Craig Legacy - Reviews (click here)

Excerpt

Tossing the dryer back into the drawer, Frankie headed for her bedroom. As she passed the locked armoire, she halted. It had been locked for as long as anyone could remember. According to Aunt Ginnie, the only reason the family had ever kept the plain oak wardrobe was because William Craig had ordered that it never be destroyed.

Frankie frowned as another memory came. William Craig had also instructed that the chest was to remain in the last room his son Ben had used.

Her gaze focused on the chest and swallowed hard. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge." She eased pass the armoire. Upon reaching her bed, she slipped into a pair of French-cut panties, her soft, well-worn jeans, and her favorite sweatshirt--a size too large, then jammed her feet into her Nike high-tops. After grabbing her purse, actually a satchel/briefcase for it contained everything she might need if stranded someplace overnight on a business trip, she saluted the chest, and headed for the door.

As she got near the foot of the bed, the armoire doors swung open. A blast of cool, fresh air hit her face. She quickly scanned the room. It took less than a nanosecond to spot Ben leaning against the fireplace mantel with silly grin on his face.

"I take it this is the time portal."

Ben nodded.

"Forget it. I'm not going." She pressed herself flush against the bedroom wall. She wouldn't feel safe until she was out of the house, let alone the room. No way was she getting anywhere near the chest. As it was, she'd come within two feet of it during her escape.

Keep cool. I did it when the market crashed over five hundred points in a day, I can do it now. Yeah, right!

Frankie didn't trust Ben. Unfortunately, he was proving to be a most determined ghost. Nor did she believe his cock-and-bull story about their being soul mates. Nope, he had an agenda, and she strongly suspected it wasn't one she'd like.

As she inched her way toward the bedroom doorway and freedom, she never took her eyes off the ghost.

"Stay where you are," she said, thrusting out her hand as he approached her.

"Why do you fight your destiny?"

"Because my destiny is here. In the twenty-first century. I've pledged my loyalty to indoor plumbing, electricity, and e-mail."

"A trip back to my time might cure you of your self-centered ways."

"Now you've done it, Mister." Frankie stepped away from the wall. Then she looked at his face. It held a mixture of fury, frustration, and downright sneakiness. It was that last emotion, fleeting though it was, that sent her back against the wall.

She resumed sidling toward the door, never taking her gaze off the furious ghost in front of her. As she came level with the armoire, she flashed a grin and began singing, "I am a material girl. I live in a material world."

Ben surged forward.

An energy blast hit Frankie.

She flew into the chest.

She spiraled downward.

Nausea assaulted her.

Cold, clammy air lashed her.

She clawed at the dark nothingness. "You'd better hope those damned Yankees've already killed you!"

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Booksellers Best Award Finalist

Fat Chance - Reviews (click here)

Excerpt

A pair of yellow Tweety Bird slippers appeared just past the doorjamb followed by an angry pair of honey-brown eyes. Ms. Michaels held a bowl of cold cereal in her hand as if it contained a toxic substance.

"If you'd planned on killing me, the least you could have done was give me a cigarette and a blindfold."

"I didn't know you smoked." He stared at her, astounded that she was more beautiful when she was angry. Not a good sign. The woman was disaster with a capital D.

"I don't smoke. Obviously, I don't eat, either." She slammed the bowl on Hal's side table.

Hal gritted his teeth. Every one of the subjects had to be happy. They had to believe in the experiment. He counted on it and so did the outcome of the project, as well as the way in which the National Science Endowment publicized it. "Puffed wheat is good for you."

"Sure, if you like toasted air." Lindsey Michaels crossed her arms and pumped her Tweety-covered foot.

"Puffed wheat is full of fiber and vitamins. I should know. I've eaten it for breakfast for the past twenty years."

"Well, all I can say, Dr. Randall, is you must be full of wind, because not one speck of self-respecting sustenance made its way anywhere near my stomach."

