Excerpt from GLANCING THROUGH THE GLIMMER ...

In a twenty-first century Ireland ruled by the heirs of High King Brian Boru, a homesick girl meets a prince in disguise, and both run afoul of the fairies . . .

 The excerpt below is set on the magnificent cliff walk in Howth, Ireland. It’s a perfect spot for Janet and Liam’s first date.

Or is it?

* * * *

The first time Liam slipped and fell, he cursed the rain-damp grass. He blamed his second tumble on his haste to catch up with Janet. What on earth had possessed the girl to run off like that? She couldn’t possibly want to find music that badly.

Music only she could hear.

The third time he lost his balance, he’d swear someone had pushed him, but no one was there. He landed on his hands and knees and cursed again. He might not be a muscleman, but he was far from a clumsy dolt. A lifetime of sports and outdoor treks had surely left him fit enough to climb a scrubby little hillside.

Something strange was afoot.

I’m being ridiculous. The breeze must have kept him from hearing the music she heard. She’d likely gone after the owner of whatever was playing the tune to learn its name.

Yet the Nose of Howth seemed deserted. How odd for a sunny Sunday morning. Even if Janet had gone off seeking the source of the music, no amount of rationalizing could explain why she’d left so abruptly. The chilling sense that she was in danger had Liam’s heart thumping high in his throat.        

Should he call his cousin? If Kevin was still on the pier, it would take him a while to get here. And practical Kevin would surely think Liam astray in the head.

Maybe he was, but something told him he had to find Janet, and fast. Keeping close to the ground as if he were dodging radar, he clambered monkey-like up the hill. This time he reached the top of the rise. Lumps in the landscape surrounded him, clumps of rock and rolling masses of heather and gorse that encircled the level spot where he stood. He knew the place well. Except for the curious lack of weekend hill walkers, nothing seemed amiss.

 “Janet!”

He listened hard. A seagull cried in the distance. Otherwise, all was silent. No, wait! Music drifted toward him, a plucky harp tune he might have enjoyed under different circumstances. Was that what Janet had heard?

Where was it? He turned in a circle, squinting in the sunlight, scanning, straining to hear. When he returned to the spot where he’d started, a jolt of fear set his pulse racing.

A round stone hut had appeared on the highest part of the clearing. Its low thatched roof rose to a ridiculously high point. It resembled a roundhouse, the sort of dwelling that belonged in a prehistoric ring fort.

Or a fairy fort.

Liam swallowed hard. He’d seen replicas of such huts in Ireland’s folk parks. He’d also viewed ruins of the original ring forts, all that remained of the structures built by the mysterious peoples who’d lived and died in Ireland thousands of years ago.

Where had this one come from? Why was it on the Nose of Howth? Liam had never seen it before, nor had he heard of any gimmicky tourism plans for the cliff walk. Of course, he didn’t know everything. Convincing himself that he’d failed to see the hut at first because the sun had blinded him, he ventured toward the structure.

He spotted a doorway and relaxed. Janet was there, speaking to a woman wearing a period costume, medieval or older. That’s what it was, he thought: tourism come to tarnish Howth. How could Uncle Peadar have allowed such nonsense?

Liam called Janet’s name again, but neither she nor the woman showed any sign that they’d heard him. The wind must have carried his voice away. He stalked toward the roundhouse. As he approached, the costumed woman placed a necklace over Janet’s head.

The roundhouse flickered, faded, and reappeared. Alarmed, Liam stopped. This was no tourist gimmick. As his thoughts scrambled for an explanation, the woman grabbed Janet’s arm and pulled her into the hut.

“Janet, no!” His ferocious roar proved useless. Unbelievably, the roundhouse began to dissolve. No longer doubting his horrified senses, he dove at the hut and charged through the disappearing door.     

The world around him melted away.

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Excerpt from HOLDING ON TO HEAVEN ...

