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Excerpt
In this scene, Gabby and Frank’s relationship tentatively begins moving beyond best friends… until they are interrupted by Gabby’s older sister Esperanza:
The fire crackled, and Frank joined me at the window. Lamplight pooled around my socks, and rain rat-a-tatted on the roof. “Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day,” Frank said. “You go from Lester Ruben to Mother Goose. I guess Shakespeare’s a stretch.” “Oh yeah? ‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’” “English 101, right? One of the sonnets?” “Sonnet 57, to be precise.” “I’m impressed.” “Never underestimate me.” His hand brushed mine, and a charge ran up my arm. “You know, you don’t need to be jealous of Esperanza. You’re as pretty as she is.” He stammered over the last few words. My cheeks grew hot. No guy had ever called me pretty. Frank put his arm around my waist. Surprising myself, I leaned against him. Frank understood my complicated feelings for Esperanza and Abuela, how they shut me out and acted like nothing mattered except knitting. Our friendship went back forever. Words were unnecessary. “What are you two doing over there?” Esperanza said from behind us. Frank and I disentangled and whirled. Esperanza, balancing a tray holding three steaming mugs, winked at me. She placed the drinks on the coffee table and handed Frank a mug. Eyes downcast, he sipped the drink, fire flickering behind him. About the author - Erin Fanning
Find and follow Erin Fanning...
Website - www.erinfanning.com
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Warning: Contains a demon hunter with dark secrets, a sexy angel with ulterior motives, and demonic creatures running amok. Excerpt Slipping through the door just as two red-eyed demons in cargo pants and muscle shirts rounded the corner, I sped down the hall in the opposite direction, my boots echoing on the stone floor. Two sets of boots pounded behind me, drawing closer. I skated around another corner, hoping to find a stairwell or elevator, smacking right into a wall. No. Not a wall. A man. Flamma. My VS zinged to new heights as a signature of downy snow and windswept hills washed over me. His hands wrapped my forearms in a firm grip. I pushed my palms against his rock-hard chest, ready to blast him with VS power. “Wait! I’ll take you to safety, Genevieve. Hold still.” His voice, a sonorous melody, rolled in a deep, languid baritone. I froze. Trapped in sea-green eyes and powerful arms, I was taken into the Void. My breath sucked right out of me as we fell through the darkness. The second time in a matter of minutes I’d been sifted away by a stranger. The moment my world righted, I pushed out of his hold several paces away. He’d brought us to a park. A pond shaded by orange-gold trees with skyscrapers towering in the distance. Central Park. I glared at the stranger and tried to catch my breath, drawing the dagger from the sheath sewn into my boot. He stood nearly as tall as Jude, similar in build but leaner. Black hair hung in staggered waves halfway to his shoulders. He regarded me with startling eyes—deep cobalt blue, the color of a glacier buried and untouched for centuries. Like white marble, his jaw, face and neck were sculpted in perfect, harmonious lines. His captivating signature circled me like a wintry halo. My dad had splurged the Christmas after I’d turned sixteen, taking us skiing in White Fish, Montana. At the tip-top of the slope, the evergreens were completely covered in new-fallen snow, sculpting white ghosts out of the landscape. The wind blew snow crystals in whirls—a pristine world of enchanting beauty. The air sparkled with iridescent ice-dust, like a fairy land. This image pushed to the forefront as I backed another foot away, gazing at my frost-and-snow rescuer. “Who are you?” His eyes flicked to the weapon in my hand, but he made no move toward me. Though we were quite far from park-goers and anyone who could help me if I cried out, I felt safer in this public place. “I’m here to help you.” That voice again, deep and mesmerizing. “That’s not an answer.” Definitely Flamma, but which kind. Naughty or nice? I couldn’t tell. “How do you know me?” His smile widened, making my pulse pound faster. “I’ve known you a long time. I’ve watched over you your entire life.” I examined him more closely. His power lapped against my VS like ocean waves, a gentle suction with each ripple before washing over me in a gentle caress. Though his power didn’t