by Linsey Lanier

What the hell are you doing, Jack? Rachel had to bite her lip to keep the words from flying out of her mouth. Everything had been going according to plan. She was to find Watson, lure him into a conversation if she could, tell him about her two Venezuelan housemaids and her philandering husband, then get the bastard to take them off her hands so the team could infiltrate his operation. Didn’t that cocky Soloski think she could handle it?

“Darling,” she managed to choke out. “What on earth is the matter?”

“Mr. Willoughby…Olivia,” Watson drawled in his silky tone. ”Is there a problem?”

Rachel caught Jack’s eye and watched him telegraph annoyance. She shot it right back at him. She was doing just fine in here. Or had been until he showed up.

Jack took an unsteady step into the room and waved an arm. “I know something’s going on in here,” he said with a slur. “Get your hands off my wif—.” He swung again the other way, missing Watson by a mile. “I mean, my wife.”

He was pretending to be drunk. God help them.

Watson chuckled and nodded toward the lust-inducing Olivia, shimmering in her golden gown, golden curls, golden curves. “By the looks of it, old man, you’ve been after mine.”

“Please, Jack.” Olivia grabbed at the swaying man as Jack swung again, did a pirouette and landed on the couch. Rachel made a note to ask him where he’d taken ballet lessons. “I’m afraid our guest has had too much Dom Perignon.” The golden creature smiled. “I thought he could lie down in here.”

Jack reached out for Olivia. “C’mon baby. Dance with me.”

The well-endowed bombshell leaned over him and Rachel watched Jack’s gaze move to her cleavage.

The sharp zing in her gut that felt a lot like jealousy shocked her. She almost broke her concentration, but managed to suppress it. This was her chance to close the deal. She lowered her voice and turned to Watson. “See what I mean, Frank? Do you see how he humiliates me? I can’t bear it.”

He patted her arm. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you. Call me,” she whispered and pressed a card with her number into his hand. She cleared her throat and turned to Jack. “Sweetheart, it’s getting late. Let’s go home.”

“Aw, the party’s just starting.”

Rachel drew in an exasperated breath and walked over to him. “Home. Now.” She draped his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him up.

“Hey, you’re pretty strong for a girl.”

He breathed into her face and she grimaced as if his breath were stale with liquor. In truth it was delicious and sensual. Oh, Jack. Why are you making this so difficult? “Home, Jack.”

He smiled that heartbreaking grin of his. “Sure, honey. I’ll go home with you if you show me some more of your wrestling holds.”

Rachel rolled her eyes as she led Jack out the door.

Jack could barely keep from breaking his cover as he and Rachel hobbled down the long row of steps that made up the mansion’s majestic entrance, his arm still drunkenly draped around her neck, the music fading behind them. Why were they leaving the party? He was just making some headway with Golden Girl. He managed to move his mouth to Rachel’s ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Livingston?”

He felt her bare shoulders tense.

“Me? What was the big idea of barging in and interrupting me back there?”

“Interrupting? I was saving you.” As they negotiated the last steps, he struggled to lean on her without pressing down his full weight.

She growled openly. “For your information, I don’t need saving.”

“Lower your voice, Agent.” Jack took a quick survey of their surroundings. Thank God, they were alone.

“Don’t pull rank on me, Soloski.” She hissed at him between clenched teeth. “Don’t you think I can handle myself?”

“You’ve been in the Bureau less than ten months. I assumed you might be in trouble. I have to protect our asset.”

As they reached the bottom step, Rachel broke away from him, the smoke in her green eyes clearing to the color of sparkling emeralds. “Is that what I am? An asset?” Her words dripped with disdain. “Well, this asset wasn’t in trouble. She was following orders.”

“Orders? You were supposed to inquire about domestic help so we could get some incriminating intel on tape. Not get yourself hauled off to some private room where Watson could paw you.”

“Inquiring about domestic help was Plan A, Jack,” she sneered. “I was following Plan B.” She hugged herself tightly as she glanced at the curving drive where a long row of limos were parked. “Where’s our driver?”

“He wasn’t expecting us yet.”

With a grunt, she turned on her stilettos and swished down the sidewalk along the row of cars, fury in her lovely steps.

Jack folded his arms and watched her long tendrils bounce against the creamy skin of her back. What exactly was the color her hair? Chocolate brown and gold and red all at once. Delicious, he decided. Like the rest of her.

His mouth watered as he contemplated the way her black silk sheath shimmered from the sway of her perky backside, which was hurrying away from him. On the stairs, he’d caught a whiff of her scent—freesia—and was reminded of a night not so long ago in Aspen with a velvet soft bed in a luxury suite.

That was the night he’d told Rachel who he was. At least, what his real job was. He wasn’t ready to divulge his deeper secrets to her yet.

And now, she was an agent too, working beside him just as he’d decided she would when he first laid eyes on her at Mira Technologies. He’d worked with female agents before, slept with a few of them. But none had ever made his blood rush the way Rachel Livingston did. With her unquenchable spirit, her sassy moves and her too-tempting backside, she distracted him, made his head spin.

Not a good thing on a dangerous assignment.

Plan B, he chuckled to himself. The little lady must have misunderstood the instructions. He’d better catch up to her before she made another rookie mistake.

Rachel stomped down the tree-lined walkway where Lexuses and Lincolns gleamed under the lamplights, looking for the car they came in. The shock of her heels on the pavement throbbed all the way to her head. She’d never been so angry with another human being in all her life.

She remembered the outrageous crush she’d had on Soloski when she thought he was Jack Davenport, her boss at Mira Technologies. He’d never paid attention to her then. Never thought of her as more than some low-level assistant, though she’d actually been—and still was— a highly-skilled computer programmer.

When he told her he worked for the FBI, she’d thought all that condescension had just been part of his cover. After all, he’d tapped her to join the organization himself. He’d given her a recommendation so glowing, it made her blush when she hacked into his laptop and read it. So why was he treating her like some kind of ditz?

