage and practice.

Claire reached the top of the stairs and fumbled through her keys for the one that fit the new lock. When she found it, silver and strangely shiny compared to the old ones that went to the house and store, she unlocked the door and spilled out into the main hall of the house. She locked the door behind her and moved down the first floor hall.

“Mom? Where are you?”

She checked the drawing room first. The floor to ceiling windows were open to the terrace, the sheer draperies moving slightly in the barely-there July breeze. But her mother wasn’t there.

There was only one other place her mother would be if she wasn’t in the drawing room going over the accounts for the store or writing notecards to Guild members who lived outside the city, and that was upstairs. Claire headed for the main staircase.

When she reached the second-floor landing, she continued down the hall past her bedroom, her parent’s room, two guest rooms, and an extra bathroom.

She stopped at a closed door at the end of the hall and listened.

She heard the gentle murmur of her mother’s voice a second later, smelled the incense she burned when practicing the craft.

Claire hesitated. It wasn’t that she was afraid to interrupt her mother. She just didn’t like the ritual room. She never had.

She’d been about four-years-old when she’d first come upon her mother in the room. She had been wearing a white floor-length garment that Claire would later learn was standard ritual garb. The simple cotton tunic made her mother look taller and younger than she did in her everyday clothes. Her hair was long and loose around her shoulders as she kneeled in front of the alter, covered with burning white candles, wax figures, and dried herbs.

Her mother hadn’t looked like herself at all. Not to Claire.

She had waved Claire forward without speaking, silently inviting her to join in the ritual.

Claire had been afraid. The strange words that came from her mother’s mouth frightened her, however softly they were spoken, and the flickering candles cast unfamiliar shadows.

Claire had shaken her head and retreated. She’d avoided the room ever since.

But she couldn’t avoid it now, and she wrapped softly on the door, turning the knob without waiting for an answer and pushing the door open quietly, so as not to disturb her mother.

She was there, in the same position Claire had found her all those years ago, kneeling in front of the tea table that served as an alter. This time she was in her regular clothes. The alter was alight with purple candles that meant her mother was either working a spirituality rite or trying to channel her power more effectively. Two sticks of incense burned on either side of a bible, their smoke rising into the air in abstract swirls.

Her mother didn’t look up or in any way acknowledge Claire’s presence. Claire waited for a few seconds before she finally gave up and started talking.

“Mom, I-”

“You know I won’t speak to you until you come in properly, Claire.” Her mother didn’t look away from the alter. Her hair, still long and black as a raven’s wing, tumbled down over one of her shoulders. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be working the counter?”

Claire stepped into the room, but just barely. “I am working the counter, but-”

Now her mother looked over at her. “Then what are you doing up here, for heaven’s sake? You know you’re not supposed to leave the store unattended.”

Claire crossed the room, her throat closing against the heavy scent of sandalwood. She held out the piece of paper with the list of ingredients the woman had ordered.

Turning toward her with a sigh, her mother took it, her gray eyes traveling the front page.

“These are all basic ingredients, Claire.” She turned it over. “Surely you know how to…” Her voice trailed off. She shook her head, her face two shades paler than it had been when Claire entered the room. “Where did you get this?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Claire said. “A woman just came in. She gave me this order to fill.”

Her mother rose to her feet, pacing to the fireplace. “Which client was it?”

“That’s the thing,” Claire said. “I’ve never seen her before.”

Her mother turned to face her. “Then how did she get in?”

“She had a key,” Claire said simply.

“Are you sure the door was latching? That it was locked when she came in?”

Claire sighed. She didn’t blame her mother for doubting her. She wasn’t exactly attentive on the job. But still.

“Yes, Miss Julie was the last person to place an order, and the door locked behind her, just like always.”

“Did this woman give you a name?”

No, Claire almost said, but she knew mine.

She didn’t say it. The woman had probably been told about the Kincaid’s by whoever referred her to the store.

Claire shook her head. “And I didn’t ask. You’ve always told me not to. That if they have a key, I honor the policy, fill the orders, and that’s it.”