scream its presence or beat against mine, he was potent all the same. The perfect stoic expression, the controlled, straight-backed stance, the undeniable, breathtaking beauty. He exuded the essence of-- “Holy crap.” I gulped. “You’re an angel.” His smile widened, his beauty brightening into something painful. I lowered my trembling hand, sheathing my dagger. An angel who’d watched over me my whole life. “Not just any angel…my, my guardian angel. Aren’t you?” A dip of his strong chin. While he didn’t emanate the same pulse-pounding aura of Uriel, the Archangel who created the Dominus Daemonum, he carried a similar cast of heavenly essence. He tucked his hands in his pants pockets, appearing completely harmless. But I wasn’t fooled. Even angels could be dangerous. “Have you never sensed my presence?” he asked, eyes steady on mine. “No. Not really.” I remembered all the near misses in my life, when I somehow avoided danger or trouble by an internal niggling. Was that him? “Why have you never shown yourself before?” “Guardians tend to stay in the shadows.” My self-proclaimed guardian, Jude, might not like him staking a claim on that position. “And would you have believed me if I’d ever told you of my existence? Before your twentieth birthday, that is.” On my twentieth birthday, I’d been attacked and nearly strangled to death until Jude came along, did his voodoo mojo and ripped a bony demon from inside my would-be killer. That night changed everything, including my belief in angels and demons walking the earth. “No.” I smiled. “I guess not.” My cell phone vibrated in my back pocket. I answered. “Where the hell are you!” screamed Kat. “Um, Central Park.” The angel gave me a slight nod. “There’s a pond and a picnic area. I’m looking directly at the Empire State Building in the distance.” “Stay put. Dorian and I will be there in two.” I tucked the phone in my jacket. Wind blew over the water, rippling the surface. My hair had come loose in the melee, dark wisps crossing my face. Pool-green eyes followed the strands, then my hand when I tucked them behind my ear. His keen observation transformed a simple moment into something that made me breathless. He’d moved closer, within a yard, and I hadn’t noticed. I stepped back. “Stay where you are.” “What are you afraid of?” His voice dropped, not lower but deeper, like it was pulling on something hidden within me. My blood pumped faster. “That I’ll sift you away somewhere you don’t want to go? I could’ve done that already. And I told you. I’ve watched over you all of your life, kept you safe from harm so that you could reach maturity.” “You almost bungled that. I’ve been nearly killed like a hundred times.” “Nearly.” He shrugged. “The demon hunter was there. Most of the time.” My heart plummeted into my stomach. With those last three words, I realized this angel knew about Danté. Why hadn’t he saved me then? Before Danté had invaded my soul. “It would be much easier for you to escape your enemies if you had the power to sift.” “Don’t I know it,” I snapped back. He smiled, then angled his head as if listening for something. “I must go.” He reached out a hand for me to shake. I eyed him with suspicion. “It’s a friendly gesture, Genevieve. One does this in greeting and parting. Sometimes a person even says thank you when one saves another from harm.” My VS tingled, recognizing his power, finding no danger. I stepped forward, holding his gaze as I took his hand. I gasped. The second our hands made contact, a whisper of winter wind caressed my body from head to toe, but I felt no cold, only a sensual embrace tingling along my skin. My knees nearly buckled. “Th-thank you,” I stammered. Edging close, still holding my hand, he trailed his gaze from my eyes to my hair, down my cheek to my parted lips, agape from the strange sensation of his touch, before he met my eyes once more. “You’re more than welcome.” He smiled, probably at my dumbfounded expression. “Until we meet again, dear Genevieve.” He sifted out, leaving me with the scent of snow and mountain air. The Vessel Trilogy