Oh, why should she care what Jack Soloski thought of her anyway? He wasn’t her boss. Tom was.

She felt a touch on her arm and stopped in her tracks.

“Plan B, Livingston?” Jack’s sexy smirk was infuriating. “What are you talking about?”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “That’s right, Soloski. Plan B.” She put her hands on her hips. “Don’t play dumb with me. The plan to make Watson believe my husband is cheating on me with our two Venezuelan housemaids? The plan to get him to take them off my hands so we can get inside Watson’s operation?”

He chuckled. “And who are these two Venezuelan maids?”

She grunted. Why was he pretending not to know this? “The Vargas sisters, of course.”

Jack blinked, his gaze quizzical. “Lulu and Lucia Vargas?”

“That’s right, Jack. Congratulations.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. His shock seemed genuine, even if, standing next to those fancy limos in that sharp tuxedo, he was more enticing than ever. “The Vargas sisters are two of the best agents in the Bureau. They’re top martial arts experts. They’ve got black belts in everything. Akido, Taekwondo, Muay Thai.”

She knew the two agents were good, but did he have to sound so thrilled about their achievements? What were the skills she’d been working on all these months? Chopped Kung Pao Chicken? Ugh. She wanted to kick herself for craving his praise so much. “C’mon, Soloski. Tom had to brief you about Plan B.”

He shook his head. “He didn’t.”

She studied him carefully, looking for any trace of deception. His eyes shone with innocence. Thoughtfully, he ran his tongue over his teeth, a habit Rachel found irresistibly masculine. And yet he seemed…vulnerable. “Why would Tom leave you out of the loop?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned. Jack was too proud to admit ignorance unless it was the truth. She had to believe him, even if it made no sense.

He stared at her, gave her that crooked smile. “Did you really do all that back there? Watson bought your story about the Venezuelan housemaids?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I gave him the card Tom provided me with. Watson should contact us soon.”

His gorgeous face beamed with real admiration. “Great work.”

She felt herself flush. “Do you mean that?”

He nodded. “I’ve never seen a rookie get that close to a target first time out. I’m impressed.”

The last drop of anger drained out of her. She didn’t know what to say.

He ran a hand against his styled hair, looking genuinely bewildered. “I think I’m losing my touch.”

“Your touch?”

His blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight. Not with the usual teasing, but a deeper, more human emotion. “Yeah. Maybe I ought to sit this one out.”

Rachel’s mouth opened in surprise. “You want to quit this assignment?” Jack was her partner. He’d helped train her. She didn’t want to do this without him. She took a step toward him. “Why?”

“Because…” He moved so close to her she felt his breath on her face. He stared at her a long while, his jaw tensing, his blue eyes burning into her. All at once, he lowered his head and let his lips brush hers so softly she thought she must be hallucinating.

She sucked in her breath. Her mouth opened again, but no words came out.

When she didn’t pull away, he touched her arms, ran his fingers over her bare shoulders, making her skin tingle. He looked into her eyes, gauging her response. “Because of this.”

He pulled her close and sank his mouth into hers, his lips suddenly ferocious and hungry. She didn’t resist. Not even a little. Instead, her eyes fluttered shut and she gave in to the flurry of exhilaration rushing through her. She could hardly breath, barely think. She had no idea what to do.

Except kiss him back.

Of their own accord, her arms slipped around his powerful neck, her fingers digging into his thick hair. She opened to his relentless tongue, shivered as he teased the sides of her mouth. His mouth grew fierce, demanding, needy. She deepened their kiss. He matched her, his mouth ravaging as if they were waging some erotic tug of war.

She shuddered when his muscled body pressed against hers, moaned as her backside crushed into the limo behind them. Her mind whirled with the image of being sprawled over the hood.

Heady emotions engulfed her, burst below her navel, flowed through her body like a skyrocket, confused her more than anything she’d experienced tonight. Anything she’d experienced in her life.

She was supposed to be Tom’s girl, wasn’t she? They’d dated on and off ever since she’d come to Quantico. They’d settled into a comfortable routine. Had she been fooling herself all the while? Had she really been settling for second best?

Jack’s hand slipped cleverly along her silky dress, caressing her curves until he reached her breast. He ran a finger over the place where fabric met skin. Again she shuddered, wanting to drag him into the backseat of this limo and tear his clothes off. A very unprofessional act. Professional?

She got hold of herself.

With immense effort she pushed against his chest and struggled for breath. “We can’t do this. It isn’t right.”

“Of course it’s right, sweetheart.”

“How can you say that?” Her head was still spinning.

He tucked a finger beneath her chin, peered into her eyes with the intensity of a hypnotist. “I can say it because I…” He paused, his ice blue gaze almost watery.

Rachel’s heart hammered in her ears. Was he going to say those words? Did she dare let herself think it? Because I love you?

“You do sober up quickly. Don’t you, Willoughby?”

With a gasp, Rachel spun toward the voice.

Frank Watson stood not ten feet away wearing the same evil smirk she’d seen earlier this evening. She caught the gleam of a black, shiny object in his hand. Semi-automatic. Luger, if she remembered correctly from her Introduction to Firearms class. She’d aced the written exam, though her skills on the range could never match Jack’s, and especially not Tom’s. Watson eyed Rachel. “Odd way for a woman who’s just been cheated on to behave. I knew my background check must have missed something. Both of you came out too clean.”

Rachel’s heart sank. She hadn’t fooled Watson at all, had she?

“Marital problems, indeed.” His laugh was a cruel echo. “Perhaps I can offer you both some counseling.” He gestured with the gun. “If you would be so good as to step toward the back of the mansion? My men are waiting for us there.”

***********

I’m holding my breath, are you? Good thing Chapter Four is tomorrow, Friday September 10.

Comment below for a chance to win one of two prizes — a copy of Cooking with the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales OR a $25 gift certificate to your choice of Amazon, Barnes & Nobel, Books a Million, or iTunes.