Set-up: Ah, the romance and strong attraction begin. Creed and Lauren race against one another. Here's their thoughts before the horse race and the events that happen during it. Through the pounding heartbeat in Lauren’s ears she realized she wanted him, wanted him like she’d never wanted another. Damn, had she lost her mind? The man reeked danger and abandon, would take her body in the blink of an eye and, no... it wouldn’t be in the blink of an eye. It would be wild and crazy and passionate, all the things she’d yearned for, craved, in the dark solace of her dreams. Lord, how she wished she’d never laid eyes on the decadent man. Brand’s calm voice pulled her from her tumultuous thoughts. “Time for that race, Lauren.” He rose and offered her his arm. “I’m placing my money on you.” “I wouldn’t advise that.” “You can beat Creed. Concentrate, and no matter how much you want to see if he’s about to run you over, don’t look back.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek and nodded. “It’s going to take a miracle to win, isn’t it?” “Miracles happen every day.” He brought his fingers to her face and brushed her cheek. “Ride like you rode against me today and you have a chance.” An indefinable feeling snaked through Creed’s gut when Brand walked forward with Lauren. Anna pressed her voluptuous breasts into Creed's side and wished him luck, but he scarcely heard her words. Tired of Anna’s continual demands of late, the time had come for them to go separate ways. He’d known Anna for years, but only in the last several months had he succumbed to her fleshy curves. The woman had tried every wile known to female to rein him in, and all had failed. Although warm and eager, Anna had never held his interest for more than an hour or two. He realized now no woman had ever intrigued him like Lauren McCain. He had tried to ignore the jolt of lust rushing through his veins when she watched him during the meal. It had taken all his reserve to act detached while she sat beside his brother flashing her cat-like eyes. He didn’t like the feelings she aroused in him. They left him sullen and edgy. Jesus, what in hell was wrong with him? He barely knew the she-cat with a tongue sharper than barbs. Now, with every step she took toward him, the blood rushed to his groin. He wasn’t prepared for the vision she presented, the snug riding pants and filmy blouse. A dark brown ribbon held her hair at her nape and tumbled down her back in a veil of burnished copper. The color of those silky tresses reminded him of autumn leaves. Her eyes were brown and slanted up at the corners. Above them, her brows were perfect and articulated her mood with an arch or a downward slant. How had he missed that nuance when he committed to memory the other lovely features of her face? Tall for a woman and thinner than smoke, he longed to run his hands down the small of her back, her perfect bottom and . . . hell, he had to stop thinking about fucking her all the time. He meant to beat her in the race, and beat her he would. Smiling to himself, he savored the thought of what it would be like to take her down a notch from her lofty perch. Only then would that smirk be wiped from her face—the I’m-better-than-you-sneer she loved to flaunt. “Miss McCain, I hope you haven’t gorged yourself.” Inwardly, Creed smiled when color stained her cheeks. “I’d hate to see your mount weighted down for the final race.” “Don’t worry about Adobe or me.” She spat the words and mounted. “We’re more than ready to leave you in our dust.” The gold flecks in her eyes sparked. For a brief moment he forgot about the crowd and longed to yank her from the saddle and introduce her back to the dust she spoke of. “To your success.” Creed raised his tankard of ale, downed it and set it on the ground near his feet.  He spoke to Mason as he swung a leg over the saddle, his words confident and bold. “Let’s be about it then.” The crowd broke into rowdy whistles and then fell silent at Mason’s words. “On the count of three. One...two...three!” The horses bolted at the retort of the pistol. Adobe and Creed’s black mare ran neck and neck to the opposite end of the field. Thick clumps of sod flew through the air from Adobe’s hooves as he sailed over the bundles in perfect sync with Creed’s mount. He dragged his gaze from her expert riding skills and concentrated on the race. Someone obviously had warned her not to look over her shoulder. She rode low, close to the stallion’s mane her lush body one with the horse. The very air enveloping them groaned with a competitive edge he’d never felt before. The spitfire intended to beat him at any cost. Although fleet of foot, his mare lacked size against the stallion. When they reached the bales at the far end of the field, his time had come to overtake her. Her stallion navigated the crazy-eight with ease, and so did the mare. His moment was at hand. As the mounts crossed over and headed for opposite sides, she dug her heels into Adobe’s side and drove him into the mare’s withers. His horse stumbled to her stifles, her frightened whinnies echoing through the air. Lauren pressed on without as much as a backward glance. The mare found her footing and like her rider, rage spurned her onward. She made up for the precious lost seconds the reckless stunt had cost them, but not enough to charge over the finish line before the stallion. The crowd went wild as the riders swept past them in a swirling haze of dust. Damn, the cheating bitch had won. Halting near the corral, Lauren dismounted and bolted from her mount. Creed dogged her heels, so close, he saw her knees quake. “You cheated!” He advanced and poked an accusatory finger into her chest. “You could have killed me with that crazy stunt you pulled!” She backed away, visibly shaken. “Whatever are you talking about? You lost, fair and square.” He screamed so loud, she jumped. “Liar!” “Your clumsy mount lost her footing and plowed into Adobe!” Their gazes locked, and in that infinitesimal moment, he lost pace with his breathing. “You, Creed Gatlin,” she said her voice quavering.  “Were bested by a mere woman so live with it.” “You’re no woman.” He didn’t know if he wanted to ring her slender neck or toss her to the ground and slam into her until she admitted that she cheated. “You’re a spoiled little bitch!” An audible gasp fell from her lips, brown eyes narrowed. “You could never beat me fair and square and you know it.” He struggled to control his emotions. She’d beaten him in the race, albeit by cheating, but why did he sense she was beating him again now? Her bottom lip trembled and he became aware of her childlike vulnerability, and his potent desire for her. The cutting remarks, the bold, confident persona were nothing more than a façade on her part. Her nearness sent his senses reeling―the scent of woman, horse and leather adding to the roaring chaos in his head. She stumbled on the words she tried to speak and tears filled her eyes. “Leave, now,” he said. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.” She raised her dainty chin and held his eyes for an eternity. Then her long lashes swept down across her cheeks before she bustled past him in a cloud of dust.  NOOK: http://bit.ly/vuWraC Kindle: http://amzn.to/v03tFa Visit Keta's Keep - http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com/

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Stop by tomorrow to WATCH the TRAILER for HOLDING ON TO HEAVEN ...

Chapter 1, LAIRD OF DARKNESS...*Contest*

Chapter One

’Twould be a night of much turmoil. Duncan MacDougall, chief of Clan MacDougall, crouched upon the rocky crag above Loch Searbh as violet-gray gloaming settled over Scotland. The cool, early summer wind, fragrant with flowers, gusted between the rugged granite mountains. He tugged the wool plaid closer about his shoulders. Even the kelpie tribe that dwelled beneath the loch’s murky, peat-tinged surface rumbled more violently than usual.

But a more pressing matter weighed on Duncan’s mind: plotting how he might acquire his enemy Kinnon MacClaren’s magical bow and quiver. If Duncan possessed the Dealanach, as the old druid had once said, he would no longer be doomed to lurk about the night alone. With that special bow, he would finally vanquish the vile Otherworld creatures that tortured him in his nightmares and sleep peacefully as all others did.

He stroked his fingers over the sore wound on his forearm, three deep scratches he’d received almost a week ago. Recently, the beasts had even found ways to invade his sleep during the daytime. These scratches and the bloody bite marks on his calf told him the attacks weren’t his imagination.