Her mother consulted the list again before looking up to meet Claire’s eyes. “But this is… this is impossible. We’ll have to call a meeting.”

She was still standing there, a look of shock on her face, when the phone rang from the hall.

“I’ll get it.” Claire left the room and picked up the phone that sat on a table in the hall. “Kincaid residence. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Claire.” She immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. “May I speak to your mother or father, please? It’s urgent.”

“One moment.” Claire covered the mouthpiece and went back to the ritual room, holding out the phone to her mother. “It’s Aunt Estelle,” she said quietly. “She says it’s urgent.”

Estelle Toussaint wasn’t a blood relative to the Kincaid’s, but all the women in the Guild were Claire’s “aunts” just as her mother was “Aunt Pilar” to the other Guild members’ children.

Pilar smoothed her skirt, as though Estelle could see her through the phone. “Hello, Estelle.” Her mother paused, turning her back on Claire. “Well, I… When?” Another long pause. “Today?”

She didn’t say anything else for a couple of minutes. Claire was beginning to wonder if her mother was still on the phone when she murmured a few quiet words. Then she turned around, avoiding Claire’s eyes as she finished the call.

“Yes, I understand. We’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone, staring at it like it was something she’d never seen before.

“Mom?” Claire finally said. “What’s going on?”

Her mother looked up like she’d just realized Claire was still there. “We weren’t the only ones who received an order for black panther plasma today.”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked.

But Pilar was already rushing from the room. “An emergency meeting has been called. Be ready to leave at six.”

Sneak Peek Saturday

Sneak Peak Saturday – Untitled WIP

This week’s sneak peek is from an as-yet-unsold WIP.

And that’s all I can tell you.


They made their way to the bunker in an unmarked SUV. Another agent drove wordlessly, a unidentifiable tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, while Audrey sat in the back next to the agent who’d come to retrieve her.

She thought about texting Lucas to let him know she might not make her shift tomorrow. But what could she say? There were too many things he didn’t know.

Too many things he could never know.

She turned her attention to the window instead, watching pieces of her life pass by — the bakery on the corner where she went for croissants on Sunday morning, the diner where she and Lucas sometimes had coffee after work, Lenny’s. She tried to let go of the feeling that it was all moving away from her, that she was being sucked back into the world that cost her so much and would still cost her more.

She tried to soothe herself. Her return to the bunker was temporary. A necessary part of her role as architect, of the Shepherds commitment — her commitment — to keeping mankind on plan. They would fix the problem with the map, and a few hours from now, she would be back in her bed, the moonlight streaming in through the old factory windows. Tomorrow, she would go to Lenny’s and work her shift with Lucas. She would look into his blue eyes and laugh when he was silly. Maybe she would even say thank you for the friend he’d been when being her friend was no easy task.

The continued through Manhattan toward the Henry Hudson Parkway. Things were rougher than she remembered in this part of the city. A couple of buildings close to the water were charred, victims of a recent fire. The FDNY was already cleaning it up, despite the smoke still rising from its ruins. A bunch of people were protesting noisily near 11th Street, the police out in riot gear, herding the group toward the water, away from the center of the city. It all made the city feel ominous, as if a storm cloud were moving overhead, blocking out the light and vibrancy Audrey loved about Manhattan.

She shouldn’t have been surprised by the changes. It’s not like she bothered to look around very often. She liked her little corner of the city, took comfort in frequenting the same places in and around the loft apartment rather than venturing out into other neighborhoods.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what she was doing.

All the Shepherds were trained in the psychology of their genetic disorder. The psychology of living forever. They were taught to accept the death of people they grew to love, to seek out new experiences to avoid becoming bored, to rely on the extended family of Shepherds for lasting companionship. And yes, to avoid clinging too desperately to people and places in a misguided attempt to create what would only be a false sense of permanence.

They were also taught that all of those things were completely counter to human nature, which is why she’d been immersing herself in the funky little vibe of her loft apartment and her job at Lenny’s, enjoying her attachment to Lucas even as she feared it, trying to pretend she was just like everybody else.

She pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about Lucas while she was on her way to the bunker. One had nothing to do with the other.

And that’s how she wanted it to stay.

They drove for about ten more minutes before the driver pulled the car to the side of the road. Audrey knew what was next, and she turned her face to the agent next to her.

“Sorry,” he said as he wrapped a length of black cloth around her eyes.

“It’s okay.”

Everything went dark. His hands were gentle as he knotted the fabric at the back of her head.

She wasn’t offended. She hadn’t been privy to the location of the map since she’d moved out of the bunker. It was standard operating procedure, a security precaution in the event she was taken by the Apostles and interrogated for information about the bunker’s whereabouts.

All of the Shepherds who lived outside the bunker were subject to the same rules, though Audrey was forced to adhere to them more rigorously than most. If the breach was as serious as it sounded, they would eventually have to clue her in to the bunker’s location so she could come and go more freely. But for now, the blindfold brought with it a sense of relief. Proof that she would soon return to her normal life.

She took deep breaths as the car hurtled forward, the darkness behind her closed eyes disorienting. They seemed to be going fast, probably still on the Parkway, though she had no way of knowing for sure. There were several turns, a swift acceleration that might mean they were getting on the highway, and then a deceleration that probably meant they were leaving it.

Some time later the car stopped. She heard one of the windows roll down, followed by an electronic hum that could have been a gate or garage door opening.

“I’m going to remove the blindfold now.” The agent’s voice was very near her face as he untied the knot. The scent of mint hit her nostrils.

Weak blue light assaulted Audrey’s eyes. “Thank you.”

She looked out the window. They were in some kind of parking garage, the kind that could have served any mall or office building in any of the city’s surrounding suburbs. The car pulled into a small room. Doors closed behind them, and Audrey felt a jolt as they were lowered — vehicle and all — on some kind of elevator mechanism.

They continued their descent for almost five minutes. Wherever they were, it was a long way down.

Finally, the doors opened. The driver put the car into gear and pulled into another garage. He parked the SUV next to one just like it and got out, opening the door for Audrey. They made their way to a pair of massive steel doors set into a concrete wall.

There were several layers of security. It wasn’t unexpected, though the protocols changed as new technology became available. To hear her father tell it, there had once been threatening guards, passwords, and cryptic puzzles where now there were palm and iris scans, voice recognition, signature matching. And Audrey wasn’t fooled by the lack of physical security, either.

Someone, somewhere, was watching their every move via hidden camera.

With every step, Audrey grew more nervous. She told herself it was stupid. These were her people. The ones who had trained her and protected her. The ones who looked out for her from afar and who would continue doing so in the decades ahead.

They were the only family she had.

Still, it had been a year since she’d seen them, and that somehow made it seem like starting all over again.

“Step inside.” The agent who had come to her apartment indicated a large cylinder in front of them.

She walked into it. A red light came on above her head, and she stood still while the machine scanned her body. When the light turned green, she stepped out of it.

The agent hadn’t followed her through.

“Aren’t you coming?”

He shook his head. “This is the end of the line for me.”

“Security clearance?” she asked.

“Level 4,” he said.

She nodded her understanding.

“They’re waiting for you in the last conference room.” He gestured to a marble hallway to her right.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her hand in a gesture of goodbye.

She swallowed her nervousness as she made her way down the hall. There were doors on either side, but she had no idea where she was or what took place in this part of the compound. Even as she put a hand on the door knob and pulled, she couldn’t hear a sound from within. The bunkers were always designed to be soundproof.

She stepped inside, coming to a stop when she spotted the two men at the back of the room. The large, imposing one turned, revealing a shaved head and goatee, his flinty eyes meeting hers as the smaller man stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Well, well, well,” the big man said said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Audrey let out a squeal and flew into the big man’s arms. “Danny? Sam? Is it really you?”