The Pantser’s Lament, Part Two

Yesterday – if the future plays out the way it’s supposed to as I write this blog – I guest-blogged at Romance Writer’s Revenge about discovering that my muse is not just a goddess, but a bitch who has to be leashed, subdued, and controlled. How depressing is that? And scary, too. I mean, what if this bitch goddess reads that blog and now has me in her sights?

So I’ve decided to focus on her good points today, in the hope of placating her. She’s great at starting stories. She’s entirely responsible for a lot of my best scenes.  I gave the muse (actually, two Muses with a capital M) one hundred percent credit in the acknowledgements of my short story, Notorious Eliza. If I were a plotter, the muse and I would probably get on fine, because my controlling tendencies would provide a framework within which her naturally wild nature could work. Unfortunately, I’m a pantser. I’ve never been able to control anything. Structure is painful to me. Planning is boring. My life already has enough structure – such as paying a zillion bills every month, all on time – and the last thing I want is to plan my stories out, too.

But in the interest of efficiency, it seems I have no choice. I have to guide and even (gack!) disagree with my muse. If I don’t, she takes over, and the plots become huge and convoluted, with so many loose ends that it’s impossible to tie them all together.  She couldn’t care less about character arcs. She’s not sappy enough for a romance writer’s muse, although lust does interest her, especially sexual tension. So here I am, with generally fun beginnings, some sexual buildup, and otherwise a big old mess. In other words, I make the same mistakes over and over again, and I need help!

Since I’m supposed to be promoting my new release, this excerpt is from the first chapter of Tastes of Love and Evil. It’s entirely the product of my muse.  Well, not quite. My editor made me tone it down a little. Warning: If you don’t like it, say so at your own risk. My editor is harmless and so am I, but there’s no telling about my muse.

Setup: Jack, the hero (a sort of human chameleon who can literally fade into the background), has just been shot by some bad guys, and although Rose, the vampire heroine, doesn’t know him (she thinks of him as some random man), she’s given him her hotel room key so he can take refuge. But the bad guys are posing as feds, and they’re searching the hotel.

          The room was empty.

         No, it just appeared to be. “I told you there was no one here.” Her nostrils quivering, every sense alert, Rose scanned the bed, the curtains, the embroidered mantle draped on a chair, the Elizabethan gown on the luggage cart. “Now get out of my room!”

         The gunman ignored her, ducking in and out of the bathroom, glancing into the closet, going efficiently through every hiding place. Warmer, cried Rose’s senses, warmer, warmer, damn, oh God please no, as he shoved past the luggage cart to the window, and then as he returned, colder, warmer, colder, where the hell is the man? One-handed, the fake fed lifted the mattress and box spring, but no one was concealed underneath.

         Sirens cried in the distance, and a second later the gunman’s phone squawked a warning. He left without looking back.

         Rose retrieved her breakfast, double-locked the door, and scanned the room. Aha. She’d seen this phenomenon once before. She knew Random Man was in the room, somewhere near the window. “They’ve gone,” she said softly. “You can come out now. You need to have that wound tended.”

          Nothing. Where was he?

         “I brought coffee and doughnuts.” She put the food on the table. “I’d be happy to share, once we’ve patched you up.” Pause. “I know you’re here. I can hear you breathing.”

          Nothing.

      “I can smell you,” Rose said, her voice rising, tendrils of allure escaping. You and your blood. “I’m here to help, you fool!”

       Still nothing. Or maybe…a faint shimmer, like heat rising in summer air, over on the luggage cart, right by the Elizabethan gown. Damn it, thought Rose. If he stains that costume…  Anger coupled with the aroma of blood overwhelmed her senses, and her fangs slotted down. Purposely this time, she directed her allure toward the luggage cart. Another shimmer, instantly controlled, and then absolute stillness.

       No more pussyfooting around. She smiled and sent a wave of allure crashing across the room. Random Man resolved into view, gold and tan and brown blending with the dress, then gradually reacquiring his own muted shape and colors, blue denims and Saints jacket, nondescript but definitely all there.

       “God help me,” Random Man said. “Not another vamp.”

Anyway, now that I’ve got my excerpt out of the way, my question is: If you’re a pantser, how do you restrain your muse? And if you’re a plotter, does your muse work well within the framework you set? If you’re not a writer, do you like romances with lots of plot twists, or do you prefer to focus on the emotions of the hero and heroine? Or what? I’m counting on you guys, because I need all the advice I can get!

by Tamara DeStefano

“Join me for a dance, Mrs. Willoughby?”

Rachel looked up at Frank Watson and smiled demurely though her skin crawled at the prospect of waltzing with the man. Accepting his offered hand, she turned on her newly acquired Memphis accent and answered, “I would love to, Mr. Watson, but please, call me Rachel.”

“If you promise to call me Frank.” The tall, red-haired snake led her out onto the crowded dance floor.

Leaving Jack’s side a moment earlier, she’d made a beeline for the reptile they intended to snare, sidling up beside him as he’d excused himself from a small group of men. She’d introduced herself, complimented his home and then thanked him for inviting her and her husband to the charity gala, all while concealing two emotions. Repugnance was the first. The thought of what this man had done to innocent people for the last ten years made her sick. The second was a feeling of extreme pride.

She’d been nervous about her first assignment, so much so that she’d thrown up early this morning just thinking about it. Tom had held her hair as she retched like a sorority girl over the toilet. He’d held her in bed afterwards, asking if she was sure she still wanted to be a major player in the operation. She’d answered without any hesitation —“Yes. I want to get this guy.”

And here she was, in the lion’s den being whirled across the polished floor by the guy himself. And it had been easy. The minute she’d recognized him across the room it was like her fear flew out the two-story windows. She knew what she had to do and wasted no time doing it. “Make contact as soon as possible,” Jack had said. And she’d done it…without throwing up all over her gown.

Pride was an understatement. She felt downright exhilarated.

