My Favorite Hero

I’m back in town and this time I’m here to stay.

So who am I, you ask?

I’m Jack Campbell.

… fire fighter.

… newly-appointed Captain of the Dustin Country Fire Brigade.

and husband of Dr Elizabeth Campbell.

I’ve made mistakes, hurt the person I love most in the world… in short, I’ve been a damned idiot. But now I’m home for good to put things right.

How did I get to this point?

Just when you think you know what you want, when you’ve got your life mapped out, fate has a way of lobbing a burning ember into a pile of dry gum leaves.

The issue of having children was the ember that incinerated my marriage to Liz.

Something really strange happened today. I met a woman who told me too many yes- women make Nash a spoilt boy.

I think I’m in love!

Her name’s Maggie. I’ve nick-named her Maggie May – can you believe I actually heard Rod Stewart singing in my head!

And when she told me I should be playing with girls my own age, I just knew I had to have her. I’ve never had a woman play hard to get. She has no idea how much that makes me want her more!

See, women love me. I suppose that makes me kind of conceited but its just the way it’s always been. Growing up in the outback, the only boy in a family full of females, I guess I learnt really early how to twist them around my little finger. And then I became a doctor and moved to the city and there are so many women here. Man! It’s a veritable feast. And if there’s one thing those city girls love, it’s a country boy. Throw in a medical degree and they’re all over you. Especially when you don’t conform to the conventional city doctor type.

Me, I prefer my Levis and open necked shirts to trousers and neckties. I like to wear my hair a little longer and take the time to get to know people. It’s the outback way.

Women dig that.

Except Maggie.

Gideon smiled as he strode through A and E on his way off-duty, completely unconcerned whether he looked like an idiot.

‘You’re looking particularly pleased with yourself, Doc,’ commented one of the security guards. ‘Had a win on the lottery?’

‘Better than that,’ he said, and realised he’d become the stereotypical expectant father when he reached for his wallet and extracted the latest ultrasound images. ‘Look at the two of them… both hearts beating strongly and everything exactly as it should be. That one’s the girl and that one’s the boy.’

‘Sorry, Doc, but that looks like some sort of modern art seen in the fog during a power cut,’ he apologised. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of those scan things.’

‘Well, just take it from me that they’re perfect… absolutely perfect,’ Gideon told him and continued on his way.

An elderly patient, obviously well-accustomed to the fact that she might have to wait several hours to be seen, was calmly sitting in Reception, knitting something small and lacy. Charmed by her industriousness, he threw her a wink and was delighted when she returned it, her cheeks suddenly several shades pinker at her own daring.

She was definitely the sort of person he would choose for a grandmother for his children, he thought with a pang for the sheer lack of family that were waiting to greet those two little people.

My life was a straight arrow… graduated first in my class, youngest emergency care specialist ever appointed in Australia, a fantastic job that defined me and plenty of beautiful women to date once or perhaps three times max. Don’t get me wrong, relationships suit some people but marriage and children, they’re not for me. I’m city boy going places So why am I 400 miles from the big smoke, growing organic vegetables in Port Bathurst, a sleepy seaside town ringed on three sides by hills covered in towering eucalypts and by turquoise blue ocean on the other?

Life throws a curve ball every now and then and mine came hard, fast and slugged me with the biggest challenge of my life. Cancer. I’ve fought it and I’ve won but anyone who’s been through chemo knows that ‘wading through mud’ feeling that drags at you and I’m here to have six months just for me. Six months to get well in a place where no one knows me, no one knows what I’ve been though, and no one looks at me with that look of ‘is he really OK?’ Six months just to be Nick Dennison, vegetable farmer before I step back into my real life again. At least I think that’s what I want.

That was the plan anyway.

Dear Natalie,

Despite the fact you keep ignoring all my attempts at gaining your forgiveness, I know you haven't forgotten the amazing weekend we met any more than I have.  Yes, I screwed up that weekend in Atlanta during the 3 day breast cancer walk where we both volunteered as part of the medical crew.  But you have to understand; when I met you, you took my breath away and I just wanted to be me.  Not a widower who'd lost his first love to breast cancer, not a single father struggling to be both mother and father to his five year old daughter.  I didn't want the desire in your eyes replaced with sympathy, and let's face it, women look at men who are fathers in a different light than men who are single and carefree.  That weekend I wanted to be single and carefree.  I wanted you to keep looking at me as if I was the sexiest man alive.  That weekend with you left me feeling whole for the first time in years.  You make me whole again, Natalie, something I'd thought impossible after Jamie's death.

I thought of my Da the first time I died. Even though my father had already been gone for nearly a dozen years, his face had been in my mind as old man Winchcombe had sucked the life out of me.

In those short seconds that seemed to pass like hours, I had wondered if Da would have been proud of me. If he would have understood the sacrifice I had made by going to the old man for the coin that had kept food on the family table.