The thumping of hooves from the south drew his attention. With his enhanced Fae senses, he listened as the horses galloped closer over the rocky ground. Below him, near the ferry crossing, the riders dismounted. Duncan counted nine men and five women in the party, all perched upon fine horses. The dock held no boat at this late hour, the ferryman having already returned to his home on the other side of the loch.

After the horses drank, the men led them away from the water, closer to the shelter of the cliffside, out of the wind. All but one woman followed.

“Do not wander far, m’lady,” one of the men called out.

“Of course.” The lady’s voice was feminine and rich, but she wore a dull brown cloak complete with a cowl over her head. Though the bulky garment concealed most of her body, she appeared slender.

“Oh, is that…” She tugged her skirts off her shoes and trotted through the heather and gorse, just starting to bloom purple and yellow, and approached the loch’s edge. “Indeed.” A small dagger glinted as she removed it from a hidden pouch. Kneeling, she cut a plant out of the ground and sniffed it.

With his keen hearing, Duncan detected a thunderous din beneath the surface of the loch once again, too low for human ears. The lady was perilously close to the water’s edge. He stood, knowing what tragedy would befall her if he didn’t intervene.

Lady Alana Forbes knelt by Loch Searbh, overjoyed to have found such a large clump of marsh tea. She would dry it and use it to heal many skin afflictions. A dull roar reached her ears. Thunder? No storm clouds lurked overhead. The loch at twilight, surrounded by the rugged Highlands, was one of the most beautiful sights she had seen. A pink and violet sunset painted the sky to the west, the direction she would journey tomorrow to meet her future husband at Castle Claren.

She hoped Kinnon MacClaren was a handsome and kind man. And though she would never admit it to anyone but herself, she hoped he was a generous lover and skilled in the bedchamber. If the rumors about him were correct, the MacClaren chief was indeed handsome, with blue eyes and tawny hair.

Rising, she sniffed the balsamic aroma of the herb. Above all, her new husband must allow her to continue practicing the medicinal arts her beloved grandmother taught her. Gran had passed three years ago, and Alana was the only one to preserve her family’s herbal knowledge and ancient Soillse Eòlas Leigheas healing spells.

She took one step toward her party’s camp when a fierce clamor exploded from the loch. She froze. Water gushed upward and a herd of white horses burst forth, headed straight toward her. What in Hades?

Something unseen slipped around her waist, snatching her into the air far above the ground. Strangely, the invisible band around her felt like a man’s strong arm. St. Bride preserve me!

Nausea roiled through her. She screamed, flailing, cold chills covering her body. Far below, the white horses galloped along the shore and disappeared beyond the bend. Alana knew a bit about magic, but sorcery such as this she had never encountered.

A few hundred feet from the water and her party, she floated down until she rested once again on solid ground.

“How… Who…”

Whatever peculiar force had lifted her out of harm’s way now released her. She perceived naught but a dull red spot glowing in the dimness. A body expanded from it—a man’s muscular chest and dark head.

“What in…” She covered her gaping mouth. What kind of enchantment could this be?

He turned, moving away toward the bushes, then his muscled back, hip and the rest of his nude body materialized. Sideways, he bent to grab a long piece of woolen tartan from the ground.

When he straightened, the whole of his spectacular front was visible for a moment. Alana’s breath fled and heat burned over her. She had never seen such an enticing, yet forbidden sight. The flat rippled plain of his chest and stomach led down to a narrow, dark trail of hair that pointed toward fascinating masculine parts betwixt his legs. Quickly, he draped the plaid over his shoulder, and it hung to his knees in front.

His straight, jet-black hair brushed his broad shoulders. Eyes, dark as a midnight sky, stared a hole through her, though she was certain he couldn’t see her face beneath the cloak and deep cowl over her head. The men of her family had ever overreacted and made her travel concealed in this manner, to ward off those who would see her beauty and take her hostage, they claimed.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Duncan MacDougall. And who are you?” His deep voice held a stronger, more northern Highland accent than she herself possessed. She found his tongue-rolling burr captivating and wished to hear more of it.

“Alana.” She would not reveal her clan name and position for her own safety. “You saved my life.” What a daft thing to say. She hoped he couldn’t see her blush.

“Aye.” A hint of a grin gave his rugged face a boyish charm. He was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever beheld, with his high cheekbones, wide sensual mouth and square jaw.

“I’m grateful to you.” He bowed.

The plaid draped from his shoulder, covering the left half of his chest and the manly parts between his legs. His right thigh was visible as was his hip. How strangely exciting to see parts of a man such as were usually concealed. She yearned to see more.

His muscled arms and massive shoulders attested to his warrior training. But her mind kept drifting back to his groin. Well-endowed was how she would describe him, nothing like the stable lad she had called lover a few years ago. That was the secret she must never allow Kinnon MacClaren to learn. He must think her a virgin.

How did you carry me through the air? What kind of creature are you?” she asked the sinister stranger.

He smirked. “’Tis a secret.”

Duncan MacDougall possessed a fearsome magic. Clearly. How else would such a feat be possible? She was skilled in the mystical healing arts, but she’d never before known of a person who could do something so remarkable as vanish or fly.

“Why did those white horses stampede from the loch?” she asked.

“They are kelpies, water demons who emerge at night.”

“So they do exist,” she mused. She’d heard tales of kelpies all her life, but she’d thought they were simply legends.

She forced her gaze away from Duncan’s appealing form and down to her hands, where she still held the precious herb she’d risked her life for. Her stranglehold had crushed some of the leaves and their strong aroma filled the air. “Again, I thank you for saving my life. How will I repay you?”

“No repayment necessary.” His deep murmur threatened to seduce her.

Alana dared not look at him again. She feared he was casting a spell upon her with his wicked eyes and sensual voice. Kinnon MacClaren was the man she would marry, though she didn’t know if he was as striking and tempting as this man.