“You mentioned you just moved to Atlanta from Memphis?” Frank’s hand slid lower down her back as he did a change step to the right in time with the chorus of violins.

Graze my ass again and you’re gonna draw back a stump, she wanted to growl, but instead answered, “Yes.” She frowned.

The expression did the trick. Frank took the bait. “You don’t look happy about the move.”

“Atlanta is lovely, really, it’s just that…,” she broke off, allowing her voice to crack.

“What?” he asked, as he side-stepped her to the left in time with the music.

Rachel studied the swish of her gown as it brushed her toes while she drummed up the requisite emotion. After a moment she let him see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. As a kid, she had realized she could cry at will. The trick came in handy now. His cinnamon-colored brows knitted together and she looked away quickly as if she didn’t want him to see her distress. He leaned in closer, ducking his head to see her tear- streaked face.

“Are you all right?”

Rachel allowed him to pull her closer, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose. He wore too much cologne. She’d never been a fan of cologne. And thankfully neither Tom nor Jack appeared to ever wear the stuff. The best way she could describe Tom’s natural scent was Thanksgiving dinner—spicy, warm and inviting. She’d breathe him in and immediately feel comforted, at peace, totally calm. She could wrap herself in that scent and loved the way her skin absorbed the fragrance when he held her in his strong arms.

Jack’s scent, on the other hand, conjured a completely opposite set of emotions. His skin smelled like the slopes of Aspen, sharp, brisk…dangerous. His scent made her feel on edge. It gave her goose bumps, reminding her of the ice and snow of the frigid Rockies. Jack’s scent wasn’t comforting. It was disconcerting.

“Rachel?”

She looked up at Frank’s face and grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his arms and hurrying to the edge of the dance floor. She made her way to an unoccupied corner of the ballroom hoping he would follow.

After a heartbeat passed, Rachel felt a hand on her shoulder. Smiling inwardly, she turned to make eye contact with her prey.

“Whatever it is, I bet I can help,” he assured her.

She shook her head in defeat. “This isn’t your problem.” She hesitated and swiped at the few tears lingering on her cheeks. With a nervous chuckle she looked up at him. “God, I can’t believe I just teared up. You must think I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Not at all.”

“I feel like an idiot.” She moved to walk away, but he took hold of her elbow, stopping her.

“What’s bugging you?” he asked softly.

The bastard actually sounds sincere. Rachel realized it was his charm that put people at ease. His handsome face and gentlemanly manner were no doubt responsible for his success as a ruthless criminal. The idea made her think of the poetic words, “Will you walk into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Even more determined to bust this guy, Rachel let tears fill her eyes again. “You can’t help.”

He smirked with obvious confidence. “I’m a very wealthy man,” he said, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Wealth opens doors, and those doors inevitably reveal answers to problems.” He took a sip and then added, “Let me open a door or two for you.”

“Why would you be willing to help me, a virtual stranger?” She blotted her tears with a small napkin he had handed her while trying to remain inconspicuous from the other guests.

He looked around the room and then back at her. “It’s a charity ball. Let’s just say I’m in a giving mood. Plus, a little bird told me all about you. You headed up the Hispanic Children and Families Foundation, chaired Women for Latino Youth Development and Achievement and helped find homes for immigrants in Memphis. And in the few months you’ve been here in Atlanta you’ve already become a major part of our String of Pearls charity. I think you deserve a little help.”

Rachel smiled both externally and internally. The FBI sure knew how to manufacture an alias. “That bird must really do his homework,” she said, wiping her nose.

“I’m giving a tidy sum of money to your charity this evening. I feel I have a right to do a background check or two.”

“One or two?” she asked with a raised brow, still dabbing her moist cheeks. Glancing around the ballroom at the couples dancing and the ones sitting at tables, she smiled and then looked back at him. “There are more than a few people here, Mr. Watson. You must have a great memory for detail to recall my history so easily.”

He flashed a brilliant, bleached smile. “Photographic. And I like to know as much as I can about my friends.”

Rachel hid her mounting concern. Maybe the tears were too much. Was this guy playing her? Did he really have a photographic memory or was he on to them?

She couldn’t read his slate eyes and wondered if she should continue luring him into incrimination or back off. She suddenly doubted her ability to make the decision on her own. She scanned the room, looking for Jack. At first she couldn’t locate his tall, broad-shouldered form, but after a moment she found him.

He stood near the huge bank of windows. His body language was casual and laid back, his smile devastatingly sexy. He leaned in close, chatting with a woman. But not just any woman. His companion was none other than Olivia Watson, the snake’s wife and partner in crime. Rachel recognized her immediately from the intel photos they’d been issued. She was even more beautiful in real life. Blonde hair, blue eyes, bronzed skin, a body that belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.

Jeesh, I’m gonna be sick. Rachel’s stomach clenched painfully, but it wasn’t nerves this time. The roiling in her gut felt more like…jealousy.

Jealousy? Over Jack?

Tom had become so important to her in such a short amount of time. He was sweet and giving, courageous and brave. His kisses curled her toes. His touch set her skin on fire. How could she feel all of those things with Tom and still manage to feel jealous watching Jack flirt with another woman?

She looked away, giving herself a mental slap.

Her first assignment and already she was blowing it. Get a grip. He’s doing his job. Now do yours and stop acting like a damn rookie.

Meeting Frank’s gaze, Rachel softened her expression, lowering her lashes. Tom said when she looked at him that way there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. Rachel just hoped the expression worked on sociopaths, too.

“I assure you,” she hesitated for effect and then added, “Frank.” He smiled, obviously pleased she’d finally used his first name. “I am a friend. I’m just, well,” she glanced at Jack and then back again. “I’m at the end of my rope.” Grimacing, she leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s funny, I’ve only just met you but I feel like I can confide in you. I’m not sure why.”

“For some reason I put people at ease. Always have. You have my undivided attention,” he urged with a nod.