She stomped toward him, and he swallowed hard. He wasn't prepared to see how the light caught the dark red sparks in her hair or the soft texture of her perfect complexion. He was equally unprepared to see the cleavage through the now-parting folds of her chenille bathrobe. For one desperate moment, he'd thought the robe was all she had on.

"Get this, Doctor, your advertisement said I'd lose weight by getting it sucked out by a machine. I didn't expect to be hung to dry like a piece of beef jerky. This place looks like a spa and you advertised a chef who could 'make low calorie food taste like the best French cuisine'." She stopped just inches from his chest, and he struggled not to moan. "I'd love to meet the chef who so tenderly spent all night forming all these little kernels of gas-makers. His last name doesn't happen to be Kellogg, does it?"

Hal frowned at the woman who spelled trouble for the Institute. "A chef isn't easy to find in Dickens." He winced at the defensive sound in his voice.

"So, did you find one? Or did you make a deal with the nearest grain storage silo?"

He backed up as he reminded himself that he was in control, not the little hellcat in front of him. He knew it was a lie! Cripes, he couldn't even control his own libido. "The chef starts tomorrow. He's a... a former M.S.S."

"What's that?"

"A Mess Management Specialist. In the Navy, that's the cook."

"Navy?" Her eyes flared once again, and she advanced until her face was just inches below his chin. "Get this, Dr. Perfect. I have no intention of going through basic training. In your ads and all the literature you sent me, you promised to suck out this excess fat. You never mentioned a downside like starvation."

"The experiment requires a complete inventory of special programs. I'm afraid modification of your diet is one of them."

"Modification and starvation are two different concepts. I consider myself the spokesman for all those other poor, overweight dupes out there. Just get with the program. We'll form a lynch mob if you don't give us nourishment that tastes like real food." She stood on tiptoe, and stared into his eyes. "We need protein and comfort food. There's got to be something enticing that doesn't have any calories."

You've got that right, but it isn't professional to take a patient to bed. Hal backed up another step as the thought raced across his mind. "The staff will see what they can do."

"That's more like it." She moved to the door and nodded at the discarded bowl of cereal. "Maybe you can use the puffed wheat to float your next experiment."

Mr Wrong - Reviews (click here)

Excerpt

She'd baited the trap with a home-cooked meal and sprang it over dessert. Damn! This woman wasn't the Kat he'd known since childhood. Nor was she the logical, bottom-line CPA of his law firm. This Kat Snow was an unknown quantity. She had an agenda, and he was it. Rourke Hawthorne's hand tightened on the ivory lined sheet of paper.

Mr. Right

1. Likes children. Must pass the Tory test.
2. Genuinely likes women.
3. Doesn't want just sex, but a grandé passion!
4. Tall. At least six feet.
5. Eye color-blue, brown, green, or hazel. NO GRAY.
6. Good looking-handsome isn't a prerequisite. Nice body, broad shoulders, narrow hips welcomed.
7. Sense of humor.
8. Not threatened by my job or independence.
9. A professional. Can't be autocratic, dictatorial, or controlling.

Hiding behind the neutral facade he wore in court, Rourke lifted his gaze. "Hmm, Kat-"

"I know I shouldn't ask, but I need your help."

Help? With what? Marriage? With the exception of number five, her list fit him as perfectly as his favorite baseball mitt. Rourke leaned back in the chair.

How could he let her down easy? Dissuade her of this insane idea that he was Mr. Right? Let's see. Certainly, he could be diplomatic. Of course he could; he was a lawyer. He'd say-

"I need your help in preparing to re-enter the meat market and finding the one gentleman left in Northern Virginia."

Rourke's chair crashed forward. "Meat market? But... This is... I..."

"You didn't think... Oh, my!" She laughed. "You aren't what I'm looking for, Rourke. You don't meet my criteria."

"What am I? Mr. Wrong?" Get a grip, man. This is your out. "Kat-"

"I didn't mean to hurt your pride."

"You didn't. Why doesn't the list fit me?"

"I never took you for a masochist."