Interview with Juliette Cross... Q: Why angels and demons? Juliette: I've always been fascinated with angel/demon mythology. I absolutely loved the movie "Constantine" and the idea of the hosts of good and evil living alongside us without us knowing it. So I set out to create my own mythology tied into what's been handed down to us, weaving them together. Q: When you write the beginning, do you know the end? Juliette: Absolutely. I'm definitely a plotter. I know all the major events, players, and secrets. It's the only way for me to add foreshadowing and hints for the readers throughout. The reader will learn a few more secrets in this one, but more to come in the final book, BOUND IN BLACK. Q: Okay, the name Genevieve is an all time favorite of mine. Did she have any quirks that surprised you? Juliette: Thank you! Not so much quirks, but I can tell you that in the beginning of book one, Genevieve is a self-assured college student. Her world is rocked sideways with the discovery of angels and demons walking amongst them, specifically the fact that she's become a target for the demon world. Gen goes through a learning curve about life and relationships through the entirety of the trilogy. I hope readers will enjoy seeing her grow and mature to the end. Q: Have you ever based your book or characters on actual events or people from your own life? Juliette: Yes. Of course. But I rarely create a character with the traits of entirely one person. Typically, they're a hodge-podge of people I know to fit the character I need. I will admit that I created a villain in one of my novels based on the characteristics of an ex-boyfriend. Lol. We writers have to have some perks, right? Q: Fly that geek flag high! What is it you're currently obsessing over in the book, tv show, or movie world? Juliette: GAME OF THRONES, baby! My husband and I binge rewatched all four seasons the month prior to season five premiering. I've even decided to recap every episode the week after with my own commentary. I just can't get enough of GoT. ;) Thanks so much for having me on the blog today, Jen! Loved being here. :) Meet the author... Juliette Cross
Find and follow Juliette Cross and The Vessel Trilogy... Website- http://www.juliettecross.com/ Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/juliettecrossauthor Twitter- https://twitter.com/Juliette__Cross Pinterest- https://www.pinterest.com/crossjuliette/ Goodreads- https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7795664.Juliette_Cross Newslwetter- www.eepurl.com/XeKIn 
Find and follow April Vine... Website- http://www.aprilvine.co.za/ Blog - http://www.aprilvine.co.za/blog Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/AprilVineAuthor?ref=hl Twitter- https://twitter.com/April_Vine Amazon- http://www.amazon.com/April-Vine/e/B008KGTHRS/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1427739148&sr=8-1 Barnes & Noble- http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/april-vine Kobo- https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/reclaimed-by-her-master iBooks- https://itunes.apple.com/US/book/id931237660?l=en 
ExcerptDr. Siena Carr dropped the clipboard on the counter and washed her hands. When she turned around, she gasped. “What are you doing?” The Juggernaut was undressing. Before she could say another word, he was naked. A glorious sight that sent her heart racing and her face burning. Did he know that he looked like a sculpture by Michelangelo? Except for the tattoo on his right shoulder, this man was David incarnate. She looked away abruptly, grabbing the clipboard. She didn’t even know his name! She looked at his paperwork. Tommy Raines. “Mr. Raines, please put on your clothes.” She continued scanning his form. Occupation: boxer. Age: twenty-two. Weight: 160 pounds. Height: six feet. Blood type: O positive. No pre-existing health conditions. His temperature and blood pressure were normal. Reason for ER visit: a cut sustained from sparring. She faced him. Thank God, he was clothed again. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I thought you’re supposed to check me out.” Did he just say check him out? “Mr. Raines, this is an ER, not a bar. I don’t check out patients. Do you mean to say check up?” He smiled. “Yeah, check up.” “I’m going to take care of your cut, but I’m not doing a checkup. If you need one, you should go to your primary care doctor.” “I don’t like doctors. I avoid hospitals and clinics as much as possible, but my cut kept bleeding even after I showered. So here I am.” Interview with Vina Arno... Q: Have you ever based your book or characters on actual events or people from your own life? Vina Arno: Not for this book. Q: When you write the beginning, do you know the end? Vina Arno: With In His Corner, yes. But not with other manuscripts I’ve written. Q: How did you come up with the idea for this book? Vina Arno: My inspiration came from the unlikely combination of Italy and Tom Hardy, the British actor. I