I remembered that as the vision of my father’s face faded, it had been replaced in my blood-starved mind by that of Ma and my younger siblings. Bryan who had tried to be a man far too soon. William and Edward, the twins that Da had not lived to see thanks to the coal mining accident that had taken his life. My sisters, so sweet and innocent.

I hope my sisters had kept their innocence far longer than I had. Much longer than Meghan had, I thought, recalling the night I had taken her and forever changed her life.

Meghan, I thought as I stumbled along the hallway, wobbly from blood loss. I wondered if she could ever truly forgive me. If I could ever really forgive myself for the life I had led since becoming undead.

Jake Tyler here. This sucks. They want me to volunteer AGAIN? For a second go around at time travel? Last time Professor Carswell tried to use that alien head band, she lost twelve good men and women trying to figure out how it worked. Courageous military people who volunteered for Project Anasazi were lost. I was one of the lucky ones: I came back--and then walked away from the crazy project. The general assures me that Carswell has perfected the head piece the Army discovered at the Roswell UFO Incident back in 1947. Like I believe that? Do I want to be a volunteer a second time around? I’ve done two tours in Afghanistan. If I take this invite, I don’t have to rotate back to the front for a third time. But what’s worse? Getting shot at by Taliban or ending up in a time travel screw up, lost forever and now way to get home?

Yo, Sentinels.  You reading this?  Here's
the deal:

Get over yourselves.

And if you're hung up on just who's saying this...

Well, get over that, too.

Two thousand years.

That's how long we've been doing this thing, more or less.  You'd think we could have gotten it right by now.

The air is brisk tonight. Fall is my favorite season. The grass crunches underfoot, laced with frost. Tree branches tangle in wicked design against the moon, high in the sky. Small animals are gathering the last bits of food and warmth as they burrow in for winter.

I crouch at the base of an ancient oak, my senses honed to the jack rabbit nibbling a bit of wild cabbage fifty yards off. I wear only jeans, because the shift will destroy all clothing on my body.

Thoughts return to my home, down the hill and just beyond a thin strip of maple trees. I can see the fuzzy yellow glow of light in the bedroom from here. The shadow of a woman moves about.

“Bella,” I whisper, savoring her name. Happiness is mine in those two syllables. Her name is music. It is the only song I need.

I’ve been asked to write a bit about myself for those who are interested. I…don’t do the computer thing. And really, you mortals have a strange obsession with those unlike yourselves. Some even think us romantic. I am the farthest thing from silly love letters and roses.

Dear Emily,

I’ve never written a love letter before. Ah, hell, I seldom write anything. This is really hard for me. I’m an immortal werewolf who can crush cars by directing a single energy blast at them, but this writing thing… whoa. I’ll probably never send this letter, so here goes. What do I have to lose?

I know you don’t fully trust me yet. I understand. That day you came to the farmhouse to see me pull up on the Harley, I can only imagine how you felt. You knew your pack had sent for me to end your life. I’d be terrified as well, and totally mistrustful. But I wanted to let you know, chere, I’m not the enemy. Not yours. We’re in a really tough situation, you and I, but don’t lose hope. I’m going to find a way to save you, no matter what it takes.

You’ve been alone far too long. Feels like the world is against you, doesn’t it? They say everyone you touch dies. Well, chere, I’m immortal. You can touch me and I won’t die. I won’t abandon you, either, no matter what. We’re in this together.

Okay. Bear with me. I’m new at this blog thing, but Deb and Char both said I had to do it. So, I’ll start with the facts. Just the facts, ma’am. (My dad used to pass out while watching old black-and-white television show re-runs when I was a kid.)

Anyway, basically, I’m just a guy doing my best to make sense of this crazy thing we call life. I’m mid-way through my fourth decade (I’m thirty-five. You do the math.) The first was pretty mixed up thanks to my crazy parents. Mom and Dad loved each other in a can’t-live-with-him/her, can’t-kill-‘em sort of way. Once they divorced, Mom remarried a decent, stable, salt-of-the-earth Oklahoma backhoe driver with two kids. I never fit in one hundred percent, but since I’d spend my summers with my paternal grandparents on the Lower Brule Indian Reservation in South Dakota, I couldn’t really blame my step-family for shutting me out.

Sent from the BlackBerry of Tyler Warrington: R u there yet?

Sent from the BlackBerry of Jake Warrington: Yes

Tyler: Right place?

Jake: Yep, unless 50 reporters are lost too

Tyler: Ouch – poor Sabrina

(brief delay)
Jake: She’ll come out of this just fine – she always does

Tyler: Goes to show how much u know women

Jake: Like u r an expert

Tyler: Duh!

The name is Wyatt Keene. I’m thirty. I live in Austin, Texas. I’m not used to baring my soul to strangers, but I have a few things to work out in my professional and personal life. This blogging arena seems like an okay way to get a few things off my chest.

