Finding Me

Michele Hauf created this wonderful cover, and it gave me the idea for a YA novel about two sisters estranged over their father’s suicide. Later, this became the second of a duet.

Here’s a short excerpt:

Chapter One

Izzy

Two years later

Nine in the morning, and I’ve already fought with my morose brother—who refuses to get up for school—made excuses to the sympathetic secretary at said school and burnt the toast. I’m on a roll.

Opening the window to let the stench escape, I scrape the black bits off the bread, slather on honey to mask the taste, reach for a much-needed cup of Arabica coffee from my one extravagance, a state-of-the-art espresso machine, and sit on a rickety chair at our vintage chrome table to stare at the manila folder I’d received in the mail. It looks intimidating, that folder. The fate of our tiny family resides within its sealed folds and scares me worse than the stack of unpaid bills lying next to it. Mom isn’t even cold in her grave yet and the vultures are circling. With spring break just ending and the loss of our mother, the school is trying to be lenient but truthfully, Ben has been truant for half the year, it’s no wonder they’re prepared to take the next step and remove him to foster care until a permanent home can be found. And even though I know it would probably be best for him, he’s my brother, dammit, and I’m not giving him up without a fight, which means catching up on the backlog of bills and cleaning this place up. We’ve already been through one social services visit with less than positive results; I can’t let it happen again.

I rub deep furrows carved into my forehead and stare at the ugly, flowered wallpaper in front of me. The roses are velveteen in shades of burgundy and cream, with thorn-covered vines winding their way across the paper like barbwire on top of a prison fence. Mom argued with Dad for weeks before he finally relented and let her hang the stuff but refused to help. That was Dad; everything had to go his way, or he pouted. Like Renée. They were two peas in a pod, and I was the starchy potato—or so Mom said. She was right, too. I know I always felt like the awkward third to their father-daughter duo. Maybe that’s why I grabbed onto Benjamin when he came along—someone just for me.

A vehicle pulls up in front of the house, its muffler chugging through the open kitchen window. My stomach rolls, and it’s not from the toast. We’d been warned there could be surprise visits, as though they expect me to sell drugs out the back door or something, but this is ridiculous.

Jumping up, I gather my dishes and the mail, brush away crumbs, and hurry toward the sink, yelling at Ben to get out of bed along the way, then cringe because if I could hear them pulling up, they could most certainly hear me. There’s no time, so I set the folder and mail on the back of the counter and lean to look out the window to see if it’s the same no-nonsense woman that came before. Instead, a familiar blond head emerges from a beat-up-looking SUV and my plate clatters into the sink from suddenly nerveless fingers.

My sister is here.

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Penalty Box

I’m also working on the third in the Men of WarHawks series, which follows the lives of a NHL hockey team. This is a romantic suspense series with plenty of pulse-pounding action!

Here’s a short excerpt from Penalty Box

Chapter One

The black and gray WarHawks jerseys in front of Cole were a beacon of hope in a sea of blue and white. If they could protect the net for… he glanced up at the timer, 28 more seconds, they would win against their most formidable team yet and have a real chance at the cup.

He needed that chance.

“Tighten up, boys, here they come.” He smacked his stick against the ice, warning his men a penalty was ending and to prepare for war. Lazlo was on his left, Coop on the right. He couldn’t ask for a better dream team than those two. Coop’s backward passes were the stuff of legend, and Lazlo was a hulking enforcer on the ice—no one wanted to tangle with that guy.

Donaldson skimmed the wall, coming out just in front of the puck, thwarting the other team’s play as their center jumped over the box and rejoined the game. Fresh from his penalty, he dug in, swooped the puck out of Donaldson’s reach, and slapped it across the ice to his teammate waiting in the wings. The swish of skates and roar of an excited crowd, the whack of carbon fiber sticks, and thickly padded bodies colliding faded into a blur as Cole focused on the puck and only the puck.

“Come to Daddy, sweet thing. I’ve got you,” he whispered as the vulcanized rubber sphere danced between legs and gravitated toward his open glove.

But then, just as Cole stretched to grab his prize, a flash of blue and white warned him too late to stop the bar down as a slapshot hit the top of the net and slid into home, costing them the game. The crowd went wild, throwing hats, flowers, stuffed bears, and even a bra or three onto the ice while the other team swarmed together for a freaking lovefest.

Cole straightened and turned his back on all of it to yank his mask and gloves off, throwing them on top of the net. He’d fucked up, there was no getting around it, and the taste was bitter.

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Twisted Sister

I love the romantic suspense genre and Navy SEALs (who doesn’t? :)) and wanted to combine the two with another favorite, motorcycle clubs.

The premise of this story is that a woman disappears and her shy, geeky sister seeks help from the only man she thinks will be invested in her case- Reed McLaughlin.

