NOT ONE CLUE

“Snappy dialogue and fast-paced action result in a comically compelling tale.  Her budding romance is hot and sassy.” Romantic Times

In book stores April 27th, 2010!!

Read first chapter below.

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                                      Not One Clue

by lois greiman

Give me ice cream or give me death.

Chrissy McMullen, during an ongoing bout of teenage angst

Chapter 1

            I had just drifted into the feathery nest of Sleepdom when the phone rang. Cracking one aggravated eye, I glared at my bedside clock. Eleven seventeen. Okay, eleven seventeen may not exactly be the wee hours of the morning, but I have a deep and abiding affection for sleep and tend to get somewhat miffed when I and my beloved, namely the sweet respite of slumber, are separated. I happen to consider REM to be the next best thing to chocolate which is the next best thing to…dammit…I couldn’t remember anything that beat the cocoa bean for sheer unadulterated bliss, and that wasn’t a good sign. I was pretty sure there had once been something rather titillating.

            The phone blasted my eardrums a second time. I gave it a jaundiced glare, but it remained unrepressed and rang again. Cheeky bastard. Snaking an arm across Harlequin, the dog that disguises himself as a hundred pound door stop, I hauled the receiver from its cradle, dragged it into my lair and rumbled an impolite salutation.

            There was a moment of silence followed by, “Jesus, McMullen…” Rivera’s smoky voice sizzled through my system like cheap wine. Believe me when I say I am familiar with the sordid effects of cheap wine. Not only was I once a teenager, I was also a college student. And let me say for the good of the student and the universe at large, the two should not be allowed to exist simultaneously in one hormonally charged body. “Did your larynx have a run-in with a sander or are you just on a bender?”

            Meet Lieutenant Jack Rivera, L.A.P.D. down to his cotton boxers. He and I go back a ways. When Bomber Bomstad, client and ex-football star, dropped deader than kibble on my overpriced Berber, Rivera was the first on the scene. Irritating, smart-mouthed, and preposterously hot, he’s as tempting as truffles. He is also equally restricted, because although a little dark chocolate may boost your serotonin levels, a steady diet is likely to be fatal. And I had no intention of suffering death by Rivera. On the other hand, I had no qualms about a little Latin appetizer. I turned on my side, letting the cord drape over Harley’s bi-colored ear. He ignored it as if it were the ‘sit’ command.

            “Maybe this is how I sound when I’m satisfied, Lieutenant.” My voice was sexy-low and husky.

            “Like you need a defibrillator?”

            I grinned a little. After all, he couldn’t see me, so it was okay to admit that sometimes I kind of appreciate his smart-ass wit. “You a doctor, now, Rivera?”

            “If that’s what floats your boat.” I could hear the sigh in his voice as he started to unwind. Maybe a cop’s day can be as stressful as a shrink’s, which just happens to be my calling.

            “In your dreams,” I said, but the dreams were more likely to be mine. I’d had enough fantasies about Rivera to fill an erotic miniseries.

            “You’re usually Catwoman in my dreams.”

            “Catwoman.” My stomach tightened a little at the thought that I might occupy his late night imaginings

            “Crime fighter with a tail.”

            “You’re one sick bastard,” I said and he laughed.

            There was something about the sound of it that did naughty things to my otherwise saintly equilibrium.

            “Maybe you could play the doctor this time.” His voice rumbled through me, but I fought off the effects. After all, I was no longer a pubescent tuba-player. In fact, I had worked like an illegal immigrant to become a card-carrying psychologist. Even harder to become immune to the kind of low-level charm Rivera exudes like rush hour exhaust fumes.

            “Did you have a reason for calling?” I asked.

            “This is it,” he said.

            “Sexual harassment?”

            I could hear the shrug in his tone. “I won’t call the cops if you don’t.”

            I snorted a laugh. Sometimes when I’m really tired I tend to sound like a overwrought Guernsey and it was now… holy cow…eleven twenty-two.

            “So what do you think?” he asked.

            “About what?”

            “Sex.”

            The buzz that had begun in my overzealous endocrine system geared up to an insistent hum. “In general or—“

            “Now.”

            My breath caught in my throat. “You’re not under my bed or something are you?”

            “Freaky,” he said. “But if that’s what trips your trigger, I’ll try to squeeze in.”