I own a full service photography studio that’s been closed almost a year, ever since my partner, my wife, Angela, died tragically. She was two months pregnant–with our first.

This is harder than I thought. See, the studio was really Angela’s bailiwick. Before we invested in buying a building and equipment, my primary area of expertise was shooting action photos of sport’s teams that I freelanced to local newspapers. I really liked doing that, but as Angela pointed out with regularity, it wasn’t steady income. Once we opened the studio I scaled back freelancing. Instead I got gigs with schools to do still-life photos of their sport teams for yearbooks. To a lesser degree I also do outdoor and animal photography–for farmers who sell their stock through trade magazines. Doing that freed me up to mat and frame Angela’s portrait and wedding work, which was the bulk of our business. But, in an instant that was all gone. She was gone.

Have you ever opened your eyes in the morning, stared up at the ceiling and wondered if you’re totally crazy? I’ve done that a couple times lately. No, to be honest I’ve done it every single day for the last month, ever since I went on a trip to Niger with Doctors Without Borders and came home with a kid I can’t even understand. Simon’s uncle was my interpreter and when the man sacrificed himself to save me, what else could I do but grant his last request to adopt nephew and raise the kid as my own? I wouldn’t be breathing otherwise.

But now I’m home in Beauty, Tennessee, with five year old Simon, and struggling to make sense of it all. Fatherhood? Gotta tell you, I’m not sure it’s for me. I thought it would be easy. I thought all Simon would need is a little supervision, food, clothes. You know, the basics. I wasn’t counting on the bad dreams, the lack of communication skills or the fact that I would receive a promotion upon my return that would fling my already hectic, overscheduled life into overdrive. It’s like you can have a life or career, but you can’t have both.

I want both.

I was born a cowboy. That might sound glamorous to some, but when you grow up on a two-bit ranch with paint peeling from the barn and a house that’s not muchmore than a shoebox with a bath, reality has nothing to do with glamour. From the time I was small, I remember my mother pointing out “proper” ranches. You know the ones. Mansions grand enough to suit a head of state. Thousands of head of cattle and the best horseflesh around. And most extravagant of all, miles of white board fence and plenty of hands to keep it painted and pretty.

But that was far from my reality.

In high school, I took my second stab at glamour when I tried out for the football team. I had a good arm. Natural leader, Coach said. What I didn’t have was a daddy with connections. Hell, I didn’t have a father at all. So although I made quarterback, I ended up second string, sitting on the bench watching our team take the Texas State Championship. Sure, I’m in the team photo, sitting in the front row, big grin on my face. But the trophy never felt much like it belonged to me.

6:15 AM August 24

Just finished my morning run. Though it was muggy, it’s always a good thing when August blesses the Four Corners with rain. Last night, only lightning reached the ground - an omen of some kind, maybe. If I had time, I’d search for the site of the strikes. Wood struck by lightning is powerful medicine.

I have to be brief in this entry because I’ll be leaving within the hour for my next assignment - this time in the city. The Blackening ceremony my father performed last night will be my best defense against what lies ahead. Our contact in the Albuquerque Police Department has reported signs of a skinwalker and that’s why I was chosen to take part in this investigation. I’m the son of a respected hataalii, a medicine man, as well as a Navajo Tribal Police detective. I know how to defeat evil of this kind.

Skinwalkers - the name conjures fear on the Navajo Indian Reservation in New Mexico. Now it looks like a Navajo witch is operating outside the Dinétah, the land of the Navajo People, hunting down young women in Albuquerque.

My name is Police Chief John Wise. I work in a little Podunk town in north Georgia where the biggest crime so far has been the theft of a bunch of kids’ dolls. So instead of the sophisticated, classy, brilliant crime investigator I want to be, a man primed for politics, I’m a laughingstock of the town.

Determined to make a name and future for myself, I have no time for romance or a family. Although an occasional woman is the norm. But none of them have tempted me beyond one night.

The only thing I want to do is to get out of town and follow in my father’s footsteps.

But then this stubborn tenacious, tomboy Samantha Corley, who I’ve known all my life, calls me and she’s in trouble. No surprise. The damn fool woman is a guardian ad litem for kids in need, and constantly goes up against hardened criminals, child abusers and such.

My name is Marcus Abbot. I grew up on a ranch and the love of ranching branded me early on. It shaped me into the man I became. And I guess those early years participating in the rodeo probably instilled my craving for danger and excitement. At any rate, I knew I had to get out and experience the world before I settled down. But I always planned to have a ranch of my own one day.

In the meantime, I joined the military and became a Navy SEAL. It was the best decision I ever made. I loved the work and being part of a team of men for whom failure was never an option. I thrived on the danger and the challenges and I was good at what I did. My commanding officer claimed I had the soul of a warrior and the heart of a cowboy. I never backed away from an operation.