Excerpt:

Emma Stone knew the moment she entered the Twisted Sister it was a mistake. The biker bar was as rough on the inside as it was intimidating on the outside. If she weren’t so desperate she would’ve turned around and gone home the moment she saw the long line of bikes parked in front of the dilapidated building.

The noise from cheap speakers pumped way higher than their tweeters could take competed with rowdy laughter, the slap of pool cues striking balls, and the stench of unwashed bodies blending with spilled beer.

Em stood just inside the doorway, blinking like a lost owl. The scene in front of her bemused eyes was like something out of one of those thriller novels her sister enjoyed. She prayed Rose hadn’t ended up like one of those victims.

A burly guy in a leather vest covered in badges bumped into her, almost knocking her out with his breath. Hope he didn’t plan on driving.

“Well, looky here,” he slurred. “Aren’t you in the wrong church, sister?” He stuck his head back and roared, thoroughly amused at his obvious wit. Emma ducked her head and wished herself back home curled up on the sofa with her tortoiseshell cat, Thomas. He slung a beefy arm around her neck and tugged her under his armpit. “Sugar, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Emma’s heart beat frantically as she pushed ineffectually against his chest. “Let me go. I need to find a man.” The words barely left her lips before she cringed.

He grinned down at her with teeth stained from tobacco and Lord knows what else. “Lucky you, you found one.” His moist lips puckered and his head lowered and Emma did the only thing she could—lifted her knee and caught him square between the legs.

His arms loosened, his face turned an alarming shade of green, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Emma was feeling a little woozy herself. She’d seen it done on TV, but the women there stood over their fallen assailants with satisfied expressions and handcuffs. She had no cuffs and was terrified. What if his friends noticed? They’d probably shoot her on the spot.

A quick glance around showed her no one was paying them any attention. Relieved, she edged around the groaning mound and inched her way through the crowd up to the bar. A busty brunette in a too-short jean skirt and a black t-shirt with the words, I Really Feel Like Going for A Ride, emblazoned across her chest gave Emma the onceover before grabbing a couple of longneck bottles of beer dripping condensation from the counter.

“You’re in the wrong bar, honey,” she muttered, slipping off the high stool. “You better leave—while you can.” She sauntered over to a table in the corner. Emma could just make out a set of masculine jean clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The moment the woman got within range, arms, one covered in a sleeve of tattoos, reached out and tugged her onto his lap. She shrieked, but not in fear as Emma had done. This was more of a hello, baby, proven when she buried her lips against the stranger’s neck.

Embarrassed, Em turned away. It wasn’t that she was a prude, it’s just that there was a time and a place and public displays were neither. In her opinion romantic encounters belonged behind closed doors. Some people—her ex-boyfriend for one—would say it was an antiquated ideal, and maybe they were right. But, there weren’t half as many divorces in the days of courtship as there was now with the modern generation’s loose morals.

It took forever before the bartender noticed her. He made sure everyone was happy then worked his way down, laughing and chatting with the locals. He wiped his hands on a surprisingly white apron tied around a lean waist and leaned an elbow on the counter, arm bunching with impressive muscle. His bald head and a gold hoop dangling from his ear gleamed under the fluorescents. A tattoo of an eagle’s talons peeked out from the arm of his shirt.

Emma gulped.

“What’ll ya have?” he asked, eyeing her like she was an anomaly. Which she probably was, around here anyway.

“I’m, ah… looking for someone. Reed McLaughlin.” Emma caught the quick glance over her shoulder. She turned, but no one was there. “Do you know him?” she asked, not sure why the name would elicit that suspicious look she was now receiving from the previously friendly bartender.

“Maybe. What do you want him for?” He straightened and crossed his arms over a rock hard chest.

This was such a bad idea.

“I have a proposition,” she whispered.

He cocked his head. The earring flashed, mocking her. “Speak up, missy. This is a bar, and I can’t hear on the best of days.”

Emma twisted her hands, then grabbed deep for some courage. “I said, I have a proposition for Mr. McLaughlin.” The words rang loud and clear into the silence between one song and the next ear-splitting tune.

Someone laughed, and then the catcalls and wolf whistles began. Emma groaned, her face flaming as only a redhead’s could. She looked to the barkeeper for help, but his face was stoic. Despair brought a tear that she wiped viciously away. These people didn’t need to see her misery. No one cared.

She swung around to blindly head for the door, and practically rammed her nose into a man’s chest. Her distraught gaze climbed to an uncompromising jaw, firm, yet supple lips—her heart fluttered—a nose with a slight bump on the side like it had been broken at one time, and eyes that glittered almost black in this lighting.

Her knees gave out, but before she could slide to the ground in an ignominious heap a firm male hand gripped her arm and held her upright.

“My place or yours?” A voice like a cat’s contented purr rumbled in her ear.

So there really was a devil, and he was in Cincinnati.

Stay tuned!