“It’s my husband.” She hesitated, worrying at the napkin she clutched in her fingers. “He’s been unfaithful to me,” she finally added.

“How do you know?”

“I caught him.” She glanced Jack’s way, but he wasn’t there. Scanning the outskirts of the room, Rachel couldn’t locate him.

With one last stroke of a violin, the waltz ended and the couples on the dance floor clapped for the six-piece orchestra. Rachel began clapping without much emotion, but Frank took hold of her elbow and maneuvered her through the throng of guests. She allowed him to lead her out into the cavernous foyer. Couples mingled on the black and white checkerboard tiles beneath the diamond-like glow of a crystal chandelier. Frank ignored them, led her past the wide, central staircase and then straight into a large room off the main entryway lined with books and smelling of leather.

He closed the door behind them, indicating a pin-striped sofa. “Sit, we’ll have more privacy in here.”

Rachel took a seat, sweeping her gown out from beneath her heels. “I don’t want to take you from your guests.”

“It’s early. I’ll have plenty of time to rub elbows later.” He opened a crystal decanter and poured two generous drinks. Walking up to her, he held out a glass. “It’s Glendronach, single malt. If angels drank,” he held the glass up to his scrutiny, “this would be their beverage of choice.”

Rachel accepted the liquor. It smelled amazing, but she didn’t take a sip. Instead she shrugged lightly. “You’ve just been so kind.” She hoped her Memphis twang wasn’t beginning to sound hokey. “I wish everyone was as kind as you are.”

He took a sip of his drink and then sat across from her. “Tell me what’s going on with your husband.”

She set the glass on the coffee table and stood. Pacing the finely-woven Oriental rug, she wove a tale. “I have two young women working in my home as maids. They’re Venezuelan, very pretty.” She stopped pacing and chewed her thumb nail. “Sisters.” She glanced at him. “My charity work puts me in contact with large numbers of immigrants here on work visas on a regular basis. I find them employment, homes, support. On occasion I hire some of them myself. I’ve never had any trouble before.”

She slumped into a wing chair opposite him and put her hand over her mouth with a distressed look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled through her fingers. “I can’t believe I’m laying this all on you.” As tears fell from her lashes, she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“You think your husband is involved with one of these women?”

She looked up. “They’re girls, teenagers, eighteen and nineteen.” Worrying at the fabric of her dress she continued. “And I don’t think he’s involved with one of them. It’s both of them.”

He drained his scotch, leaned back in his chair and looked at her pointedly. “I’m so sorry.” He hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Does your husband know you know?”

She looked down at the floor. Trying to appear uncomfortable she began wringing her hands in her lap. She shook her head. “No. I left the room before they saw me. I’m not good at confrontation. I’m a wimp if you want to know the truth. I’m not proud of that.” She looked at the ceiling and shook her head again. “God I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you all of this.” Wiping away tears she looked back at him.

“Did you fire the girls?”

She shook her head no. “I caught him this morning. I haven’t talked to them yet. I just keep seeing their faces. They were scared.”

“I’m surprised you’re here with him.”

She wrinkled her brows. “My husband’s marriage vows may mean nothing to me right now, but this charity means everything. I can’t turn my back on these people. They need our help.” She studied the floor and continued wringing her hands. “I know I have to confront my husband, and I will. I also know I should fire the girls as soon as I get home, but I.…”

“What?” he urged.

“They have nowhere else to go. They have no family but each other. In Venezuela they had to prostitute themselves just to eat. Here they hoped to be safe from that, but….” She shook her head ruefully. “My husband took that hope away from them. I don’t blame the girls. I blame him. He took advantage.” She stared off into space. “It’s what he does best.”

Her gaze re-focused and her hand fluttered at her throat. “I know you probably think I’m a fool, but I can’t just kick them out in the street.”

“I don’t think that at all. You’re sympathetic. I admire your integrity.”

Looking at her lap, Rachel kept comments about his compliment to herself. If she didn’t know Frank Watson’s true character inside and out, she’d think he was actually as caring and compassionate as he was wealthy. But the vast wealth he enjoyed on a daily basis flowed into his hands on a tidal wave of blood, despair and pain. His legit business associates and the law-abiding world in general seemed to look at Watson through rose-colored glasses. But in the dark underworld of white slavery there was no such illusion. His sadistic cruelty and terrifying fits of rage were well known. The man was a modern day Jekyll and Hyde.

He stood and walked to the bar. After he poured himself another drink, he turned and leaned against the burled walnut cabinet. “Let me help you out.”

Rachel looked up, shaking her head back and forth. “No. I’ve already imposed on you too much.” She stood to excuse herself. “You invite me into your home and I thank you by dumping my problems into your lap.” She kicked her gown’s train out of her way and turned to leave. “Thank you Mr. Watson.” She glanced back at him. “Frank…thank you for being so kind, but I should go now.”

“Rachel.”

She stopped after a few steps and turned to face him.

“Listen,” he said, walking forward. “I want to help you.” He came closer, standing just inches away. His grey eyes bore into hers. “Let me help you,” he whispered.

Rachel looked up at him with hope in her gaze, trying to look helpless and vulnerable. He lifted his hand and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Holy shit. Are you kidding me? He’s gonna hit on me now?

She didn’t know why she was surprised at the turn of events and did her best to conceal the emotion along with hiding her extreme disgust. “How can you help?”

He lowered his hand and smiled. Rachel got an image of the Cheshire cat in her head. “I’m Frank Watson.”

As if those two words explained everything. And of course, they did.

“I’ve spent years cultivating friends in a wide variety of circles. Some of them just pretend to like me because of the money.” He shrugged lightly. “Their loss. But some of my acquaintances are true friends and I know they’d agree with me that you need help.”

“My marriage is already ruined. No one can help with that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Let me take the girls off your hands.”

Her eyes searched his and she allowed a note of hope to creep into her expression while inside she jumped for joy. Here it was. The first step. Oh sure his words weren’t enough to condemn him, but they were a step in the right direction. She was sickened by his nonchalance, but she was also glad to be a part of his downfall. “Take them off my hands?”