Women, on the other hand, scare me. Not that I don't appreciate their finer points and enjoy their company. After all, I am a hot-blooded male. It's just that I know my limitations, and keeping a relationship going for the long haul just isn't in me.

Captivity. Again. But where and when?

Disjointed thoughts swirl through my head, and I can capture none of them. I hear a woman crying. Who is she? Does she weep for me? I try to grab a memory. Then it slips away, and I want to scream in frustration. But I cannot speak. Cannot move. Cannot even open my eyes. And my body is on fire.

I fight the agonizing pain in every cell of my body, praying for death. But death has been denied me many times. Again, I try to remember how I got here. Do the Franciscans have me in the cellars below the abbey, confined because they think I’m in league with the devil? No, that can’t be true. I escaped from the monks long ago.

Has the Doge of Venice arrested me for shipping treasures out of his city-state? But didn’t I bribe my way out of his prison? Then who holds me captive? Am I in the clutches of the Nazis–because they think I’m spying for the Allied forces? No, I remember escaping from their transport van in a hail of bullets. They left me for dead by the side of the road.

So where am I now?

When you’re the heir to the throne, everything you do is shaped by duty – and that includes getting married.

In Harrat Salma, arranged marriages are the norm. Even though I’d spent ten years living in England, I thought it was a sensible way of doing things, because the statistics really aren’t on the side of love. Almost two out of three marriages end in divorce, because people mistake lust and infatuation for the real thing – and when that dies, the marriage dies with it because there’s nothing left to support it. For me, as heir to the throne, divorce is out of the question, so I knew I couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Marriage for me would be a business arrangement. It’s about having similar expectations, working together towards the same end. It’s about trust and respect and honour – and the affection will grow afterwards, just as it did for my parents. I had great role models.

But then I met Lily.

I wasn’t always this way. Does that sound like an excuse? Perhaps it is. Yet I tell you, when I first met Lucy, I was strong. Whole. I was healthy, confident, sure of myself. I admit, I might have come across as a bit arrogant—yet I had reasons to act so. Now that those reasons have been taken from me, I can only look back at the man I was, shake my head, and sigh. It is, I confess, a sorrowful sound.

To be Khaled once more, just Khaled, the rugby star, the golden one. There was a time when the entire world seemed open to me, when all was possible. Nothing was beyond my reach or desire. And I took it all—I accepted it as my due. Yes, perhaps I was indeed arrogant, for I know now not to expect anything. If you work for something, if you fight for it tooth and claw, it can still be taken from you. My father showed me that when I was a boy—a lesson I obviously forgot, but I remember it well enough now.

I remember too the first time I saw Lucy. It was across a crowded room—isn’t it always!-yet in this case it was a men’s locker room.

They call me a corporate raider. My detractors and peers alike say I am as ruthless and unforgiving as my ancestors who sailed the seas a century ago. Some consider those less than desirable traits. They are necessary assets in my business.

You see, I am a very wealthy businessman – an entrepreneur who started from scratch and built a hotel empire with stealth and verve. The starships of my holdings are an exclusive resort on the French Rivera, an elegant hotel on St. Barthélémy, and a very private retreat on my own Caribbean island.

Petit St. Marc is paradise. My paradise -- the one place I call home. Unlike the gossips, I find it neither coincidence nor destiny that my forebears were pirates who sailed these waters a century ago. I did not set out to own this island or to live here.

I came to the Caribbean at the request of an ecologist friend who desperately wanted to protect a fragile coral reef that was in danger of being destroyed by developers. The best way to save the ecosystem was to buy the island so it would remain deserted. So I purchased it and turned it into the hidden retreat it is today.

It was the best decision I have ever made.

Hi, my name is Antonio Marcolini and I’ve been asked to tell you a little about myself. Right now I am not in the best frame of mind to talk to people. I am a public person by profession-I am a cosmetic/reconstructive surgeon and I travel the world introducing my techniques, but I like to keep my private life exactly that-private.

The thing is right now my private life is a mess and has been for five years. Why so long, you ask? It’s rather ironic as it is my job to fix other people’s lives and yet I have so far been unable to bring any sort of order to my own.

It all started when I went to my usual barber Riccardo in Rome to have my hair cut. He was busy so asked if I would mind if someone else did my hair for me. Most of the time my head is beneath a surgical cap so I kind of figured if it didn’t turn out to be the best trim in the world, what was there to lose?

TV INTERVIEW WITH PRINCE ALEXANDROS KAREDES
For Sophisticated Traveler Magazine

Sophisticated Traveler: Today, we’re incredibly lucky to be meeting with Prince Alexandros of the Royal House of Karedes. Thank you for making time for us, Your Highness.

Alexandros: It’s my pleasure. I’m always happy to spend time talking about my country’s many assets.