love Hardy’s cage-fighter character in the movie “Warrior,” which gave me the idea for my romantic hero. But I prefer boxing to mixed martial arts and I wanted the prestige of the Olympics, so I made my hero an Olympic gold-medalist boxer. My heroine is named Siena because she was inspired by the Italian city of the same name, which I visited in 2013. Q: Did you have to study boxing for “In His Corner” or is this sport close to your heart? Vina Arno: I’m fascinated by boxing and boxers, but I don’t subscribe to Ring magazine or spend my weekends watching boxing on pay-per-view. Growing up in the Philippines, I was in awe of Muhammad Ali, who fought Joe Frazier in the famous match called “Thrilla in Manila.” It was a huge event held with great fanfare; it left a tremendous impression on me. Also, I’ve been following Manny Pacquiao’s career because he’s my compatriot and he’s one of the best fighters in the world today. Q: Fly that geek flag high! What is it you're currently obsessing over in the book, tv show, or movie world? Vina Arno: Believe it or not, I don’t watch TV except for news. I’m a Tom Hardy fan, so I’m looking forward to watching him re-invent the character of “Mad Max” in the reboot of the franchise. Meet the author... Vina Arno  Vina Arno is a pen name used by Cindy Fazzi, a Philippine-born American writer who has worked as a journalist in the Philippines, Taiwan, and the United States. Her short stories have been published in the Snake Nation Review, Copperfield Review, and SN Review. Follow Vina Arno... Web site: www.cindyfazzi.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cindy-Fazzi/779654065440439 Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9800535.Vina_Arno Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+CindyFazzi/about  The Griffin's Secret
Excerpt... The faint scent of an exotic flower on an ocean breeze hit him the second the girl walked in. Every part of his body stood at attention, taking in the way she moved. The curve of her slender hips. Those long legs… they’d wrap around the back seat of his Harley perfectly. Wrap around him perfectly, too. A flip of her onyx-silk hair sent it behind her shoulder as she sat opposite. “Who are you?” Good question. He’d been seeking the same answer for too long. “Jackson Grant.” Her eyes darkened, deep brown to charcoal diamonds. “Why are you here?” “For the roadie job.” Was she the first gatekeeper? A gate she kept locked, he’d bet. Or maybe she was another test. Kev had warned him there’d be tricky questions and to answer straight. Something told him she asked out of curiosity. “You think you’re up for such a demanding job?” Again, the impression hit him she was making these questions up as she went along, ad-libbing off his replies. He’d play. “I’m strong. Dependable. I follow orders, keep my head down, and stay out of trouble.” And he liked his privacy. Her features smoothed, hard as porcelain. “Do you.” Not a question. He’d answer anyway. “Yes.” Did disappointment curl her lip? Or boredom? Why did he care? If he could, he’d blast out of there before his own curiosity got the better of him. Already, she’d gotten under his skin. Crazy how the tat no longer singed him, but now twisted like a trapped animal. With a plastic smile, she batted her eyes, and the false flirtation didn’t suit her. “So. You’re a yes-man.” The way she said it, he’d be no different than any other roadie serving the great rock star, Malcolm Fetterman. Fine by Jackson. The less he stood out, the better. Except for her. He hated to think of her glossing over his presence, but that would be better, too. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I need the job.” Where the hell was Malcolm anyway? The longer he stayed with her, the more he wanted to. Definitely couldn’t afford that kind of trouble. He glanced at the open door, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through the same interrogation again. She tapped the table. “You’d have to travel constantly.” “Perfect.” No different than his usual way of life. Except this time, his paycheck would remain steady. “You wouldn’t miss your family?” She dipped her head. “Your girlfriend?” He curled his lip this time. No one’s business but his. He shifted in his seat. “They’re better off.” Her brows knit, and then her expression became unreadable as the Sphinx. “The hours are long, and the equipment’s heavy. Everything has to be exactly as Mal orders.” Did he imagine it, or had she winced at her own words? He shrugged. “It’s his