“You don’t want to put them out on the street and I agree with you. They’d just end up getting into more trouble. They’re just kids really. Who knows what their fate would be.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be much different than their lives had been in the Venezuelan slums. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“I know a few people who would be happy to take them in.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank smiled. “They’re families who have the same interests that you do. One of them, a Senator and his wife, take in immigrants all the time. Like you, they find them jobs, set them up with housing, and acclimate them until they can earn citizenship. I think they’d be a perfect match for your girls.”

“So you could find them a place to live?”

“I definitely could. And this way, your husband doesn’t have access to them, and they can live in a safe, nurturing environment until they get themselves on their feet, so to speak.”

“Really?” She smiled, her hand rising to touch her heart. She inhaled deeply before letting her breath filter slowly through her lips.

The gesture wasn’t lost on him. “Really. I’ll make some calls later and get it all set up.”

“But what if they can’t take them in?”

“That’s not an issue. I know they’ll be glad to help.”

Rachel smiled up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’re a beautiful woman. That smile is a good start. But I wouldn’t turn down a hug.”

Rachel envisioned herself kneeing him in the crotch, but he was so damn slimy she was sure the blow would glance off with little effect. She couldn’t stand being in the room with him, talking to him, smiling at him.

And now she’d have to hug him.

She wanted to vomit, but instead she smiled brightly and opened her arms. He swooped in like the predator he was and crushed her in his arms.

That second, the library door opened.

“Get your damn hands off her.”

Rachel recognized the voice immediately. She turned to see Jack standing in the doorway with Olivia Watson at his side.

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

Uh-oh, what now? Stay tuned for Chapter Three Thursday, September 9. And don’t forget our guest chef tomorrow, the fabulous Barbara Monajem.

Comment below for a chance to win either a copy of Cooking with the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales – our brand new, hot-off-the-shelf cookbook OR a $25 gift certificate to your choice of Amazon, Barnes & Nobel, Books a Million, or iTunes.

by Sally Kilpatrick

Rachel Livingston went into the FBI to avoid girdles and pantyhose. Unfortunately, her superiors didn’t seem to understand that concept. She patted her bustier endoskeleton into place making sure all of her wire taps were just as hidden as any errant cellulite. After training at Quantico she didn’t have a lot of fat to hide, but she did have a ton of wires.

She slipped a sheath of black satin over her head and stepped into a pair of stilettos—another thing she had foolishly thought she might be able to leave behind once she joined the Bureau. Wobbling just a little, she reached behind her to zip up her dress, but she couldn’t quite reach all the way.

As she strode to the door, her balance and her confidence improved. She opened the door and stepped into the middle of a hornet’s nest of activity. The chic decorating of the living room portion of the hotel suite was obscured by computers, headphones, wires, telephones, and tons of other gadgets she couldn’t even name.

“Could someone give me a hand here?” She turned around not even waiting to see who her rescuer would be.

“I will!” Two masculine voices answered in unison. She looked over her shoulder to see her partners in fighting crime: Tom and Jack. Tom reached for the zipper, and Jack took a step back—it was only fair considering how their last operation in Aspen had ended.

Tom’s steady hand pulled the zipper to the top slowly but surely.

“Thanks, Tom.”

“Don’t mention it.” His big brown eyes danced, and she had to admit he was a handsome specimen of the boy next door, complete with shirt sleeves rolled up and a tiny dot of mustard just beneath his left shirt pocket.

Jack stood back, ice blue eyes penetrating her as they always did. He divulged no secrets, though. Imagine actually being married to the enigmatic Jack, a man who really knew how to wear a tuxedo.

“Almost ready?” If she didn’t know him better she would have taken those two simple words as a command or at the very least an indictment on how slowly she was getting ready. Months of field training had proven to her that Jack didn’t realize he was brusque. Something deep within made him hold people at arm’s length emotionally. Physically, he had made it very clear she could get just as close as she wanted to get.

“Soloski,” she chided because she knew he wasn’t fond of his actual last name. “I’m getting ready just as quickly as I can. I’d love to see just how fast you could get into a girdle full of hidden wires.”

“Livingston, just finish getting ready.” He walked away but not before throwing a few virtual darts at Tom.

Rachel smiled to herself and turned to finish her make-up and jewelry in her room. It never hurt to be the belle of the ball.

“Hey, Rach?”

She turned to meet Tom’s eyes. “Yes?”

“You look gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Tom,” she said. Now, see, all a girl wanted was a little recognition of her efforts.

Jack watched the exchange between Tom and Rachel from across the room. He cursed under his breath as Tom said something and Rachel flashed one of her breath-taking smiles at him. Lucky bastard. He got to be truthful first. He got to save the girl. Jack wasn‘t normally a sore loser, but playing the hero was his gig.

Okay, so being truthful wasn’t his most enduring trait; he was an undercover agent, what could you expect? Saving the girl was definitely his area of expertise. He was the one who was supposed to save Rachel from Van Buren, not fall and break his wrist like some sort of pansy.

He looked to the mirror over the table and straightened a black bow tie that didn’t need to be straightened. He could be folksy. He could pour on the charm. He leaned back and attempted debonair.

No, he couldn’t do folksy or charming, and he certainly couldn‘t pull off debonair.

Rachel emerged from her room once again, her hair held up by pins and cascading down her back. Her diamond earrings caught the light and almost blinded him from across the room. It was amazing what a little lipstick did for her. She was beautiful without a single stitch of make-up, but a little red lipstick added enough drama for a Broadway play.

Jack couldn’t help but smile as he dodged equipment to meet her at the door. He offered his arm, and she took it, the slight weight of her arm reassuring. Screw folksy. He got to take the girl with him.

“Have her home by eleven, Jack,” Tom called. His voice was jovial, but Jack knew what he was really thinking.

