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Category:
Romance
Publisher: Disenchanted Publishing
ISBN-10: 0976180480
Pages: 450
Copyright: Nov 27, 2013
ISBN-13: 9780976180487
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Sizzling Hot paranormal Romance!
Inheriting a haunted California estate is one thing. Getting hot and bothered by its sexy caretaker is another. But Skylar Blackwell draws the line at voodoo and murder...
Skylar would rather dive into the latest fashion magazine than a murder mystery. But when her last remaining relative is crudely sliced up with a mosaic of eerie symbols on his chest, Skylar's on a mission to find answers.
Not only are the inhabitants less than welcoming, but Summerwind's gorgeous caretaker, Dorian Delacroix—a man broken and tormented by his past—instantly ignites fiery sensations within her. And romance was definitely not on the agenda.
As she begins questioning the staff, they start dying under mysterious circumstances, and although Skylar's determined to unravel the dark history of the mansion, nothing about this place—or this enigmatic man—is what it seems.
From the moment Skylar steps foot inside Summerwind, she's plunged into a strange world of doppelgangers, voodoo rituals, haunting nightmares, and a body count that's piling up faster than her collection of Jimmy Choos. Despite her simmering desire for Dorian and their rising passion for each other, Skylar realizes that she can't really trust anyone. The only thing she knows for certain is that she needs to gather enough courage to fight the darker forces she never believed existed.
Excerpt
At the next ominous thump, I finger the handle of the Glock 19 under my pillow. My heart thunders. A girl living alone in New York must be careful, even in the Upper East Side. My fingers are clumsy and moist as I slide the safety off, the cold metal heavy in my hand.
Whoever’s trying to break into my apartment had better think twice.
I sit up slowly, listening hard. My body tenses. An eerie sensation batters my senses, like a sixth sense awakening, blooming, and soaking through my bones. As it intensifies, the sense of urgency clears any traces of drowsiness. I try to swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t let me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt such a sensation, but right now it’s off the charts. My weird intuition often shows up right before I bump into an old friend, someone knocks on my door or a phone rings. Or worse, when I’m about to find myself knee-deep in sh**. My own personal warning device.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The thumping noise is replaced by a scratching on the other side of the apartment. It unnervingly echoes like fingernails grating down a chalkboard. The building responds, crooning under a blanket of wind.
I fumble to switch on the bedside lamp, and soft white light illuminates the room. Staggering to my feet, I stare at the closed bedroom door.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Hunching my shoulders, I take a tentative step closer. The hardwood floor is icy, and gooseflesh rises stiff and fast on my arms. I move again, tiptoeing toward the door. A board groans sharply under my weight.
So much for being quiet.
The blinds are open, making me feel vulnerable, naked. Beyond the street lamps, lights blaze from towering skyscrapers and a sharp gust bends the trees. The brownstone grunts and whines against the biting winds of approaching winter.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Could it be an animal making those noises? A neighbor?
A sudden draft moves through the room. It’s reminiscent of sticky breath laden with foul odors, close and oppressive. That weird psychic sensation hits hard again, and it feels as though I’ve locked myself in a dark closet with a hundred vipers.
A tingle of chilling menace teases my spine as I force myself to move. I pop the clip out of the gun and check it. Still loaded.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I ease forward, my bare feet shuffling closer to the door. I press my ear to the wood, motionless. Listening.
Then a soft thud emerges. Something’s at the window. Tapping. Pinging. The fluttering of wings. The noise jangles my senses. Illuminated by a full moon, dozens of huge, furry black moths dive-bomb the glass, as if they’re on a kamikaze mission.
Moths in October? Super weird.
The little hairs on my neck prickle. I freeze in place; the big muscles in my thighs tremble as though I’d just finished running a marathon. My body is alive and alert to every sound as I wait for the noise to repeat.
This is stupid. I have a freakin’ gun. I wrench open the door and peer into the living room and adjoining kitchen. With the gun held out in front of me, only a little unsteady, my eyes sweep the room. No one hiding in the dark corners beyond the heavy furniture. Not many places to hide in a small New York apartment.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noises are coming from the front door. Someone is trying to get in…or just trying to scare the hell outta me.
It could be a tree scraping against a window. Or a guy in the next apartment coming home. But my gut says it isn’t either of those things.
I turn on a lamp and hurry toward the front door.
Before I make it across the room, shadows shift beneath the doorway. I skid to a stop on the waxed floor. He’s still there. I grip the gun tighter for a moment. Neither of us moves. Whoever it is, he’s in the hallway, waiting.
My mouth goes dry. The Glock squeezed tight in my shaking hand gleams dully. My French manicure stands out starkly against the sleek black weapon.
The floorboard squeaks out in the hallway, the noise rocketing over the brownstone’s casual mutterings. Footsteps thump, fade then return, as though a predator is pacing outside the door.
I debate calling the police, but my stubborn pride tells me I can handle this myself. And I’ll feel stupid if I call them for nothing.
“Go away. Please just go away,” I mumble, tilting the gun up, relieved it has a fresh clip.
The scratching stops. I frown.
Thwack! A force bangs on the wood, sharp and loud. My heart jolts, and one hand flies up to clutch my throat. The door shakes so hard, I recoil to a corner near the couch.
Then the doorknob turns, the metal creaking as something takes hold of it. A faint rattling jiggles the handle…
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