show.” Someday, Jackson would have his own roadies. And would treat them much better than Malcolm Fetterman did, if the stories proved true. Her steely focus cut into him. “Mal doesn’t hire musicians except for those in the band. And there aren’t any openings in Malcontent.” He didn’t allow himself to blink. “No problem.” “But you play, don’t you?” Her gaze dropped to his callused fingertips drumming the tabletop. He drew his hand down. “No.” A necessary lie. She might suspect, but couldn’t possibly know the truth. Almost like leaving one of his limbs behind, he’d locked his Fender in storage in New Jersey with his paltry possessions for six months. By then, he’d know whether this gig worked out. The Author... Cate Masters Cate Masters has made beautiful central Pennsylvania her home, but she’ll always be a Jersey girl at heart. When not spending time with her dear hubby, she can be found in her lair, concocting a magical brew of contemporary, historical, and fantasy/paranormal stories with her cat Chairman Maiow and dog Lily as company. Look for her at http://catemasters.blogspot.com and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.  Coming May 12th... Blood Stitches
Excerpt... A gust of wind scattered leaves across the University of Seattle campus. My hair tangled over my face. New contacts tortured my eyes, and books weighed down my backpack. It didn’t matter. A tornado could have snatched me up. As long as it carried me home and put an end to the anniversary of the worst day of my life. “Watch out, Gabby.” My best friend Frank thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pinstriped suit. “We’re being followed by a giant candy corn.” “Giant candy corn? Yeah, right.” If I turned around, Frank would laugh and say, “Gotcha”, or some other dorky thing. The mind-numbing boredom of Calculus I, our last class of the day, always set Frank off, making him zanier than usual. “I mean it. We’ve got a candy corn on our tail.” Frank whistled a Lester Ruben song as he sauntered ahead. “Okay, okay. Let me see this Halloween wonder.” If I didn’t give in, Frank would never leave me alone. I whirled, ready to hear Frank’s laugh, and almost ran into a man. His face glowed orange, like someone who’d spent too much time in a tanning booth, and he wore a white cap pulled down to his ears. A yellow scarf hid his neck and chin. For once, Frank wasn’t kidding. The man resembled a giant candy corn. Shredded paper and a postage stamp poked out of his scarf, and a moon decorated an edge of the knitting, like one of my older sister Esperanza’s creations. It didn’t seem possible, but no one else I knew added garbage and a signature moon to their knitting. A wool coat covered the rest of him, except his face and steel-tipped boots. “Sorry.” I jumped back. Frank’s chuckles mixed with squirrels chattering in a nearby tree. Drizzle moistened my forehead, and a cold dampness seeped into my bones. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, like watching Esperanza unravel her knitting one stitch at a time to fix a mistake.  The Author... Erin Fanning
 Love, Lattes and Mutants - Sandra Cox
The Author... Sandra Cox  Multi-published author Sandra Cox writes YA Fantasy, Paranormal and Historical Romance, and Metaphysical Nonfiction. She lives in sunny North Carolina with her husband, a brood of critters and an occasional foster cat. Although shopping is high on the list, her greatest pleasure is sitting on her screened in porch, listening to the birds, sipping coffee and enjoying a good book. She's a vegetarian and a Muay Thai enthusiast.  Deception
Rafflecopter Giveaway! The Author... A. S. Fenichel
Excerpt I’d parked illegally on the street, knowing full well I’d probably have a ticket on the windshield when I returned. Campus cops were like sharks in bloody waters, sniffing out offenders with notorious stealth. You never saw them but sure as hell felt bitten when they got you. Dreading to see that I’d been attacked by one of these predators, I rounded the corner, and my heart stopped. Propped beautifully against my silver 350ZX was my rescuer, R-and-B from last night. Faded jeans fit snugly on his hips, and a gray T-shirt accentuated a perfect upper body. His black hair fell just right across lovely dark eyes. With casually crossed arms, he watched me approach. Heart, please stop pounding that way before he notices. This was no accident. He’d found me somehow. Should I be afraid? He didn’t look dangerous. Well, not in a serial-killer sort of way. Hell, he looked good enough to eat. Totally faking bravado, I stopped in front of him with one hand on my waist. “Are you stalking me?” He didn’t answer, eyeing me from bottom to top. His gaze paused at my throat, then finally made its way to my eyes. Still mute. I hated awkward silences. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?” That seemed to jar him a bit. He straightened, his expression grim at best. “I apologize. I was—” “Checking me out. Yeah, I got that loud and clear.” Damn, I was brave. He cleared his throat, hiding a smile now. “I was going to say, examining you.” He gestured to my neck. “Examining? Why? Are you a doctor?” “Of sorts.” “What sort of sort?” “I have a doctorate.” No way. He seemed too young to have a PhD. “A doctorate in what?” I asked skeptically. “Philosophy.” “Your expertise?” I asked, noting the rather sarcastic lilt in my voice. He didn’t bat an eye. “My thesis was on how weapons reflect the savagery and sophistication of a culture.” That accent again. Definitely European. But what country? “Well, a PhD in weaponry may give you some idea how to inflict injuries, but it doesn’t qualify you to examine and diagnose them.” “True.” Ha! One point for me. “So…” I let the word hang. “How could you possibly have a PhD in anything at your age?” “I’m older than I appear.” A slow, slow devastating smile. A fluttering in my stomach felt like a frantic flock of blind birds. Re-lax, Gen. Thank God he spoke, because for the moment, my lips had completely forgotten how to form words. “I simply wanted to determine whether you’d recovered from last night’s attack,” he said, pushing off my car and coming closer. Oh no. He was going to touch me. Genevieve Elizabeth Drake, do NOT faint. He reached out and gently folded back my hoodie. He lifted my chin and angled it so that he could see the marks I knew were purpled along the left side. Why was I letting this stranger get so close? Even if he was picture-book gorgeous. I pushed his hand away and stepped around him to my car. “I’m fine,” I mumbled, pulling the keys from the front pocket of my backpack. “What I want to know is how you knew where to find me. And why are you following me? It’s a bit creepy, even if you did save my life last night.” We’d now switched places. I leaned back against my car. He stood there, examining me again, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of those yummy jeans. “Yesterday was your twentieth birthday, wasn’t it?” Okay. Double creepy. “How did you know?” My question confirmed whatever idea he had in his head. I could see it in the nod and drop of his perfect cleft chin. Two girls flitted by, engrossed in a conversation. One nudged the other when they caught sight of him, ogling shamelessly. They giggled. Couldn’t blame them, but it pissed me off for some reason. R-and-B gave them no real notice, turning back to me. “I think we should go somewhere private to talk.” Said the creepy man to the little girl with a lollipop and a white van waiting around the corner. “Um, I don’t think so.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t know you. And no matter what you did for me last night, at this point, I don’t trust you.” He shifted weight to his other leg. “As you wish. We’ll talk here.” “Not that I’m ungrateful, but why were you following me last night? Into the alley?” “I wasn’t following you. I was following the demon.” “Fair enough. How did you know it was my birthday?” “Last night, I wondered but thought it impossible. I had not thought to meet another like you in all my time as a…” He paused, glancing around and lowering his voice. “As a Dominus Daemonum.” I shook my head. “Okay, hold up. Met one what before? And what the hell is a dominus da-whatever-you-said?” Dark enchanting eyes kept me still, even with my saucy attitude. A face chiseled in stone regarded me with care. I would never admit it, but I was afraid to move. Something in those almost-black depths warned me what he spoke of now would change my life forever. What’s more, I knew those words. They were Latin. But the translation in my head didn’t make sense. “The what is a Vessel,” he finally said. “And a Dominus Daemonum is a Master of Demons.” “Do you mean like a…a demon hunter?” He nodded. No smile. “That is what I am,” he said. “And what’s a Vessel?” “That is what you are.” The author... Juliette Cross  Juliette calls lush, moss-laden Louisiana home where the landscape curls into her imagination, creating mystical settings for her stories. She has a B.A. in creative writing from Louisiana State University, a M.Ed. in gifted education, and was privileged to study under the award-winning author Ernest J. Gaines in grad school. Her love of mythology, legends, and art serve as constant inspiration for her works. From the moment she read JANE EYRE as a teenager, she fell in love with the Gothic romance--brooding characters, mysterious settings, persevering heroines, and dark, sexy heroes. Even then, she not only longed to read more novels set in Gothic worlds, she wanted to create her own.   