For those of you who love romantic suspense: Seven NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors invite you into a world of thrills, chills, and kills that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Unique plots and constant conflicts fill this delightful set with Unforgettable Deceptions of Heartbreak and Revenge.
Rebecca York – Intimate Assignment – One misstep means death.
Cynthia Cooke – Shiver – Some call her dreams a gift; she calls them a curse.
Traci Hall – Returning Home by the Sea – Brayden and Zoe wed before he went to Iraq. A lot has changed in the six years he’s been away. Will their love survive his homecoming?
Taylor Lee – Betrayed – The rising-star, political-hotshot wants to bask in Detective Viviana Moreau’s expertise and her media aura. Not incidentally, he wants her!
Jacquie Biggar – Virtually Gone – Investigative reporter Julie Crenshaw stumbles upon the case of a lifetime – one that could cost her everything.
Susanne Matthews – No Good Deed – Monsters are real and Alexa knows what you see doesn’t always tell the story.
Mimi Barbour – Justice – Cassi uses deception to get her revenge against her brother’s killers.
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Here’s a sneak peak at my book, No Good Deed.
November 25—St. Catherine’s Day
Lieutenant Mike Delorme hissed in a breath, his body a seething mass of pain, fighting not to succumb to the darkness that beckoned. Loud, heavy metal music, the kind of crap he hated, pounded in the background, no doubt coming from the nightclub overhead. Those kids would all be deaf by the time they reached thirty. Another blow to the ribs elicited a groan he fought to stifle. No way would he give them the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy. He forced his mind away from the pain.
Today was the Feast of St. Catherine of Alexandria, the martyr and patron saint of single women. His mind flitted to the past. His mother had always made molasses’ taffy using the family recipe handed down by the first Delorme woman who’d chosen to make New France home over three hundred years ago. Now, sadly, he was the last of his line. He would never have the chance to teach his son to pull the taffy the way he and his father had done, their hands slick with butter, pulling, twisting, and pulling again until the rope of taffy was shiny and stiff. Then, Maman would cut it into small pieces and twist each inside a scrap of waxed paper. He could just imagine the sweetness on the tip of his tongue.
Reality brought him back as one of Zabat’s goons struck him again. Sacrament. The bastard didn’t pull his punches. His mind returned to the taffy. No one made it now. There was no one left to follow the recipe—another French Canadian tradition lost to the twenty-first century. Progress could be a bitch.
In honor of the saint, the bar was offering half-price drinks to all the ‘vieilles filles’ tonight. When he’d been up there earlier, until Xavier had called him downstairs and like the fool that he was, he’d gone down not realizing he was walking into a trap, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a couple of divorcées he’d humped in the past claiming to be ‘old maids’—anything for cheap drinks. Nobody really cared how virtuous they were. Did they even remember him? They would probably be warming some guy’s bed tonight—but not his. Never his again.
He could use a good stiff drink right about now. How the hell had it come to this? He tried not to scream, tried not to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were getting to him by thinking of other things than the pain, but a man could only hold so much agony inside.
Peering through a curtain of blood at the man he hated more than anything, his eyes barely open, Mike fought to stay conscious. Where the hell was his backup? A guy could only have so much fun before he didn’t want to play anymore. Anatole should be here by now. Had he noticed him missing?
“I asked you a question. How did you know that deal was going down tonight?” Nicolai Zabat barked, pacing in front of him as if he were the caged animal.
Mike tried to grin at the image playing through his mind, despite the pain it caused. Sooner or later the guy would be just that, another piece of scum in a cage.
Zabat stopped in front of him and leaned forward, his spittle sprinkling Mike’s face.
“I want a name,” he yelled. “Only my most trusted men were in on it. Give me a name, and I’ll tell the boys to stop.”
As if they would. Mike tried to smile. The would-be leader of Montreal’s underworld was pissed. Good. With a little luck, the confiscated merchandize would bankrupt the bastard, stop him from taking over the coveted position of godfather—not that any others in the running were any better.
“The tooth fairy told me,” Mike answered, his voice slurred thanks to his swollen lips. Before he could add anything, Xavier hit him in the face once more, knocking him off the chair onto the cement floor. “Is that all you’ve got?” he mocked, earning himself a kick in the ribs.
A second boot caught him on the opposite side, lifted him six inches off the cold floor, and dropped him again, his head bouncing off the ground before settling in place. That was going to leave a mark.
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Living the Dream 