A short distance to the south, the voices of her maids echoed as they shouted her name.

“Will you return me to my party now? They grow worried.”

“Where are you headed?”

Unable to resist, she drank in the sight of his pleasing face again. “Castle Claren,” she said.

“Castle Claren? Why?” he demanded. Duncan’s arrow-sharp tone startled her. Something was amiss. She had revealed dangerous information. “Maids.” Alana swallowed hard. “The chief has hired us as his new maids.” Her palms sweated. She clenched her right hand, only now realizing she’d dropped her dagger.

He frowned, his expression becoming harsh. “Remove your cowl, lass.”

Nay. She had to escape him. Turning her head, she slid a glance toward her party. Could she flee to them before he grabbed her? When she faced Duncan again, he stood beside her, close enough to touch.

He grasped her shoulder and yanked the cowl from her head, pulling her hair.

“Ow! Unhand me!”

His sinister gaze speared hers, his face inches from her own. His jaw tightened, and before he could conceal it, lust, greed and—could it be?—dismay played over his features. He was like all other men, then, wanting what he could never have. Quickly, he blanked his expression and pushed the front of her cloak back to reveal her fine clothing.

“I knew you were a noblewoman. No need to hide the truth. Now, tell me, Lady Alana, what business have you with the MacClaren?” He spoke low and close to her ear, his hot breath sending icy chills through her body. His tight hold made her heart beat fast as a bird’s wings.

She yanked backward, but his grip proved unbreakable. “I am to wed Laird Kinnon MacClaren,” she said through clenched teeth. “And if you do not release me, he will seek retribution.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“Aye.” She could talk her way out of this thorny situation. ’Twould not be the first time. And though this knave seemed a bit dangerous, he did not have an evil air about him.

“Why did MacClaren not fetch you himself?”

“I know not. He sent his men. Do you know him?”

“Indeed.”

She wanted to ask what MacClaren was like, but doubted Duncan would tell her the truth.

“Allow me to return to my party now.” She drew in a breath, and for the first time, detected his scent above the medicinal aroma of the plant in her hand. Warm, spicy and masculine—a tantalizing fragrance she’d never smelled the likes of before and which spoke to an instinct deep within her. Like when someone who had not eaten in a fortnight smelled freshly baked bread covered in butter and honey. Without logic, she wished to bury her nose against his neck, inhale deeply and taste him.

Was she daft? He was a stranger, and a violent one at that.

“I cannot do that,” he murmured in a voice that blended with the night, dusky and deep.

She couldn’t remember what she’d asked him. “Do what?”

His lips quirked, and his knowing eyes stared into hers a moment too long. “Allow you to return to your party.”

A prickle chilled her spine. “What do you mean?”

Two of her mounted guards, MacClaren’s men, burst from the bushes, their horses galloping at full speed, their swords swinging. She ducked.

Duncan released her. His plaid dropped to the ground, and he vanished.

One of the guards flew sideways from his horse as if flung by an invisible force. The second man was tossed forward, over the horse’s head, flipping through the air twice before landing facedown with a groan.

More of her guards, her own clansmen, charged forth, yelling battle cries. Alana froze in place while they galloped all around her, the horses neighing and rearing.

A scarlet spot the size of her fist moved through the twilight, and wherever it darted, her men soared through the air and fell to the ground with a thud, the breath knocked from them.

One man pushed himself to a standing position, gasping for breath, his sword drawn. In the next instant, the red glimmering light intervened, and the guard’s sword flew to the right while he tumbled to the left.

“St. Bride preserve us,” she whispered. What dark magic did Duncan possess? 

“Cease! And I shall let you live!” Duncan commanded.

But Lady Alana’s guards didn’t obey. Imbeciles. Didn’t they know he could kill them all in a trice? Not that he wished to kill anyone presently. He merely needed to capture Alana and her people, all unharmed. He couldn’t believe what a prime opportunity he’d been given. At last he had the leverage to bend MacClaren to his will as never before.

The MacClaren men who had been riding with Alana returned for another go at him. Duncan, flying through the air like an invisible arrow, slammed his fist against one’s shoulder. His powerful Fae strength sent the man sprawling from his saddle and his sword hurtling through the air. The wild-eyed horse whinnied and bolted. Duncan dispatched the second man in the same manner.

He scanned the area. Where had Alana gone?

She was escaping. He sailed through the air, giving chase. She glanced back but he knew she could see naught but the glowing crimson mark over his heart. One phenomenal thing about being half Fae was the ability to disappear, except for the Fae mark, and soar with the birds when he wanted. As a child, he had terrified everyone in the clan with this magical gift, and had even angered his father. ’Twas at times like that when he’d vanish, fly away from the castle and not return for days. He’d found friends among the common crofters. Anything to escape his father’s fists. Finally, his father had simply taken to ignoring him.

“You demon! Leave me be.” Alana sprinted toward the loch.

She thought him a demon, did she? Nay, he was no demon, but he would show her he’d use any means to get what he wanted. He reached out, his hand sliding off her shoulder when she changed direction abruptly. She headed straight toward the women of her party and a break in the bushes near the cliff.

“Hurry, m’lady! It is nigh upon you!” her maids screamed.

It? He was no it.

Nay, the cavelike space beneath the bushes couldn’t prevent Duncan from capturing her now. She halted abruptly. He bumped into her back, but slid an invisible arm around her waist and caught her before she could stumble forward.

She twisted and shoved at him, trying to pry herself from his grip, but he was far stronger. Though she thrust her elbow against his torso, it felt like a mere tap. ’Twould do her no good to fight him; she would only injure herself.

“Turn me loose.” She kicked backward, missing his leg by an inch. “Blast!”