Ascension The Demon Hunters, #1 When demons threaten London, Lady Belinda answers the call. Lord Gabriel Thurston returns home from war to find his fiancée is not the sweet young girl he left behind. She’s grown into a mysterious woman who guards her dark secrets well. When he sees her sneaking away from a ball, he’s convinced it’s for a lover’s rendezvous. Following her to London’s slums, Gabriel watches in horror as his fiancée ruthlessly slays a man. Lady Belinda Carlisle’s only concern was her dress for the next ball—until demons nearly killed her and changed everything. A lady by day, and a demon hunter by night, she knows where her duty lies. Ending her betrothal is the best way to protect Gabriel from death by a demon’s hand. Gabriel soon realizes, like him, Belinda has been fighting for her country. He joins in the fight, determined to show her that their love can endure, stronger than ever. Excerpt Lady Belinda Clayton grappled with the creaking iron gate, which led to the back garden of her family’s London townhouse. It was not the first time she had used the unconventional route to make her way back home in the predawn hours. Nor was it the first time her dress had been ruined or her hair tousled in her rush to make her way through the streets without becoming a number on the death toll in the city’s records. Pushing the gate closed, the rough, cold metal scratched her gloved palm. Once the latch was secured she ran her finger along the jagged tear in her left glove. “Too bad,” she said. She shook her head at the ruined garment. “I really did like this pair.” “What pair is that, Lady Belinda?” Gabriel’s deep, seductive voice cut through the still night. His blue eyes were the color of the sea just before a storm and their depths burned into her. Her stomach did a flip before she had time to control herself. She was sure she looked flustered and she could have kicked herself for not steeling her nerves before facing Lord Gabriel Thurston, the Earl of Tullering. She was pleased with the sound of cold detachment in her voice. “Tullering, what on earth are you doing in my garden in the middle of the night?” “One might ask you the same question, Lady Belinda.” He ran his hand through his dark hair, loosening it from the ribbon. His cravat had come loose and his evening clothes were crushed. There was something dangerous about an unkempt Gabriel. The gesture was a sign of frustration from the earl. She’d seen it many times. Her heart raced and she swallowed the panic welling in her gut. “This is my home, my lord. You do not live here. If I am not mistaken you have a home in London where you should be at this late hour.” “You are my fiancée.” Even in the moonlight, his face and neck burned red. “There is no need to remind me.” He stepped from the terrace onto the cobbled path where she stood. He loomed over her and filled the air with a mixture of soap, spice and something else male and formidable. The scent was intrinsically Gabriel and entirely delicious. She was tempted to back away, but forced herself to hold her ground. Her stubbornness did not stop her heart from racing or her skin from tingling at his nearness. “Oh, but I think there is a need.” He circled behind her, his mouth inches from her ear. She set her teeth. “I am well aware of the contract signed between you and my father four years ago, my lord. I was there when it was signed and I was also there when you left for the continent.” The day he left for the war came flooding back, and so did the memories of her unanswered letters, and the tears she had cried over him. Well, there would be no tears tonight. “You are angry with me for fighting for our country?” He took a step back. “No.” “But you are angry.” “You might have written since your concern for our relationship is so evident.” She’d wanted to sound flippant, but she sounded brooding. She’d been hurt by his silence, and had little hope of hiding the fact. “I wrote,” he said. She was pleased the subject had changed to something