ST: The island of Aristo is a beautiful place. Sun, sand, those amazing high cliffs… It’s a Mediterranean paradise—thanks, in no small part, to you!

Alexandros (smiling): Well, I can’t take credit for all that…

ST: Such modesty, sir! Aren’t you the man who’s brought six star hotels, upscale shops that rival New York’s, and booming industry to your island?

Alexandros: Each of my brothers plays a role in ensuring our kingdom’s progress.

ST: Truly a modest response! But you’re known for other things, too.

Tanya Michaels has been working on a “Four Seasons in Mistletoe” series for Harlequin American Romance and most of the heroes in the miniseries are men who grew up in the small town of Mistletoe, Georgia. But this August, she’s introducing an “outsider,” Dr. Adam Varner, a single father on summer vacation with his three children.  Meeting town pet-sitter Brenna Pierce will change all of the Varners’ lives forever. 

Here’s what Adam himself has to say about the first day of his trip: 

I survived the MCAT, years of med school, interning, surgical residency, performing cardiopulmonary bypasses—none of those were as difficult as the road trip today from Tennessee to Mistletoe, Georgia with three kids!

Can you prescribe some advice?

If there’s anybody who should understand women and babies, it’s me, Luke Van Dam. Add these up: four years premed, four years of medical school and a four-year residency in obstetrics-gynecology. Plus I’ve been practicing for nearly five years. That’s – ouch – seventeen years.

Number of babies delivered: several thousand. Plus uncounted office visits and hundreds of surgeries to help women enjoy healthier lives. I not only keep up with the latest medical advances, I do my best to really listen to my patients.

So you’d think that by the age of 35 I’d have chalked up a happy marriage and a blissful relationship with my daughter. Well, the marriage literally dropped off the charts – my ex-wife’s a singer who puts her career above all else  – and since seven-year-old Zoey came to live with me, I’ve entered a whole new world. A world where we both crave potato chips but eat salads and fruit. A world where she throws temper tantrums that I don’t understand.

McDaniel Manufacturing Internal Memo
From Chase McDaniel
June 2009

To all employees and staff--

Don't believe what you hear. I, Chase McDaniel, corporate vice president and heir apparent, am not happy with my grandfather’s newest idea—to force me on a one-year sabbatical and replace me with Miranda Craig. We all know my eighty-year-old grandfather Leroy McDaniel comes up with some wild and crazy ideas, but this isn't one I’m thrilled about. Hardly. I think it’s his worst one yet.

Sure, he thinks this sabbatical will give me time to find myself. But I’m 35. I already know who I am, and I'm not a playboy, at least like I was in my twenties. Don’t get me wrong. I like women. But I’ve already grown up. I’m not out there dating just anyone. I'm holding out for Ms. Right. I want a lifetime love like my parents had, and I’m not afraid to admit it. If I can’t find it, I’m not settling. One truth everyone knows about me is that I refuse to settle.

When Harlequin invited me to blog on their site, I figured they had the wrong guy. First off, I’m not even sure what a blog is. And what would a Miami street kid like me, Aaron Brody, know about romance? Hell, I’ve never even read a romance novel. Although I got busted when I was sixteen for stealing one along with a box of Wheat Thins, a chunk of cheese, and a bottle of Motrin. Okay, before you start with the wisecracks, the book was for my mom. She was dying and I did whatever it took to make her comfortable and her life less sucky, you know. She wasn’t able to work anymore and we were broke. I’d dropped out of school and started working as a gofer on Whistler’s scuba boat, The Free Wind. I barely earned enough to pay for a one room walkup so I had to steal whatever else she needed.

See, she was sixteen when I was born and we sort of raised each other. She sometimes worked two jobs cleaning hotel rooms so I was on my own a lot. By the time I was in grade school, I was running the back streets of Miami. We lived in pretty much every seedy apartment in south Miami at one time or another, some of ‘em twice.

My name is Jake Fitzgerald. I'm a champion bull rider. Folks around No Chance, Texas, would probably say that I'm a loner, but it's not true—I never get a chance to be alone because the good people here never stay out of my business long enough for me to be alone. Erin O'Donovan, the local doctor, is the only person I can't get in my business enough.

Erin thinks of me as a friend or a big brother, and that's about it. My feelings toward Erin aren't brotherly at all. There are days when I think I'm going to go crazy wanting that little red-headed firecracker. Cowboy poetry doesn't begin to do justice to my feelings about her. Have the woman you love ask you if she can sleep in your bed while you're on the road, and see if you get any sleep. Better yet, find her tied up with a sack over her head in a horse stall and see if even whiskey can clean the rage out of your system.

Very carefully, Ned Milford maneuvered the large, paper-covered bundle through the door to his lodging house. Peering around the bulk of the thing, he'd nearly made it to the stairs when his landlady poked her head out of her door.