Though she struggled, he seized her legs and swung her up into his arms. She weighed less than a thistle flower, and her soft form against him awoke all his primal instincts and urges. He ignored them and carried her from the bush, back along the trail.

"Release me, you blackguard. And show yourself.”

Duncan didn’t appreciate the careless insults she tossed his way. Most people were too terrified to insult him in such a way. He didn’t know whether to laugh or spank her. Mayhap he would do both later.

He made sure her skirts and cloak ensnared her limbs, then made himself visible.

She jumped, glaring up at him. “Bastard! You shall pay for your crimes, I vow.”

He smirked and flicked what he hoped was a disparaging glance down at her. Did she truly think he would heed any of her warnings?

“I demand you take me to MacClaren at once.”

He chuckled. He couldn’t resist, given that she appeared about as frightening as an incensed rabbit. “Do you now?”

“Indeed.”

“’Tis unfortunate then that I’ve never taken orders from lasses, and don’t intend to now.”

"I am Lady Alana Forbes. Sister of Chief Malcolm Forbes.”

“How grand for you.”

“You will have both my brother and my future husband to contend with if you do not release me at once.” 

Though her maids kept their distance, huddling near the supplies and campsite, Duncan was certain they were getting an eyeful of his nude body. Her men were a different story. Swords drawn, they limped and stumbled toward him. He couldn’t help but admire their tenacity.

Close your eyes, lass,” Duncan ordered.

She didn’t.

He vanished and they shot toward the sky.

Published by Carina Press © 2011 by Nicole North

Available at: Carina Press, Barnes & Noble and Amazon!

Visit Nicole on the web- http://www.nicolenorth.com/

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Excerpt from 'Through a Viking Mist,' by Tami Dee...*Contest*

Eva tossed and turned for a good hour before shoving the covers off and making her way to the window. She sighed at the dead ferns, deciding that there would be no more live plants for her.

The glow of the neon light attached to the building across from hers filled the room when she pulled back the curtain to watch the street below.

He was in that building. Apartment 4A. And the time had come for her to exact her vengeance.
Although now, after hearing what he puts little Kat through just ten years from now, the urgency coursing through her had little to do with a desire for revenge and everything to do with wanting to protect a young girl who has no one in the world except a very sick grandmother.

Eva was not sure if, or if so how, she might change history by the actions she planned this night, but she could never leave this Time knowing that danger awaited a child.

She shook her head. Even with Bennie out of the picture, it would still be hard to leave knowing that Kat would face such trials on her own.

It was three am, a thin fog was making its way inland. The streets were oddly deserted, most of the drunks likely passed out and the streetwalkers, well, they must be earning their coin.

A movement caught her eye, just a shifting within the low fog. She squinted, peering into the darkness.

The fine hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end and she knew that something was not right.

Was that Bennie there, lurking within the shadows and mist?

There! Again, a movement, barely detectible, but she saw it. She was, after all, first and foremost a warrior, her fine-tuned senses were what had kept her alive in her Time and they were on full alert here, now.

Quickly she dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark tee shirt. She armed herself with an assortment of knives then made her way out of her apartment. She sprinted down the fifteen flights of stairs, fast and silent.

At the lobby she peeked her head around the corner to see if Nix was alone. It would not do for him, or any of his nocturnal customers to see her leaving the building.

When, or if, Bennies body were found, she did not want anyone linking her with him.

Nix was alone and asleep, a used syringe lying next to his limp arm.

Good.

Eva skirted parked cars, noting when the door to Bennies building opened, just for a fraction of a second, and then closed silently.

A quick look around told her that no one was on the street to see her. She jogged across the narrow street and with one more look over her shoulder she slipped into the lobby of Bennie's building.

The light in the graffiti littered lobby had burnt out, and the dim lights lining the corridors cast the entryway in shadow.

The smell of urine was almost as pungent as in her lobby and she blocked it from her mind, concentrating instead on locating the person she had followed.

A floorboard creaked. She moved into a deep shadow and waited with bated breath.

Nothing. Had that been the shadow man, or simply the old building settling?

The hairs on her neck all but quivered now, being this close to accomplishing her goal.

Nothing would stop her, and if she somehow got caught, well, she could only hope that Ofeig would understand and forgive her for setting on this mission without consulting him.

She winced, knowing good and well that she was dreaming. He would be furious if he knew what she was about.

She made her way from the corner she lurked in and headed to the stairs.

At the first step a strong arm clutched her around her waist and a hand covered her mouth.

"Do not reach for a weapon, Eva. It's me."

Relief had her sagging into Ofeig's hold. Then she shrugged out, turning to give him a piece of her mind for scarring her so bad and almost getting himself killed in the process.

One look into his furious eyes had her snapping her mouth closed and reaching for her knife.

His hand snaked out and held her wrist captive. “Don’t’ even think about it,” he hissed, pulling her back into the shadowed corner she had just left.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"What are you doing?" she shot back.

They glared at each other, a battle of wills.

The cracking of another floorboard had him releasing his hold of her wrist and both of them pressing against the wall.

They shot a shocked glance at each other when Bennie, clearly pumped full of drugs, stumbled by, making his way to the staircase.

Eva's heart beat so hard that she wondered if Ofeig could hear it.

"It's a lovely night for a swim, don't you think?" she whispered.

Ofeig nodded. "The fog should be thick enough by now.'

They considered one another, then turned their gazes to Bennie, now half way up the stairs. As one, they followed, their feet silent and sure, their goal firmly in mind, and now one step in front of them.

Ofeig took the stairs two at a time and faced Bennie, before the drugged man could utter a word, Ofeig's fist smashed into his chin and he slumped against the stair rail. Ofeig hoisted him over his shoulder, swiftly making his way down the stairs. Eva checked around corners, giving him the okay to proceed to the lobby door.