Shadowguard Series Sneak Peek Saturday

Sneak Peek Saturday – Temptation’s Fire

So here’s the deal; every Saturday, I’m going to give you guys a sneak peek of something I’m working on. This week, I’m sharing an excerpt from Temptation’s Fire, the third book in the Shadowguard series, slated for release in February.

And to kick it off, I’m sharing the cover, featuring Ivan Montgomery, the third book’s all-too-hot hero.

And if you haven’t checked out the series yet, what are you waiting for?! Temptation’s Heat and Temptation’s Kiss are already out!

Maggie O’ Reilly sat back in her chair, the images on her computer screen blurring as she rubbed her tired eyes. She’d been paging through the digital archives of the Clifton Record for hours.

And that was just today.

Really, she hadn’t stopped looking since Kane Dawson and Ivan Montgomery had given her the photograph last week.

She picked it up from her desk, looking at it for the hundredth time. The man could have been anyone. He was just an average guy, his dark hair a little long and curling around the hood of a sweatshirt that hung out the back of his leather jacket. His eyes were watchful, ironic since he’d obviously missed whoever had been aiming a camera his way as he headed into the old welding shop at the edge of town.

Except Maggie had a feeling he wasn’t just guy. Had a feeling this wasn’t just a story.

She reached up and released her hair from its messy bun. It cascaded around her shoulders in a tangle of copper waves, and she sighed as she put her bare feet up on the desk. This time of night, the office was blissfully quiet, the phones silent, nobody tapping on a keyboard except her.

Plus, she could put her feet up without worrying about that leach, Truman, looking up her skirt.

She looked at the picture again, wondering why the guy looked familiar. Shadowguard Security had run the guy through the criminal databases to no avail. Kane and Ivan had given her the photograph hoping she could tie him to previous story or an undercover source, but so far, she’d turned up nothing.

And the guy in the photograph wasn’t the only thing bothering her. The whole thing felt off, starting with Shadowguard Security itself.

She’d been trying to get into the private firm for almost a year, hoping to crack one of its employees, get a source on the inside. She knew their party line; that they were a security firm specializing in physical and digital security, counter-measures, and surveillance.

But she had a feeling there was more to Shadowguard than met the eye. Whatever they did, it was important enough to keep quiet and lucrative enough to insure Shadowguard headquarters was understatedly posh. Plus, they must be compensating their employees well, because Maggie hadn’t gotten a single one to crack in all the time she’d been trying to get in.

That kind of loyalty was bred only through mutual respect. Or family.

She turned her thoughts to Ivan Montgomery, son of Ambrose Montgomery, head of Shadowguard. She had no explanation for the flutter than started in her stomach at the thought of Ivan. They’d met twice since Maggie began working on the identity of the man in the photograph. The first time, Ivan had dropped off some more pictures. None of them had been very different from the one she had, and she’d found herself wondering if she was imagining the warmth in his eyes, the way he’d looked at her a little longer than necessary.

She’d been surprised a couple of days later when Ashley, the receptionist, told her she had a visitor. She was even more surprised to realize it was Ivan. Maggie had given him a brief update on her progress — very brief, since she hadn’t made any — and he’d asked her out to lunch.

She’d told herself it was business. Ivan was just the ticket she needed into Shadowguard Security. And she needed a ticket. Needed a big story and the promotion and raise that would come with it.

But a funny thing had happened over lunch. She found that she liked Ivan. More than that, she felt something deeper than an attraction to his piercing green eyes, the dirty-blond hair that was long enough to fall over his collar. More even than the muscular chest filling out his t-shirt, the broad shoulders straining the leather jacket.

There was something vulnerable behind his swagger, something gentle in the way he pulled her chair out for her, the careful way he moved around her, like she was a skittish animal that might make a run for it if he made any sudden moves.

They’d talked about work — his and hers, although he was careful not to say anything too revealing — and by the time he’d walked her back to the office, she’d found herself wondering if he would ask her out.

He hadn’t, and she’d had to stifle a pang of disappointment.

She put the photograph on the desk and refocused on the computer. Visiting hours at Clifton Meadows ended at nine. She could work for another two hours and still make it in time.