IN FROM THE COLD...coming soon!

Isn't Spook Raines adorable? He's the longlost twin of smoking demon Bhyrne Raines from HEAT WAVE and the cousin of smoldering erotic artist Max Raines from FROST! 

He'll be here soooooooooooon.

BLURB:

Spook Raines is a burnt-out spy who doesn’t know he’s a fire demon with a twin in Sleepy Hollow.  

Geneviève Mortimer is a will o’the wisp who hunts demons to ease the pain of her troubled past.

When Madame Eve brings them together for a torrid 1Night Stand, will they be able to come in from the cold at last?

 

UNOFFICIAL EXCERPT:

Geneviève Mortimer crept down the quiet hotel hallway, careful to bank her glow…at least for the moment. She sensed the presence of a demon on the floor, but something seemed off about the male’s aura. A weird lack of evil, as if an impenetrable force field surrounded his consciousness, his psyche. As if he thought he were… human.

Had he been brainwashed? Drugged? Raised by gypsies? By wolves? Wait. No. Scratch that last one. She didn’t get the were vibe at all with this one. 

No matter, as a will o’the wisp and a Protector of the Legion of Shadows tasked with watching over humankind and keeping the unwary safe from visitors from the demon realms to the human plane, she lured the black-souled to their demise. Going all shine-a-light and sparkly until they fell under her spell and followed her anywhere. She needed to find this guy. Pounce first, beam a little hypnotic wattage, ask questions later. Take him out before he did any harm. To humans. Or innocents like her parents.

She sniffed. Getting warmer. Closer to the demon’s room. What would she find behind his door? 

She ignored the “Do Not Disturb” sign and jiggled the handle. Locked. But the absence of a key card wouldn’t be a problem for her. Not with her brand of talent and the magick lock picks in her pocket. She got the door open in seconds and slinked into the room, masking her radiance, keeping to the shadows.

Holy shit. Male bonding scent filled the air. Delicious, decadent, sublime. Melted chocolate, rich mocha and salted caramel. Total man candy. Like nothing she’d ever smelled before. Calling to her sweet tooth. Her horny core. An ache blossomed between her legs. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Whoa. She could orgasm from the erotic scent of the guy alone.

 Cripes. This sort of thing never happened to her. She was a demon hunter, damn it. Remained professional always, despite her ditzy, scatterbrained reputation. She did her job. And did it well. She’d fooled even her closest friends, those who didn’t know about her role as a POLOS and didn’t guess the half of it. Those who thought she slut-flitted around the world searching for mischief, adventure and, most of all, pleasure, like some sort of fickle, commitment-shy, well, yeah sure, okay, will o’the wisp.

IN FROM THE COLD...coming soon!

So thrilled and excited to announce I signed a contract yesterday for IN FROM THE COLD, my latest Sleepy Hollow 1Night Stand for Decadent Publishing.

The hero is Spook Raines, who is the long lost twin brother of Bhyrne Raines, the hero of HEAT WAVE, and the cousin of Max Raines, the hero of FROST! 

He's a burnt-out spy.  And he doesn't know he's a fire-demon like the other Raines dudes!

The heroine is Geneviève Mortimer, a will o' the wisp, and demon hunter. She is a friend of Veronica Hardwicke's (the heroine of THUNDER).

When Madame Eve gets them together...the sparks fly!

Here's a sneak peek:

 Geneviève Mortimer crept down the quiet hotel hallway, careful to bank her glow…at least for the moment. She sensed the presence of a demon on the floor, but something seemed off about the male’s aura. A weird lack of evil, as if an impenetrable force field surrounded his consciousness, his psyche. As if he thought he were… human.

Had he been brainwashed? Drugged? Raised by gypsies? By wolves? Wait. No. Scratch that last one. She didn’t get the "were" vibe at all with this one.

No matter, as a will o’the wisp and a Protector of the Legion of Shadows tasked with watching over humankind and keeping the unwary safe from visitors from the demon realms to the human plane, she lured the black-souled to their demise. Going all shine-a-light and sparkly until they fell under her spell and followed her anywhere. She needed to find this guy. Pounce first, beam a little hypnotic wattage, ask questions later. Take him out before he did any harm. To humans. Or innocents like her parents.

She sniffed. Getting warmer. Closer to the demon’s room. What would she find behind his door?

A little FROST for your pumpkins...

Let's visit with the super sexy HOT-tastic Max Raines today...just...because...

Everyone needs a hunky fire-sex demon in their lives, don't you think?

 Chapter Two

“You must come in, sir.”

Max Raines stared at his canvas through narrowed eyes, not quite absorbing the words of his majordomo. Fever clouded his head; his body temperature spiking off the charts. Desperate for release, he stood, legs apart, atop the windswept bluff comprising the only wall-less boundary of his compound in Sleepy Hollow. Below, the green waters of the Hudson boiled. The stark cliffs of the Palisades, fringed with ragged trees, rose with dark majesty from the banks on the other side of the river, to the west and south, jutting into cloud-filled heavens. An ominous gray sky seemed low enough to touch. He couldn’t capture any of it. Not in any way that satisfied him.