“Don’t count on it,” he said with a wicked grin to remind his partner who got to take Cinderella to the ball.

Jack handed her into the limo, and Rachel gingerly arranged her dress in order to sit. Jack sat across from her, and she had to admit he still caused her heart to somersault—not that she had any intentions of admitting that to him.

“Okay, Jack. Let’s review…we’re from Memphis originally, where I worked on several charity boards. Your job has moved us here, and I am going to subtly inquire about good domestic help.”

“I hear it’s hard to find these days,” he said dryly as he looked out the window.

“Get serious, Jack. Then again, what is your role in all this?”

“I’m going to casually ask around about maids myself, but I’m supposedly looking for a few benefits on the side.” He winked at Rachel.

She rolled her eyes. “Great, I haven’t even been married for twenty-four hours, and you’re already looking for a mistress?”

“Correction—we’ve been married for seven years, and I’m looking for a cheap mistress who doesn’t speak English and who won’t run to the cops because she’s illegal and I’ll have her passport.”

Rachel exhaled sharply. A white slavery ring was a far cry from money laundering. She had read all the reports. Women—and sometimes men—being lured illegally to the country then forced to work as modern slaves. Some were domestic servants, and some were worse. She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms at the thought of some of the files she had read. Some of the victims were little more than children forced to work in brothels.

“You can’t think too much about it, Livingston.”

Her eyes darted to his. His blue eyes held compassion for her, his twitching jaw suggested painful past experience. His firm mouth just begged to be kissed.

“Eleven-year-olds being sold into prostitution, Jack,” she said. “And we won’t be able to save them with what we’re doing here in Atlanta.”

Jack leaned forward, putting a warm hand on her knee. “Rachel, you can’t think about what you can’t do; you have to think about what you can. I can almost guarantee you that getting to the bottom of this white slavery ring will help those little children just as much as the men and women who are held as slaves in mansions. It all connects; it always does.”

He took his hand away and leaned back to look out the window. Rachel could only hope he was right. This was her first official assignment so she would just have to trust him.

The limo pulled up to a wrought-iron gate set some distance from the largest house Rachel had ever seen. She knew she was in a ritzy part of town, but she hadn’t expected to ever see a house this big—it was almost as big as the hotel where she and Jack had stayed in Aspen.

She envied Jack’s ability to be perfectly relaxed. He appeared so nonchalant. Had he grown up among the country’s elite? Had he lived in a house like this? She cocked her head to one side, studying him as he studied the landscape.

No, he hadn’t come from wealth, but he had learned to blend in early on. Had another relative been wealthy or had he pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps? She was inclined to believe the latter.

“Figured out the mysteries of the universe?” he asked without even looking at her. Rachel’s cheeks burned at being caught spying and speculating. “Not yet.”

His eyes locked with hers. “Well, you’ll have to unravel the mystery of Jack another time, because we’re here. Fashionably late, of course.”

She took his hand, letting him lead her out of the car and up the stairs. His hand shifted to her elbow as a short, stocky butler (Peruvian, perhaps?) opened the front door to a black and white marble tile foyer. To the right lay a doorway to a parquet-floored ballroom. Jack guided her just to the side of the doorway, and Rachel wondered if he needed a moment to catch his breath, too. The room was full of women in designer ball gowns, swishing around the floor to the light strains of mellow big band music.

She should have expected no less from the String of Pearls Charity Gala. She turned to see if Jack had stars in his eyes, but, no, his eyes were fixed firmly on her. He drew her hand to his mouth, his lips lightly brushing the skin there. The warmth tingled its way up her arm and down her spine.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked before she could decide if his elegant gesture was for her benefit or that of their audience.

“That would be great,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow to ask her what she would like.

“Surprise me,” she said with a smile as if he hadn’t already.

Jack swore at himself as he approached a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. What was he thinking kissing her hand like some kind of deranged fool? Who did that anymore? He would just shrug it off if she asked, pretend he wanted everyone to think they were in love.

In truth, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Her eyes glowed at the sight of the majestic ballroom. Her cheeks pinkened just as they had each time they had taken dance lessons in order to learn how to fit in with the upper echelon. He wasn’t ready to take her in his arms and whirl with her around the floor. He wasn’t ready to be that close, to pretend to be her husband, only to take her home to Tom.

He realized he was frowning and quickly changed his expression to reflect a slight smile, the smirk of a man who was rich and used to getting what he wanted. He weaved his way through the crowd, his eyes trained on the beauty in black standing at the outskirts of the dance floor.

That’s when he saw Frank Watson, III chatting up the supposed Rachel Willoughby. He stopped dead in his tracks. The leader of the biggest white slavery ring in Atlanta was flirting with Rachel. An invisible fist clenched Jack’s heart. The logical part of him applauded at how easily Rachel was making contact with the man they needed to put out of business. The irrational part of him wanted to rip Frank Watson limb for limb for even thinking about coming near Rachel.

Frank Watson whirled Rachel onto the dance floor, and he immediately regretted not asking her to dance first thing. He wanted to stalk out into the dancers and punch Frank Watson before cutting in, but he tamped down his irrational self and scanned the floor for a tall, leggy blonde: Mrs. Frank Watson, III.

Two could play this game.

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

Wasn’t that fun? Stay tuned for Chapter Two tomorrow Tuesday, September 7.

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by:  Maxine Davis

Camden, Maine,  mid-August:   The radio announcer has a smile in his voice.  “We’re looking for a high today of 75, with a low tonight of 56 . . .”  And I think, “Did he just describe heaven?”

How do you get to this Jewel of the East Coast?  You can drive — North.  (Did that).  You can take a train from Atlanta to Portland . (Did that).  You can fly Atlanta to Portland.  (Did that).    You then rent a car and drive approximately two hours to Camden.   Of course, on the way, you stop in Wiscasset at Red’s Eats for the first  (of many) tastes of a lobster roll—toasted hot dog bun, lots of lobster and some drawn butter. 