She opened the door, relieved to see that Ofeig had been right; the fog was as thick as pea soup.

She waved him out of the building and together they loaded him into a nondescript car Ofeig had gotten from somewhere. By mutual agreement, they drove Bennie to Hyde Street Pier. They walked the distance of the pier, Benny slung over Ofeig's shoulder and concealed by the thick fog from any foolish enough to be out at almost four in the morning, and without a moment's hesitation or regret, tossed him in.

He hit the cold, agitated water with a quiet splash and Eva knew that although ten years from now young Kat would still have many obstacles to face on her own, at least she would not have to concern herself with this one.




PURCHASE THROUGH A VIKING MIST on March 1st, 2011



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Excerpt from THE PRINCESS IN HIS BED WARNING ADULT CONTENT *CONTEST*

An excerpt of one of the Fiery Tales in
THE PRINCESS IN HIS BED!
* The Marquis’ New Clothes *
Chapter 1

“My life is over!” Louise d’Arcy exclaimed the moment after she’d yanked Aimee inside her elegant private apartments and slammed the door shut.

Aimee de Miran sighed. She’d just arrived at Versailles. Her sojourn at the palace was only ten minutes long and already she was rethinking her plan to attend court and visit with her cousin.

Dear Louise was always in the midst of chaos. It seemed now was no different.

Parched from the long carriage ride, Aimee walked over to the pitcher of water and orange slices on the ebony side table and promptly filled two crystal goblets. “Louise, darling, I’m certain your life isn’t over.” She held a goblet out to her cousin. “Now why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong? Renault is what’s wrong. He’s cast me aside!” Wringing her hands, Louise began to pace, completely oblivious to Aimee’s extended arm and the goblet of fresh water being offered.

Aimee availed herself of the refreshment instead and set the goblet down.

A lovers’ spat. Nothing new.

“I see.” That would be all she’d need to say for the next hour while Louise ranted. When she was done, her cousin would collapse in a chair, quite theatrically, and weep for at least twenty more minutes.

Aimee had been through this before. Many times. Louise was always having spats with her longtime lover, Renault de Sard.

Louise stopped dead in her tracks. “No, you don’t see. You’ve no idea what has occurred.

Everything is a mess. And it’s over this time! Truly over!” Her hazel eyes filled with tears. “He’ll not have anything more to do with me. He’s said so!” She dropped her face into her palms and sobbed.

Aimee approached and put a consoling arm around her cousin. Of similar age, they’d always been close. She did adore Louise, despite her histrionics. “Louise, it will work out. You’ll see. He always comes back.”

“Not this time,” she said without lifting her head, the words muffled by her hands.

“You say that every time.”

Her cousin’s head shot up. “This time it’s true!”

“You say that every time, too.”

Louise let out a sharp breath. “Aimee, he favors another! I have been replaced. He’s with Diane de Millon. I’m no longer his mistress at all! I tell you, he is a horrible, horrible cad! He purposely misled me.”

“Oh? Misled you how?”

“I was positively thrilled when he asked me to accompany him to the palace for his regular official visit with the King. He’d been so cold and distant lately that I didn’t think he’d permit me to attend this time. In truth, his plan was to bring me here to end our affair. He thought I wouldn’t pitch a fit at the palace. And do you know what I did?’

“You pitched a fit at the palace.”

“No. Well…yes.” Louise waved her hand dismissively. “But that was in private. And that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her cousin began to pace and wring her hands again. “I did something. Something terrible. Something I regret.”

Trepidation was mounting in Aimee. Louise always had a flare for the dramatic, but…Aimee couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling tightening in her stomach. There was a certain look in Louise’s eyes that made her a little anxious.

“What did you do?”

Her cousin smoothed her hands down her gown. A habit. Something Louise always did when she was nervous. Or uneasy. Or terribly guilty.

“Well, you see. . .” Louise began and smoothed her hands down her gown again. “You must understand, I was quite angry with Renault at the time, and very hurt by his cutting coldness toward me. So I . . .”

Aimee braced herself. Having no idea what she was about to hear, her instincts told her it was going to be bad. Quite bad. “You what?”

“I took something of his.”

“Took?”

“All right, I stole. There, I said it. Is that better? I stole something he holds dear.”

Good Lord. This was a new low, even for Louise. “What on earth did you steal?”

Louis threw up her hands. “The man has never given me anything, Aimee. In all these years, no lover’s trinket. No jewelry at all! I felt he owed me at least that much.”

Aimee struggled with her patience. “Louise…What. Did. You. Take?”

“His jeweled ring. One of the ones given to him by the King.”

“Oh, Louise, you didn’t.”

“I did!” Louise flopped down onto the nearby chair, dropped her face into her palms again and wept audibly.

Aimee shook her head, dismayed. Of all the predicaments Louise had landed herself in, this one was by far the most shocking. “Didn’t it occur to you that Renault is the King’s Lieutenant General of Police? A man who is overzealous when it comes to the duties of his post and would arrest his own mother for the most minor infraction?”

Louise looked up. “Well, not at the time, but it certainly has over the last few hours. . .” She choked on a sob. “What am I going to do? My life is over! He’ll throw me in one of those horrible cells without batting an eye. If he’s angry enough, he could have orders drawn up against me, and I’ll be held without trial—for who knows how long.”

Aimee took in a fortifying breath and let it out slowly. She walked over to her distressed kin and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything is going to be fine. We can remedy this problem. This really isn’t as great a dilemma as you think it is.”

Her cousin swiped away the tears on her cheek. “Oh, but it is.”

“No it isn’t. You will return the ring with a sincere apology—”

“I can’t.”

“You’re right. The man is so rigid and uncompromising, he won’t understand. I have it,” Aimee said as an idea occurred to her. “You’ll sneak into his rooms and put the ring back, without him being the wiser.”