“Damn it. Still not right.” A gust swirled the tails of his paint-spattered linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his biceps, in a manner more suited to the dog days of August than the chill gloom of February.

“You haven’t eaten in two days. And the wind’s kicking up. Nor’easter brewing.” Bryce Blackburn put more iron insistence into his words this time. “Time to call it a day.”

Max tore his gaze away from the unacceptable painting at last. Irritated, he tossed his brush, a No. 10 bright, the hog bristles thick with cadmium green, onto the palette. Only the unfinished landscape stood between the predatory beast pacing with increasing agitation inside him and the rest of the world. His muse had deserted him.

“You picked a fuckin’ fine time to leave me, Lucille.”

Christ. Channeling Kenny Rogers? Who’s next, Justin Bieber?

Instead, the hard-driving intro of the Stones’ classic, “Satisfaction,” popped into his head. The unwelcome earworm taunted him. Yeah. He couldn’t get no. That’s for fuckin’ sure.

Raines dragged a finger around his collar, popping open the top button. If he couldn’t achieve release soon, he’d go mad. Jacking off into his fist gave him insufficient gratification. Human women proved too delicate and fragile, too breakable. Demons glommed onto him, far too needy, attaching themselves with the tenacity of barnacles, draining him of inspiration and clinging long past their expiration dates. He’d learned from bitter experience he could crisp any woman he touched. The infamous Maxwell Raines: a six-foot-six, two hundred twenty-five pound hunka burning love. And now I’m channeling Elvis.

Odd, all things considered. Usually he exhibited no more of a musical bent than he did humor. And in light of the bland landscape he’d committed to canvas, he had nothing to be whimsical about.

His heat, his ardor, his raging libido—all of them had to be expelled from his head and his body and poured into his work. But the painting before him remained flat, emotionless, devoid of his usual sensuality and passion, further frustrating him but offering no relief from the devils that plagued him and the sexual beast that howled within.

Standing patiently beside him, Blackburn shifted from foot to foot, clearly aware of his inner turmoil. The majordomo stamped his boots on the frost-glazed lawn and blew on his knuckles. At least one of them couldn’t get warm enough.

Without Blackburn, he’d be a total recluse. But the other man had been with him for years, knew his secrets, his needs, served him in every capacity from butler to valet to nanny. More family member than servant. He even acted as manager and art agent, most recently arranging the exhibit at the Night Gallery.

Now, he held out his employer’s overcoat, a muffler and a pair of leather gloves. Max turned to face him and met the other man’s eyes full on.

Blackburn whistled, but had the good grace not to recoil. “They’re red.”

“Can’t cool down.”

“Not a good sign.” Blackburn removed one of his own gloves and touched Raines’ bare forearm, then drew back as if his fingers had been singed. “Fever again.”

“Through the fucking stratosphere.” He brushed his hand through his hair.

“You’re getting worse, Max.”

Raines acknowledged the other man’s statement by packing up the art supplies. He hoisted the easel onto his shoulder. “Mind carrying my coat?”

“I’d carry you if I thought that would help.” Though no 90-pound weakling himself, no one would mistake Blackburn for The Incredible Hulk either. The smaller, slighter man eyed his employer up and down, craning his head to do so. Raines had at least half a foot on him and a lot of muscular poundage. “But I doubt I could without my knees buckling.” He stuffed Raines’ gloves in a jacket pocket. “There’s still some decent light in the studio…if you must keep at it.”

Max snorted but didn’t reply.

“The painting’s not helping?”

“Not going well.” He shifted the easel to a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

Blackburn opened his mouth then shut it again. But they knew each other too well. He considered his assistant a friend.

“Spit it out, man.”

The majordomo frowned. “You realize the paintings are getting darker and darker? More—”

“Demonic?”

“I was going to say sexual.”

“Same thing in my case, isn’t it?”

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Sunday Sizzle 5-5-13

Happy Cinco de Mayo, campers!

Tequila shots all around.

Here's un poco de muy caliente (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's wrong) from my WIP, HEAT WAVE:

Bhyrne faced the wall and stared at the striking portrait of Dagney to distract himself from his mesmerized contemplation of Zena. The two succubi sisters looked nothing alike, but his examination of Max’s fine work did not help dispel his sudden obsession.
 

He blinked and sucked air back into his lungs, struggling to maintain control of the throbbing elevator below his belt before it left the lobby and zoomed straight up to the penthouse.
 

This. Was. So. Not. Good.
 

He made a show of inspecting the various decanters and bottles on the silver tray. Then selected the Lalique Macallan again and poured himself another. A stiff one.

           Bad choice of words there, Raines, all things considered.