Authors: Donna Richards
In a Heartbeat (40 page)
“You will? You don’t want to think about it first? Check with Stephen? With Oreo?” He laughed, taking the plush toy by her side and waving it in the air. The confining hospital room was too small to contain his soaring spirit.
“I don’t need to check with anyone,” she laughed. “This is my own decision. I want to be with you.”
“In that case, I have something else to show you.” Hank dropped the plush toy before lifting the folded newspaper from Angela’s lap. He unfolded it to full size. On the page opposite the society announcements, a full-page ad with big, bold print proclaimed: Henry Renard begs Angela Blake, Will You Marry Me?
Her jaw dropped. She raised her glance to his.
“I wanted to set the record straight.” He shrugged.
They kissed again, this time a more passionate union of souls. The monitor overhead beeped with a strong, healthy pulse and with it, Hank sent a thank you prayer—
I believe in miracles.
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About the Author
To learn more about Donna Richards, please visit
www.DonnaMacMeans.com. Send an email to Donna at
Charlie’s day went from bad to worse when she tripped over a dead man
on her living room floor.
Deadly Mistakes
© 2006 Denise Belinda McDonald
Charlie Foster’s life morphed from shoestore owner and college student to murder suspect in one trip across her living room. Can she clear her name and find out what in the world happened in her apartment before the she’s booked for murder one? Or before the real killer gets his hands on her?
Detective Bobby Allen never meant to become his suspect's alibi. Is it his sixth sense that tells him blue-eyed Charlie Foster is the key to unraveling the clues to his 'unofficial' case? Or is it the one night of passion they shared?
Can they ignore the attraction to one another long enough to figure out what the killer's next move is before they both become casualties in an unknown battle?
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Deadly Mistakes.
“What?” Charlie said, half-scared and half-angry. Her empty hand clenched at her side, her books grew heavy in the other.
“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your friend, Charlie,” the anonymous stranger declared.
Charlie raised her eyebrows, stunned–speechless. The man grasping her shoulder could overpower her. Six-one, maybe six-two, and roughly guessing she put him just under two hundred pounds, which, in turn, put him at a great height and weight advantage over her slight frame.
“Who wants to know?” She thrust her free hand on her hip.
The tall stranger reached into his jacket. Charlie flinched and considered running again. But instead of a weapon, he produced a brown
leather wallet. Inside, a Chicago Police Department badge and ID said Detective Robert M. Allen.
“You’re a cop?”
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Do you normally follow people around? Sneaking up on them?”
“Well, I…”
“Why
have
you been following me all morning?” She interrupted.
“I have been tailing Brian McMillen.”
Charlie wobbled, lightheaded at the name.
The detective deposited his wallet back in his wool sports coat.
As far as Charlie knew, the police had not yet determined the dead man’s identity. The media had not ventured a guess on who he was with nothing to go on. The fact the man who stood before her knew his name frightened her.
“I followed him down here from Chicago last week. I lost track and haven’t been able to find him. I read someone died in your friend Charlie’s apartment. From the description they wrote up in the paper this morning, I put two and two together. I know it has to be him.”
“You’re investigating
him
? This Brian?” Charlie toyed with the edge of her psychology book. “Is he some kind of criminal?”
“No.”
Staring up at him, she waited for him to continue.
“I’m not exactly investigating him, but I have been following him for some time.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Charlie ran her hand through her hair and replaced it on her hip, shifting her weight to other leg.
“I got Charlie’s address from the police report, down at the station. I was watching the apartment when you and he left. I wanted to ask you if he had any kind of relationship with Brian.” His dark brown eyes penetrated hers as he waited for an answer.
“But why follow
me
? Not
Charlie
?” She lowered her gaze to the books in her arm.
“I thought you might help me out first. I know the police have grilled him at length and he might not be willing to talk to me.”
The detective was right about one thing at least.
“Maybe you could give me a straight answer. Help me get a handle on the situation. Before I go talk to him.”
“There is no relationship between Charlie and Brian. They didn’t know each other.”
“And you’re absolutely sure there is no relationship?”
“Positive.” She nodded.
“Why?” Detective Allen pushed on.
“Man, what the hell is wrong with everyone.” Charlie looked up at the cloudless sky. Turning all her attention back to the newest detective in her life, she continued, wagging her finger in the detective’s face. “Look, first you
follow
me around all morning, frankly scaring the crap out of me, then you tell me you want to get a better handle on ‘Charlie’s’
supposed relationship with this dead guy.
“When I do answer your damn question you don’t believe me and question my certainty. What the hell is wrong with you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Don’t bother me if you aren’t going to listen. As a matter of fact, don’t bother me at all.” She turned and walked away.