“I can’t do that either.”

Aimee frowned. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I lost the ring.”

“You what?”

Louise rose from the chair. “Well, it’s not entirely lost. I know where it is. Sort of.”

“Where in the name of God is it—sort of?”

“When I was in the Hall of Mirrors yesterday, it was very crowded, as usual. I was bumped from behind, and it fell out of my hand and into the pocket of one of the courtiers.”

“Do you know who?”

“I do. The Marquis de Nattes.”

Aimee’s heart missed a beat. “Adam de Vey, Marquis de Nattes?” she questioned, hoping she’d heard wrong.

“Yes. Exactly.” Her cousin grasped Aimee’s hands and squeezed them. “Aimee, I can’t let Renault learn what I did. If the ring is found on the Marquis de Nattes’s person, Renault would never believe he stole the ring. He has one of his own from the King. You must help me get the ring back before Renault discovers it missing. He’ll not stop until he uncovers the thief. Me!”

This was only getting worse. She didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “What exactly are you suggesting I do?”

For the first time since Aimee entered the room, her cousin smiled. “You know as well as I do the Marquis de Nattes would be receptive to any attention you would give him. Since Marc died, he looks at you ‘that’ way. You could easily get close enough to him to search his clothes.”

Aimee’s brows shot up. “Have you gone mad? You want me to encourage that libertine just so I can dip my hands in his pockets in search of your ring?”

“Precisely. And perhaps you can search his armoire in his private apartments, too. The man does have a rather extensive wardrobe. . .”

“No. Absolutely not.” Adam de Vey was the worst sort of man. The very type she detested. He

was no different than her late husband. Beautiful as sin. A master at seduction.

And completely faithless.

A man who believed women were interchangeable. Who cared nothing of what he did to a woman’s heart. Only what he did with her body.

It was no wonder that the Marquis de Nattes and her late husband, Marc, Comte de Gremont had been friends. They were of like mind and poor character. Since Marc’s death on the dueling field three years ago—a duel over his favorite paramour at the time—Aimee thankfully had had nothing more to do with her late husband’s licentious friends.

Louise’s bottom lip began to tremble, her eyes welling with fresh tears.

“Renault will show me no mercy. He cares nothing for me at all now. If—If you don’t help me. . .then I will surely be arrested, Aimee. You won’t let that happen, will you? You’ll help me, won’t you?”

The pitiful look on her cousin’s face tugged at Aimee’s heart fiercely. She wanted to help her, but. . .she’d noticed the lingering looks Adam had given her since Marc’s death, too. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him believe she’d be receptive to him.

“Louise. . .There’s got to be another way. . .”

“There isn’t! Oh, please, Aimee. I haven’t anyone else who can help… I know you don’t care for Adam de Vey, but think of it this way: You can do something most women cannot. You can easily flirt with Adam, yet resist him and in the end do what no female has done—rebuff him.”

Now, that did have a certain appeal. Men like the Marquis de Nattes toyed with so many women, luring them with their polished manner, potent sensuality, their false affections. She would definitely love to play him. Lure him. She could flirt a little. Draw close enough to locate the ring and save Louise.

She was likely one of the few women in the realm who’d resist his allure.

After giving herself over to her husband—heart, body and soul—leaving herself open to the humiliation and heartbreak she’d ultimately endured, Aimee knew she’d never fall into the arms of another rake like Marc again.

“All right,” tumbled from her mouth.

Louise squeaked with joy and threw her arms around Aimee. “Thank you! I knew I could count on your help.”

Aimee sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what he was wearing when you dropped the ring?”

“I do!” Louise was smiling again. “He was wearing a blue justacorps.”

“Blue? That’s it?”

“I know how much the man adores fine clothing, and I did hear he had a new wardrobe delivered two days ago, but, really, how many blue justacorps could he have in all?

True. But, given the number of knee-length coats he owned, what were the chances he’d wear the same blue justacorps again any time soon? Just how mindful was he of such things?

“Between the two of us, we’ll be able to locate the ring quickly and easily,” Louise said confidently.

Aimee couldn’t believe she’d become embroiled in this mad plan. Outfoxing a seasoned roué; locating and lifting a ring out from under the nose of a man who, by his very womanizing nature, was highly attuned to the opposite sex. Reading women was his forte. He knew how to detect signs of amorous interest and sexual desire. Her performance would have to be believable and flawless, despite her limited skills at being a coquette.

Success hinged on her ability to stay focused. The problem was, she hadn’t been touched by a man in over three long empty years. Though she’d never admit it to anyone, she yearned to have a man’s arms around her. The press of his hard body against hers. His body inside her. Her marriage bed had been most satisfying. Too satisfying. There had been many nights she wished her late husband had never introduced her to the pleasures of sex. That his conjugal visits had been more typical of his peers—brief. Obligatory. For the purposes of procreation only.

Awakening her to physical delights had caused her nothing but suffering.

For many reasons.

But no matter how much she desired a lover, she wouldn’t take a man like the Marquis de Nattes to satisfy her carnal cravings.

For Louise’s sake, Aimee had to succeed. She couldn’t fail. She would best Adam in this cat and mouse game they were about to play.

And she was going to use his libertine nature to her advantage.

**************************

Adam de Vey, Marquis de Nattes, surveyed the various justacorps—fitted knee-length coats of various fabrics and colors. He’d had a second armoire placed in his private apartments to hold his recently arrived new clothes.

Doors to both armoires were open wide as he decided on his attire for the afternoon. The news of Aimee’s arrival made his selection a little more important. Made his heart beat faster, and his blood course hotter just knowing she was close by.