He glared at her. Masochist, like hell. If the glove fit, wear it. He retrieved the paper and shook his head. "One look at this list confirms the truth. Except for my gray eyes, I'm a perfect match."

"Oh, please." Kat scooted to his side of the kitchen table. She pointed to number one. "See this? It says likes children. You once told me the only good child was medium rare."

He shifted in his chair. "I've never felt like that about Tory, only those screaming rug rats in stores."

"Whatever. I still can't see you with a baby, feedings, or dirty diapers."

"That's a low blow, Kat."

"Hey, I'm not the one who tossed his cookies when his niece needed her diaper changed."

"I'd just worked out and it was over ninety," he muttered as she snickered beside him. "What about number two? I like women."

He winced at the gentle pat on his arm and braced himself. Something told him she remembered every throwaway line he'd ever uttered and they were all about to come back and bite him in the ass.

"When I was fourteen, you said women were made for three things-to make love, make babies, and make a man's life hell. Doesn't sound like genuine like to me."

Yup, he felt the teeth. "For God's sake, Kat, I was twenty-one!"

She shrugged. "You haven't changed that much."

He had everything else knocked. It was a home run. He could see the ball flying out of the park.

"You can't argue with my being tall, I'm six feet. Most women think I'm good looking and a great lover."

He winced at the pity in her eyes and the negative shake of her head.

"Number three says no casual sex. While you enjoy women, all women, it isn't for their intellect or their warm, caring hearts. I want a man who will love only me!" She pointed to the list.

"About number seven... I have to admit you have a dry kind of macabre wit. But I'm looking for light-hearted banter, ride-the-roller-coaster kind of humor."

"You can't fault me on number eight. I have no problem with your job."

"True, but there's also number nine-"

"Okay, okay!" He glared at the list. She'd sliced and diced his personality and found him wanting. He raised his eyes and met her rock solid gaze. "I'm Mr. Wrong."

"Rourke, I want a husband. A man who'll love me, love Tory, and meets most, if not all, my criteria. That's who'll be Mr. Right."

He shuddered. Who in their right mind wanted to marry? Kat, of all people, should know better. Forget the fact that she worked with him daily on divorce cases, her own marriage had been seven years of hell. In fact, he suspected she'd felt too much relief at Mark's death to mourn. So why this sudden desire to get married?

He glanced at her and silently swore. Tory! Kat would never have an affair or live with a man. She'd be too worried about the effect on her daughter. "I'll help you." His mouth dropped open. Had he said that? And he called himself a lawyer.

"That's okay. You don't need to." Kat pushed back from the table, walked to the kitchen sink, and began rinsing their plates. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

He should have expected this ambush. Even as a kid, she'd been unrelenting about getting what she wanted. Right now, she wanted his help. If he didn't give it, she'd find someone else who would. Rourke gritted his teeth. He knew men. They were all dogs on the prowl. Men wanted only one thing and he should know. He was the pack leader.

"We'll start immediately."

She turned and glared at him. "I don't want your pity, Rourke."

He grimaced. "Good. You don't have it. I'm a friend. Friends help friends."

"Look. Make sure you're sincere. I need all the help I can get because, so far, I haven't mastered the right technique."

"Technique?" His mouth suddenly felt as dry as a legal brief.

"For attracting men. I don't want another Mark. I've had that." She walked over to the table and patted his shoulder. "I understand your hesitation. It'll be hard transforming from boss and friend to instructor in the art of catching a husband."

Rourke's gaze met hers and his world tipped on its axis. The woman pitied him. Him! The master of seduction. She'd never come close to what she wanted unless she had lessons from "The King." "I'll help. But, remember, when we go out, it's a real date. And it might change our friendship."

"Oh, come on, Rourke, be honest. You aren't reluctant to help because you're worried about our friendship. It's our work relationship you're scared about. Look, it'll help if you don't view our outings as dates. Think of them as training missions."

He rose to his feet, knowing it was time to leave. "There'll be limits to what I'm willing to do. And I'll set those limits. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Thank you."