"Mr. Milford," she called. "There's another reporter here today."

Ned paused. "I am sorry Mrs. Doyle." His long-suffering landlady had been a tremendous help in the aftermath of the scandal. Prattle, the name under which he'd published scores of scathing caricatures, had made many enemies. When Ned's secret had been revealed he'd become the same sort of sensation that he'd helped so often to create. "I know they've been a trial to you, but soon enough they will tire of rehashing the story." He shifted his grip on his package. "And I'll be gone on our wedding trip soon enough. They'll learn to leave you alone."

Mrs. Doyle came fully out into the hall. "I let this one into your rooms."

Charlotte, the youngest Fitzmanning sister, has always been the "wild child" of the family-which is saying a great deal!  But she has always been very sure of one thing-she loves Lord Andrew Bassington, and is determined to show him they are perfect for each other, no matter what.  Now she and Drew are engaged, and he wants to give her the wedding of her dreams.  To that end, he has invited Madame Montcalm, top Society wedding planner, to Welbourne Manor.  She arrives for her consultation...

Madame:  "Ah, monsieur the Lord Andrew!  The most handsome bridegroom!  Such a lovely wedding I will plan for you, oui?  One all England will talk of for years to come!  Doves flying free at your first kiss.  Or perhaps butterflies?  Swags of roses and diamonds everywhere.  An orchestra from Vienna.  A crystal carriage for the bride to arrive in.  Five hundred guests.  Fifteen bridesmaids in puce satin...  (She snaps at her assistant, who leaps forward with a notebook)

Drew:  (looking in bewilderment at Madame's fruit-laden bonnet)  "Er, not entirely what I had in mind, Madame.

London, 1818

Gerald Brenner, Viscount Brenner, walked out of Coutt’s Bank, his head full of numbers, a frown on his face. He’d ring a peal over his father’s head. The cursed man had broken his promise and gambled on another investment scheme. Lost the money just when the estate had climbed out of debt. Brenner would wager this was retaliation on his father’s part.

“Brenner?”

He looked up. “By God, it is Allan Landon. How are you, Landon?” He had not seen Landon in years. Not since they’d been in school together. He thrust out his hand.

“It is devilish good to see you.” Landon shook Brenner’s hand enthusiastically. “Say, do you have some time? Let’s find a tavern and have a pint. I am eager to learn how life has been treating you.”

London — May, 1815

What man in his right mind would be a spy?

It was long after midnight. It should have been pitch black, for there was no moon. But fleeting patches of light from flambeaux or link-boys drew the eye, throwing the shadows into even deeper relief. The last carriage clattered across the cobbles, its flickering lamps soon swallowed up by the gloom. From the lurking darkness, low voices murmured, occasionally broken by a husky laugh and, once, a woman’s scream, quickly stifled.

The very walls were menacing. Covent Garden at this hour was no place for a lone man to linger.

Jack felt a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Would his contact arrive at all? He had no way of knowing. He leaned back against the cold stone and drove his hands deep into his pockets, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Such was the lot of a spy. Simply to wait.

I’m a cattleman, born and bred. Life is tough out here in Montana Territory, but it got a helluva lot tougher when my old man was murdered. Sutton Wells was a hard-hearted son-of-a-gun, but he loved me more than anything. Together, we built the Wells Cattle Company into the most powerful spread in the Territory, and we intended to keep it that way, even if it meant I had to marry a woman I didn’t love.

Not surprising a man as powerful as my father would have enemies, but damned if I knew who killed him. Worse, when my fiancée ran off in a snit, I had to head out after her. My life got a whole lot more complicated, too, when I found that herd of massacred sheep staining Wells land.

Now, there’s nothing more disgusting to a cattleman than sheep, and those woollies had no place being where they didn’t belong. And just when I thought my life couldn’t get any more complicated, she appeared. Zurina Vasco. With those black of eyes of hers sparking with hate for cattlemen and a whole wagonload of something else, too.

Location: Buenaventura, Colombia

A rustling sounded through the evening air and Xavier hesitated, standing outside the door to the simple, adobe house. He held up his hand, signaling his four men to wait. It might be something as innocuous as a dog scavenging for food, or it could be a FARC solider.

He and his men had just returned from the Colombian jungle where they'd rescued hostage Ando Carridad from FARC, otherwise known as the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia-Ejército del Pueblo. Once a resistance group, FARC had become corrupt over the years as the leaders sought power. Now, the rebel group was about money and intimidation and Xavier was about putting them out of business, one recue at a time.

The rustling sounded again and seconds later, a mangy dog trotted out from behind the house, barely glanced at them and kept going.

Anticlimactic but better than the alternative.