Adam couldn’t believe his luck. Just when he’d reached his breaking point. Just when he’d been racking his mind, trying to orchestrate an opportunity to spend time under the same roof with the dark-haired beauty, she fortuitously showed up at the palace. He’d no idea when he’d been summoned by the King for an official meeting that she’d be in attendance at Versailles as well.
It was a good sign. A great sign. Somehow the stars had aligned and he was getting what he’d been wishing for for years. Access to Aimee. She wouldn’t be able to leave anytime soon either.

The King took personal offense to brief visits at the palace.

Her stay would have to be no less than half a month. Plenty of time for him to do something that he should have done long ago.

Bed her.

It was going to be a challenge—his very first when it came to seducing a woman.

Dressed in black breeches and a white linen shirt, he watched as his loyal servant pulled out yet another justacorps, this one gold-colored, and brought it to him.

Adam touched the silk sleeve. “Not this one, Laurent,” he said. Too bold.

The man, ten years his senior, returned the gold overcoat to the armoire.

“Really, Adam, I don’t understand your interest in all these clothes.” Reclining in a plush chair, his fingers laced behind his head, his friend Robert, Comte de Senville, smiled.

“I like the finer things in life. Fine clothes. A fine château. Fine women.” Aimee de Miran was by far the finest he’d ever laid eyes on.

“How is this, my lord?” Laurent held before him a red justacorps.
Also bold. “I don’t think so.”

He was looking for something more understated. A quiet elegance. Just like Aimee.

“All this trouble for a tumble. Don’t think I don’t know you’re planning on seducing Aimee de

Miran. And it’s about time, I say.” Chuckling, Robert crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Six years. . .Dieu!”

Adam placed his hands on his hips, cursing the night he’d gotten drunk last month and let it slip to Robert about his longtime fascination with their dead friend’s wife.

Ignoring Robert’s irksome remarks was easier than ignoring his own hardened cock—his body’s natural reaction to the mere thought of the lovely Comtesse de Gremont.

From the moment he’d met her, during her betrothal to Marc, she’d incited his libido. He’d spent a ridiculous amount of time famished for this woman.

Merde. He could make no sense of this incessant, unbreakable pull to her. His desire for her plagued him. Haunted him. The longer it went on, the more it tormented him.

The stronger it got.

So she was beautiful, elegant, graceful, and intelligent. There were others who shared those qualities. So Marc had boasted that his wife was passionate and sensual and highly receptive to his husbandly rights—a woman who saw her marriage bed as enjoyable rather than as a duty. So what? There were other women who enjoyed sex.

He’d fucked scores of them.

Nothing he did got golden-eyed Aimee de Miran out of his head. Out of his system. Not time. Or women. He was tired of wanting her—and worse, comparing other women to her. It drove him to distraction.

Jésus-Christ. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d bedded a woman when Aimee hadn’t intruded into his mind, where he didn’t fantasize it was her he was buried inside.

For the last six years, Adam had kept his distance from Marc’s beautiful wife for two reasons.

First and foremost, Aimee was in love with her husband, and he never poached where real feelings were involved. Second, Marc was a friend—one who was completely undeserving of his wife’s affections. Marc knew full well he’d stirred her heart. He’d laughed about it and found it “adorable”, and without discretion of any kind, bedded every woman who crossed his path.

“What about the blue, my lord?”

Adam scrutinized the blue-gray justacorps held out before him.

It was of the finest cloth, yet not boastful. And a fine cut, too. “Perfect.”

“I think the lady will be most impressed, my lord.” Laurent smiled as he handed him the matching vest—Laurent’s usual statement whenever he sensed Adam had a new conquest in mind.

Adam slipped on his vest. “Do you now, Laurent.”

“I think you overestimate your charm.” Adam could hear the humor in Robert’s tone.
He glanced at Robert. “I think you should leave the lady to me and concern yourself with the King, and whether or not he’ll approve of our drawings and ideas.” Adam slipped on the justacorps with Laurent’s assistance.

A member of the Royal Academy of Sciences, he was recognized for his engineering expertise. Over the years, Adam had worked on a number of projects for the crown—the fortification of strongholds in case of attack. Now with the country at peace, at least for the time being, Louis had turned his attention to his prized palace. Versailles. Unhappy with the water pressure of his fountains, His Majesty had asked Adam to offer a solution to rectify the deficiency the original engineers had produced.

Robert stood and walked over to him grinning. “It’s far more fun watching Adam de Vey fail for the first time with a woman.” He placed his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “In all seriousness, the lady doesn’t much care for either of us. Marc broke her heart. She sees us as being no different than her late husband.”

That much he knew.

But Adam wasn’t looking for her love. Or to replace Marc in her heart, if he was still there. He was looking for a few hours of shared carnal pleasure. He simply wanted to, no—had to—put an end to this inexplicable mental and physical torment. And there was only one way to kill the longing—and that was to have Aimee every which way he could to sate his lust for her.

Success hinged on his ability to stay focused. Patient. Unfortunately, just as Robert stated, she disliked him.

“I’ll succeed,” Adam said.

Robert lifted a dark brow. “You’re that confident?”

“I am.”

A slight smile lifted the corner of Robert’s mouth. “Oh, I can’t wait to see this. I predict she’ll run the other way each time you draw near.”

A realistic prediction.

For his sanity’s sake, he had to succeed. He couldn’t fail. He would best her in this cat and mouse game they were about to play. Beautiful, passionate Aimee hadn’t had a lover since Marc’s death. He’d left his wife at their country château while he’d carried on with his favorite mistress in the city, and hadn’t been anywhere near her for months prior to his fatal duel. In short, she hadn’t been touched in a very long time.

And she was ripe for the taking.

Adam was going to use her passionate nature to his advantage.

PURCHASE The Princess in his Bed Now!



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