Camden is a small tourist town of about 5,000 with a street featuring some fabulous shops and eating places.  The Mariner’s Restaurant has the wonderful fresh Maine blueberry pancakes, and Cappy’s on the corner has the most delicious clam chowder–all at reasonable prices. There is also Peter Ott’s for steak and seafood, Natalie’s at Camden Harbor Inn, the Waterfront Restaurant, and other restaurants to satisfy just about every taste and price range.  Everywhere has lobster! 

When you walk around the back of Cappy’s, you can see the bay full of boats.  Looking to your left, you see the backs of some of the places of business overlooking a waterfall. (Say what???) Just have a seat on one of the many benches and contemplate how wonderful the world is at that moment. 

About 10 minutes away is Mt. Batty State Park.  Climb the Mt. Batty Tower and get a stunning bird’s eye view of the surroundings.  You don’t even have to climb the tower to look down at the city and the port full of boats.  You see Curtis Island at the mouth of the port.  There is, of course, a lighthouse there.  There is the Camden Hills State Park and Camden Opera House.  According to some of the residents and visitors, it’s a great place all year long.  It seems there is plenty of skiing during winter months.

To be such a small place, it has its share of notable people:  Kay Aldridge, model and actor.  William Conway, navy quartermaster.  Jerimiah Farnham, sea captain.  Tess Gerritsen, novelist.  Edna St. Vincent Millay, poet.  Richard Russo, novelist

If I could go again this August, I would take in a concert, take a boat ride to see lighthouses on the islands, go to the Maine Lobster Festival, and maybe even the Blueberry WingDing.  At night I would watch the moonrise over Lincolnville Beach.  And all this while wearing long sleeves near the water and a coat in the evenings! 

Ah-h, Maine in the summertime.

All I Ever Wanted

By Kristan Higgins

HQN

ISBN: 978-1-4268-6408-7

Contemporary Romance

August 2010

Format: e-Book

Callie Grey is in love with the wrong man. Mark Rousseau is handsome and charming, but completely self-centered and shallow. He’s also her boss. And her former lover. And now he’s engaged to Muriel deVeers, the daughter of their newest client. To make matters worse, he’s brought his fiancé in as an account exec at his company, Green Mountain Media. Muriel’s purpose, it seems, is to minimize Callie.  

Enter the new vet, Dr. Ian McFarland. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, Ian is roughly appealing in a Russian gangster sort of way. He has a great doggy-bedside manner, but an uncanny ability to alienate humans, especially the female variety, who create a series of imaginary ailments for their dogs as an excuse to get close to the new man in Georgebury, Vermont.

At first glance, Callie and Ian are an unlikely match. An eternal optimist with a spunky spirit, Callie aims to please. Ian, who’s completely turned off by people and scarred emotionally from a break-up with his ex-wife, thinks she’s trying too hard. They keep meeting under the most bizarre circumstances, when Callie is at her worst: In line at the Department of Motor Vehicles on her 30^th birthday, right after Mark breaks up with her; during an Internet dating disaster; while she’s purchasing Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse’ n Purge Weight Loss Jump-Start Tea and in the aftermath, when what Ian calls Callie’s “emotional diarrhea” manifests itself physically on a company outing.

Ian isn’t exactly a white knight, although he does seem to have an ample supply of white handkerchiefs on-hand for all occasions.

Kristan Higgins has created a motley, but lovable cast of characters. There’s Callie’s mother, who runs a funeral home; her father who was kicked out of the family years ago for cheating on Callie’s mother when she was pregnant, and is now trying to win back his wife; and a semi-normal sister – a fertility doctor who’s looking for a father for her two adopted girls, although she hates men. Then there’s the grumpy grandfather who shares his house and boat-building studio with Callie; her brother, who hasn’t lived up to his potential; not to mention two adorably  outrageous nieces, the requisite great girlfriend, two lovable dogs and a rocking chair with magical powers.

Readers will sympathize with Callie as she pursues the wrong man, and tries her best to get over him, arguing with her two alter-egos Michelle Obama and Betty Boop  (don’t ask). By the very satisfying end, we see a side of Ian we never expected, but circumstances keep getting in the way as Callie and Ian try to connect. 

I didn’t know anything about Kristan Higgins before, but now that I’ve read her latest book, I will be buying everything she’s written. There’s something for everyone to love, laugh and even cry about in All I Ever Wanted. A great summer read, All I Ever Wanted is all I ever wanted in a book and a story for all seasons.

Claimed!

by Vicki Lewis Thompson    http://vickilewisthompson.com/

Harlequin Blaze

ISBN-10: 0373795602

ISBN-13: 978-0373795604

Category Romance, Blaze Series

No one does spicy like Vicki Lewis Thompson.  I’ll confess, I read the first chapter and wondered, “Now how is she going to pull this off?”  At first, it seemed as though a conversation between Josie and Jack would solve all their problems, but Claimed! has far more emotional depth than I have generally found in a Blaze.  The sex—and there’s plenty of it—is an integral part of who these characters are, why they get together, AND what keeps them apart.

Here’s my official version of the party line:  Josie has moved to Shosone, Wyoming and opened a bar there.  She and Jack had been the best of bed partners until the sudden death of his father puts the ladies’ man into a tailspin.  A community wedding brings them together, but Jack’s fear of commitment threatens to keep them apart.

The genius of the story is that Jack has some really good reasons to fear commitment, reasons that make him wounded as well as hunky.  Even better, he has an incredible sense of humor and dangles a spoon from his nose to win over Josie’s overprotective brother just as he had once won her over, just one example of the depth of both characters.  Jack is alternately sexy, wounded, and funny.  Josie is compassionate, independent, and ultimately willing to call it off if Jack can’t get his act together.

I really enjoyed this book and plan on looking up the first two in the series.   For writers, Claimed! is a well-paced read and an excellent example of your friend and mine, GMC.  For readers, just sit back and enjoy the ride.