Hero: Cael McCabe, Terms of Attraction
Occupation: Security Specialist

Above all else, I’m a professional. So the first thing that impressed me about SWAT sniper Ava Carter was her shooting. Double shot, through glass, from eight hundred yards. Took out the would-be killer before he could assassinate my client. So yeah, I was grateful.

It would be hard not to be intrigued by her record. And when I got a look at the face behind the rifle, I’ll admit, gratitude turned to something else. The woman would look more at home on a runway than peering through a scope.

My first thought was I could use her on this job, protecting President Antonio de la Reyes of San Baltes.

Okay, so it was my second thought. But it was my first printable one.

Hi everyone!


Beth Cornelison here. I'd like to introduce you to Jonah Devereaux, the sexy ex-cop who is the hero of my June Silhouette Romantic Suspense release, TALL DARK DEFENDER (watch for it next month!). For those of you who read DUTY TO PROTECT (my SRS July 2008), you'll remember Annie, the young mother of two who had left her abusive husband. Well, TALL DARK DEFENDER is her book, her chance for Happily Ever After, and Jonah is her hero– although she was skeptical at first...

Well, I'll let Jonah tell you all about it. Jonah, give us the scoop about yourself and your relationship with Annie, please?

When author Linda Conrad begins any new book, she starts by developing the characters.  The following is an interview she conducted with Colin Fairfax, the alpha hero of the last book in her Safekeeper series IN SAFE HANDS.  Which only goes to show that authors tend to be a little wacky and sometimes ‘get into’ their stories waaay too much.

LC:   So, you're Major Colin Fairfax, recently retired from  Her Majesty's British Army Third Royal Tank Regiment.

Colin:  No response

LC:  Aren't you going to answer my questions so I can finish writing your story?

Colin:  Ask a question, love.  All you've done so far is make up my name and rank.

You've got to hand it to fate -- it goes straight for the jugular when you're down.  Good thing I know how to fight back.

I'm Luke Montgomery.  You probably know me as the owner of the Janus Casino in Las Vegas.  Or maybe you've stayed at another of my resorts.  I've got places in the Bahamas, the Maldives, Belize...  I know you heard the stink over the murder of that tabloid queen, Candace Rothchild.  You couldn't have missed the story -- or that the police suspected me of killing her.  It dominated the tabloids for weeks.

I didn't kill her, although I did make the mistake of dating her once.  Hey, I wouldn't be human if that centerfold body hadn't stirred my interest.  But then she turned all Fatal Attraction on me, which ticked me off.  I don't do relationships.  I didn't think she did, either.  She went through more lovers than the Mojave desert has snakes.

Coming on Strong, Mitch Carter Style

What:  A blowout, high society wedding
When:  Saturday Evening
Where:  Lakeside Resort
Attire:  Black tie, handcuffs optional.

“Cuz, I can’t believe you’re getting married in a sex resort.”

Mitch smirked at his cousin’s words but didn’t rise to the bait.  “Belle wants the ceremony here.”

He didn’t bother to argue that it wasn’t, technically, a sex resort.  Rather, Lakeside was an exclusive, luxury resort that catered to the rich and famous, and all their needs.  Including, thanks to his bride-to-be’s brainstorm, their sexual fantasies.  That meant it paid the bills, big time.  

“And whatever Belle wants, Belle gets?” Reese teased.

Mitch just raised a brow.  Did that even require a response?

This event occurs approximately three months after the conclusion of She's Got It Bad.

Message left by Liam Masters on Zoe Ford's answering machine the night before their wedding:

"Zoe, it's me. Pick up. Come on, babe. I know you're there. You said you and Jane were just gonna hang out and paint your nails and have a few cocktails and all that girly stuff...

"Okay, fine, you're not there. Or you are and you're sitting there laughing your ass off at me. I know what you're thinking, and you're right - I'm drunk. First time in years.  Blame your brother.  Bastard conned me into doing shots with him, made me break my one beer rule.

"Anyway, I just rang because I needed to hear your voice.  And I wanted to tell you how much I love you. And how freakin' lucky I am that I found you again. I should never have let you go, I know that now. Things could have been so different for both of us. But I was stupid. I thought I was doing the right thing. I never told you this before, but - "

 Beeeeep.

Meet Damon Craig—hero of ALWAYS READY, the latest installment in Blaze’s Uniformly Hot! Miniseries….

I’m a man on a mission.  As a Coast Guard Lieutenant, I’ve got a job to do—a drug runner to put behind bars.  I’ve been assigned to the Borinquen Air Station in Puerto Rico for six months as part of a deployable operations group assigned to clean up a pocket of drug runners.  We’re not leaving town until the job’s done.

So you can be sure I wasn’t in the market for a woman.  Especially not one who waltzed into the middle of my operation her first night in town.  I don’t believe in love at first sight and I’m not what you’d call a romantic.  So I planned on sending Ms. Lacey Sutherland safely back to her hotel as soon as she was clear of any danger.