Detective Allen grabbed Charlie’s elbow. “I am just trying to be sure about everything. I apologize for scaring you and apparently annoying you.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “But as you can surely tell this is a sensitive situation. Can you please tell me why you’re so sure?”
“Because
I
am Charlie.” She placed her hand on her chest. “And I have never met the guy, never seen him before in my life. I have no idea how he wound up on
my
floor,” she yelled at him, all her patience lost.
Can Shane convince Jessie he’s the only man for her before her stalker
attempts to end both their lives?
Fireworks
© 2007 Loribelle Hunt
Jessalyn Banks is a respected gallery owner in a small coastal Florida town. She isn’t looking to make any major changes in her life, but events collide in a way that takes that option away from her. A stalker enters her life, and she has no choice but to notify the town’s police chief, Shane Moore.
Shane has been trying to maneuver his way into Jessie’s life for a year. Getting added to her Fourth of July planning committee is a brilliant move. Convincing her they belong together is much harder to accomplish. When her mysterious stalker escalates his activities and another woman is badly injured, events spin out of his control. Does Shane have the time to convince Jessie he’s the only man for her before the stalker makes his move?
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Fireworks.
The bells over the door jingled. Jessalyn Banks didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge his presence. Even though she had called him over, she needed a minute to steal herself against his appeal. Her best friend and assistant Nancy came up behind her, her spicy perfume heralding her advance, and leaned over the desk, one hand braced on its edge. Her voice was light and teasing when she whispered in Jessalyn’s ear.
“Oh, the sexy police chief showed up. You really get service in this town, huh?”
Jessalyn shot her an evil look and stood. Nancy knew it was a sore point. Plastering a fake smile on her face, she turned to face Shane Moore. For a split second, his expression was unguarded and hot eyes clashed with hers. They seemed to promise long wild nights if she would just give in.
No way, Jessalyn. Get a grip
. He was bossy and arrogant and
she didn’t like him much, but she couldn’t help the way her heart stuttered or the flush that spread up her neck. He crossed his arms over his chest and his gaze was shuttered. “I hear you have a secret admirer.”
She snorted. If you could call him that. Jerking her head for him to follow her, she led the way into the small back kitchen. It was filled with roses. Not your garden-variety red or yellow or white roses either.
Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to paint these black. She’d checked—there wasn’t a florist for ninety miles that sold black roses.
“They were here when you opened the gallery this morning?”
She nodded, anger at the invasion of her space closing her throat.
“Was there are a card?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
“No,” she said, her voice sounding gruff to her ears.
He met her gaze and his expression didn’t change. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed or worried. Knowing how territorial Shane was of “his town” and how seriously he took his job, probably both.
“Anything else going on?”
She shrugged. Was a vague feeling of being watched something going on? Or the rash of hang-ups on her voice mail? Until he asked, she hadn’t thought anything of it. She didn’t think it meant anything. There was always someone watching her in Banks Crossing and the phone calls… Well, someone obviously had the wrong number. No, she wouldn’t give in to paranoia.
Unfortunately, Shane could read her like a book. It was one of his more irritating habits. His eyes narrowed and he took her elbow, leading her back into the hall. Leaning down so they were almost nose-to-nose, he searched her face.
“What else, Jessie?”
Trying to put some distance between them, she stepped away and landed with her back against the wall. She realized her mistake immediately as he pressed closer. For a moment, she was completely distracted. He wore a white polo style shirt with the city logo emblazoned on the pocket, the black of his bulletproof vest visible through the weave.
It stretched across wide shoulders and a broad chest her fingers itched
to explore. He smelled masculine, aftershave mingled with deodorant and sweat, and was way too close for comfort. Shifting closer, he pressed against her hips and her eyes widened at his erection cradled between her legs.
Her pulse jumped in response and she firmed her resolve.
No no no.
Not him
. Why couldn’t she respond to another man like this? She shoved at his chest, and he reluctantly stepped back. Breathing a sigh of relief, she glared up at him.
“What else?” he asked roughly.
“Just some hang-up phone calls. Probably the wrong number.” She rolled her eyes. “Happens all the time.”
He gave her a hard look. “Maybe. What about the caller ID?”
“Private number,” she mumbled.
“I’ll check into it. Y’all go ahead and clear out for the day. My crime scene guys will come over and see what they can find.”
She nodded and turned to find Nancy.
“Jessie?”
She looked over her shoulder, ready to blast him for using the nickname but he wasn’t even looking at her.
“What?”
“Get your locks changed tomorrow.”
She bit back a sharp retort.
Ya think, Shane? Never would have
occurred to me
.
“I will,” she answered instead.
“And Jessie?”
Jesus, now what?
Throwing her hands in the air, she turned around to face him again. He moved closer and caught her around the waist.
“Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He pushed her out the door before she could ask why or where.
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