more defensible. “Three letters in four years can hardly be considered correspondence, my lord.” “You use to call me Gabriel.” He murmured. She stepped away in spite of the pleasant shiver his voice produced. “That was a long time ago.” She made to climb the terrace steps away from him. “There is still the question of why my fiancée is sneaking through the garden at four in the morning.” She turned ready to blast him about having no right to ask her anything. Her words stuck in her throat. In the full moonlight, he took her breath away. He was tall and broad and his hair hung loose around his face. In spite of her anger, she wanted desperately to touch his hair and see if it was still as soft as it looked. “I come and go as I please.” “So I see,” he said. “Perhaps then, you would be willing to explain why your dress is six inches deep with mud, why your hair looks as if you’ve been tossing in the sheets, how you got that smudge of dirt on your lovely face, or the hole in those gloves you were just lamenting?” She wiped some dried mud from her cheek. The resulting dull pain told her she had revealed a bruise beneath. His eyes widened and he flew up the steps. She stepped back. She couldn’t harm Gabriel so she lifted one arm as if to dull a blow. He froze, staring down at her. It had been instinct. The last few years had taught her that no one is immune to violence. A woman must learn to defend herself. If he had been anyone else, she’d have struck him rather than shield herself against an angry fist. She lowered her arm and looked into his piercing eyes. Her heart pounded. She had made an error. “Do you truly think I would strike you?” Now that she was thinking clearly again, she hardly knew why she had defended herself. It was foolish. Gabriel would never strike her. Her environment had tainted her. She attempted to remain cold in her explanation. “I hardly know what to think, my lord. We no longer know each other.” When he touched the tender bruise, she winced, but did not back away. “And this, Bella, would you care to explain this to me?” His voice was soft and his touch feather-like, but his eyes narrowed and his posture remained unyielding. She brushed his touch aside. “Do not call me that.” “You use to like that name.” “That was also a long time ago.” “Not so long,” he whispered. He gazed out into the garden as if lost in some distant memory. His attention returned to her. “I am waiting for some kind of response from you, Lady Belinda.” In spite of her need to keep him at a distance, her heart ached when he used the formal address. Her first instinct was to tell him to go to hell and leave her alone, but that would only provoke him. She lied instead. “I have been at a ball. There was some problem with the carriage, and I was required to walk part of the way. I fell in the mud and some of it must have splattered my face when my dress was ruined.” He frowned. “And the bruise?” Deep creases around his full lips drew her in. Desire to tell him everything bubbled in her gut. She shrugged. “I’m sure it is only dirt. The moonlight makes it seem more dire, and you are exaggerating the situation greatly.” “I see. Is this all the explanation I can expect?” “It is what I am willing to say, my lord.” She turned and walked to the house. The door opened just as she arrived and she slipped inside before her fiancé could say more. About the Author... A. S. Fenichel  A.S. Fenichel gave up a successful career in New York City to follow her husband to Texas and pursue her lifelong dream of being a professional writer. She’s never looked back. A.S. adores writing stories filled with love, passion, desire, magic and maybe a little mayhem tossed in for good measure. Books have always been her perfect escape and she still relishes diving into one and staying up all night to finish a good story. Multi-published in erotic paranormal, contemporary and historical romance, A.S. is the author of the Mayan Destiny series, Christmas Bliss and many more. With several books currently contracted to multiple publishers, A.S. will be bringing you her brand of romance for many years to come. Originally from New York, she grew up in New Jersey, and now lives in the East Texas with her real life hero, her wonderful husband. When not reading or writing she enjoys cooking, travel, history, and puttering in her garden.  |
AuthorJen Colly is the author of the paranormal romance series: The Cities Below. Follow the Blog!Archives
March 2025
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