Hi guys. Trey Davis here. I've got mailbag duties this week for Butch Corley Racing's Bad Dog Blog. Seems a lot of you are wondering the same thing these days, so let's get to it.

Rock stars have 'em. Actors have 'em. Pro athletes have 'em. So do rodeo cowboys and members of every racing team I know. Yep. I'm talking about groupies. They come in all shapes and sizes - literally and, well, in other ways, too.  Let me break it down and explain.

First we've got true fans of the sport. This bunch tends to be harmless. They're interested in what we do. They know car and driver stats. They spend long days at the track and in the pits because they want to see what the mechanics and drivers have tuned the cars to do. They love the smells of grease and fuel and the sounds of an engine firing. Some of them know as much as we do about the workings of a dragster, from the aerodynamics of the body to the mix of nitro that sends the cars hurtling down the dragstrip like rockets. We have a great time with these guys - and gals - sharing the love of racing.

A conversation between the Author, Karen Anders, and the Hero of Up Close and Dangerously Sexy.

Drew:  You're late *he's standing near the window peeking out between the blinds*

Karen:  *startles Karen who flips on light*  Only by a few minutes.  What's going on out there?  You look like you're doing surveillance.

Drew:  No, I just like to watch her.

Karen:  Who?

Drew:  Allie.  She's across the street waiting for me in that small park.  She's feeding the pigeons.

Karen:  She's waiting?

Drew:  *rolls eyes* Yeah, she wants me to go get a Confiturier.

Karen:  What's that?

Drew:  I don't know.  Probably another little sofa I can't sit on.

----- Original Message -----
From: Rafe Knighton
To: Bamako Field Office
Sent: Tuesday, May 09 3:17 PM
Subject: Big changes

Hey, guys

Good to hear from you the other day - glad to know you haven't forgotten me entirely!  Africa seems a long way away from London.  I'm missing the people and the heat and light.  I'm even missing you lot, which just goes to show how desperate I am for some decent company!

How to be the Best Best Man

When I signed on to be the best man for Paul, my old college buddy, I thought the whole affair would be an easy way to work in a little incognito vacation. Last time I took a vacation, I think parachute pants were still in vogue. All right, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but it's close.

I've learned my lessons through this whole affair, and wanted to pass on a little wisdom. First thing you should do when your friend calls you and says, "hey, what are you doing the weekend of April whatever" is think twice about what exactly you're getting yourself into, because it's a hell of a lot more than a tux.

If you do end up standing beside the fidgeting groom, take a few tips from me on how to be the best Best Man for the job.

A conversation between the Author, Trish Wylie, and her Hero, Quinn. Or, as most people will see it, proof that even Imaginary men...are still men...

Quinn Cassidy: So what is it we're doing?

Trish: A blog for eharlequin.

Quinn:  A blog for what?

Trish: All you've gotta do is sit there and be co-operative.

Quinn:  I could be sittin' watching paint dry a little closer to a phone and I might get somethin' more productive done. It's called multi-tasking *leans closer and lowers voice* You're a woman, you should know what that is...

Trish: *lifts brow* Do you want me to make you fill in a questionnaire? Or do you want to do this nice and friendly like over coffee - y'know -  like you said you would?

Quinn: *leans back, spreads long legs wide at the knees and folds arms over wide chest*  Last time I filled in a questionnaire, things got complicated.

Trish: *smiling* Yes, I know. So do you want to start by telling me about that questionnaire Clare got you to fill in?

Quinn: Yeah, ‘cos you had nothing to do with that.

Trish: Let's pretend I didn't.

Quinn: You put the words on the page.

Trish: You're a fictional character, you're not supposed to know that.

Quinn: And you're holding a conversation with a figment of your imagination. There are special places for people who hear voices in their heads, you know that, right?

E-mail from Brody Hamilton to Andrew Laramie, old friend...

Hey Andrew...good to hear from you.  I saw your ugly mug on the television last month.  Tough life you live, brother.  Churchill Downs during Derby week and everything.  Who was the hot blonde beside you anyway?

I have some news of my own and though it has nothing to do with hot blondes, it does read a little like lives of the rich and famous.  I'm in talks with King Alexander of Marazur about expanding our breeding program.  He's keen on mixing his thoroughbreds with Quarterhorses and he won't find better stock than here.  I'm happy to accommodate, but there's one thing he can't have, and that's Ahab.

Hello, I'm Simon Morton-Blake. Yes, okay, I'm also known as the seventh Lord of Holm, but don't hold that against me. Michelle says you guys want to know something about me. Not statistics, she said - not height, weight and eye colour. I don't think there's anything wrong with statistics. Statistics are important. I attended four years of military boarding school, so I ought to know. I'm good at statistics.

No statistics? Fine. Right then, let me start off by telling you some things I like and some things I don't like.