"Don't thank me 'til we give it a try. We'll start tomorrow night with a movie."

"Great!"

"I'll call in the morning and set the time." Leaving, Rourke walked to his car. It would be a piece of cake. What could go wrong at the movies?

Intimate Investor - Reviews (click here)

Excerpt
Macon nodded. "Sorry I wasn't good for much more than handing out applications. I sure couldn't answer many questions. In a few days, when things quiet down, you can explain more of the business to me."

Raye folded her hands in her lap. "I appreciate everything you did today, including the way you handled your female fan club." Macon started to say something, but Raye held out her hand stopping him. "Please let me finish. As I said, I truly do appreciate your support. But we need to talk about our partnership."

"What about it?" Macon asked, watching as a blush crept up her neck and into her face.

"About what's appropriate and what isn't."

Macon's smile disappeared as a now all to familiar surge of raw desire hit his groin. She'd obviously felt the desire, too. Unfortunately her idea of how to handle the situation was to distance herself. He was damned if he'd allow her to get away with it. Nope, not feeling the way he did. After all, when a man had an itch, he had to scratch it, if he expected relief. "What's wrong, hon? Have I done something to make you mad on my first day? I thought I did okay." When Raye pushed out of the chair and stood, he knew he'd gotten to her because she wanted the authoritative edge standing gave her.

"First thing, don't call me 'hon'. Raye's fine. Although I'd appreciate it when we're around clients, vendors, and potential employees, if you'd use 'Ms. Franklin'."

"Perhaps Madam Füehrer would be more acceptable." Macon watched Raye's face get redder and her body quiver with rage.

"This isn't a joke, Macon. I am trying to establish a business, here. There have to be rules--standards."

Macon leaned back against the doorframe, trying to appear more nonchalant than the South side of his body allowed. "If my calling you hon offends you, no sweat, I'll stop. I can live up to my Southern upbringing ma'am."

Raye's breathing seemed labored and her voice took on a ragged edge as she continued with her message. "Well, that's not exactly all, you see. It's about our first meeting. I--well, I don't think you understand that our relationship is strictly business and that's all it'll ever be. I don't mix business and pleasure. The business always suffers, and I've waited too long for my chance. Besides, I'm sure you want a good return on your investment!"

Macon smiled throughout her long tirade. After she'd finished he stood there for a minute. After watching her squirm until even he was uncomfortable, Macon sauntered toward her. With each step he took, she took one backwards until the desk stopped her retreat.

Halting less than six inches in front of her, he looked down at her navy eyes and smiled. "What was sexual about our first meeting?" He lifted her hand. "Since when does a kiss on the hand lead to an affair?" he asked in a deliberately low voice as he traced his finger up Raye's hand to her wrist. "Perhaps you're not as worldly when it comes to male-female relationships as you are in health care, Raye. But let me tell ya, it takes a lot more than that."

With a knowing wink, Macon released Raye's hand before she could jerk it free. "My past male-female relationships are none of your business. But it's obvious you've had enough for both of us."

"I'm willing to share what I've learned." He couldn't help himself. As he bent down toward Raye, he hoped she wouldn't hyperventilate, because he had to do this. Of course, he'd make sure he was in the right position, if revival were necessary.

Without warning their lips joined, and he'd swear Raye had initiated it. The kiss was rough, demanding, yet awakened a tenderness he didn't know he had. Macon invaded the front barrier of her lips and explored her mouth in search of her tongue, mating, and in the process teasing every part of her as he pulled her flush against him.

Despite her business demeanor, Macon knew Raye was being swept away just like he was, in a swirling haze of passion that neither could avoid or had expected. Too late, he realized his body was shaken to the core, and he was in deep trouble.

Fearing that he was passing where he could make his point and not have Raye laugh in his face, Macon broke the kiss and stepped back. Except for his breathing, he convinced himself he was in control. "Now that's what starts an affair, Ms. Franklin. Just for the record, I'd never think of complicating a business relationship by kissing my partner that way. Have no fear. I won't worry you anymore."