            “Big of you,” I said and refrained from dropping my head over the edge of the mattress to take a peek.

            “You’ve no idea,” he said.

            I refrained from rolling my eyes, mostly because, in actuality, I did have something of an idea. There had been a rather memorable episode involving an overdose of Niquil…and Rivera…in the shower. Holy crap cakes!

            The insistent hum of my hormones launched into a full fledged symphony. But I had been down this road before.

            “Listen, Rivera, as much fun as this is, I have to work tomorrow.”

            “I didn’t think it would take that long, but I’m willing to call in sick if you think it necessary.”

            “Are you drunk?” I asked.

            “That’s not the adjective I’d use.”

            “Adjective…” I rolled onto my back, warming to the conversation. “I’m impressed.”

            “They’ve been teaching us to read down at the station.”

            “Our taxes…” I said. “Hard at work.”

            “I’m willing to share what I’ve learned.”

            “Maybe you can send me a syllabus.”

            “I could deliver it in person.”

            “I said syllabus not syphilis.”

            He chuckled. I could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back, and imagined him stretching, lean body arched, cuffs rolled away from dark, well-muscled forearms, black hair teasing his button down collar. “You always this mean when you’re sleeping alone?”

            “Who said I’m alone?”

            “Me.”

            “Maybe you’re wrong.”

            “I’m willing to put money on it.”

            I considered swearing at him, but that was the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was saving the ‘f’ word for major emergencies. And L.A. drivers. Low fat muffins. And Mondays.

            “Unless Elaine’s sleeping with you,” he said.

            “I’m not that desperate.”

            “Yes you are. But if she’s not doing her fiancé I think I can trust her with you.”

            I scowled. He had inadvertently touched on a raw nerve. Because Laney Brainy Butterfield, beauty personified, and my best friend since the fifth grade, was betrothed to a man I referred to in nothing but four letter words. The kindest of them was nerd.

            “So how you doing with that?” he asked, and I wondered in my sleep-deprived brain if that was why he had called in the first place. It didn’t take a genius…or a homo sapient…to know that I was patently unhappy about the impending nuptials. It wasn’t just because Elaine would forever belong to someone else. It was because she would belong to the geekiest guy on the planet. And that made my skin crawl.

            “Fine.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Of course.” Reaching out, I fiddled with the pad on Harlequin’s left hind. I’d learned early on that Great Danes did not necessarily make stupendous watch dogs. He was a gift from Rivera. As was my Mace, the cactus that guarded my yard, and the baseball bat I’d stuck in my hall closet. Rivera seems to have a penchant for things that can inflict pain. “I’m a grown woman.”

            I waited for his comeback but he was silent for a moment, then; “He’ll be good to her.”

            For a moment I couldn’t say anything. Elaine had been my pillar through every major catastrophe in my life: my first period, zits, and the devastating realization that most guys are like my brothers. That truth can still bring me to tears. But the thought of her wedding looming over me like a gawking gargoyle was almost more than I could bear. The only positive thing to come out of the impending ceremony was the fact that this would be the first time my bridesmaid gown wouldn’t look like a pink train wreck.

            “You know that don’t you?” Rivera asked. “That he’ll be good to her?”

            “Sure.” My voice sounded a little strange. I glanced up. The iron knob on the antique bed Laney had given me as a wedding gift gleamed dully. She’d said it had been found at a Hollywood estate sale. Upon examination, I had found the initials A.A.L. scratched the metal. With my luck it probably stood for the forerunner of Alcoholics Anonymous.

            “Besides, you can always kick his ass if he isn’t,” Rivera said.

            I refrained from sniffling. “It wasn’t his ass I was thinking of.”

            He was silent for a moment, then, “Jesus, McMullen, if you’re considering any part of Solberg’s anatomy, it might be too late for me to save you.”

            I was scowling at the ceiling.

            “But I’m willing to make the effort.”

            I laughed despite myself. “You’re a giver.”

            “Like a saint.”

            “God, I hope not,” I said and he chuckled.

            “Last chance,” he said.

            “Promise?”

            There was a momentary pause, then; “Not on your life,” he said and hung up.

            I did the same, shuffled the receiver into its cradle and smiled despite the fact that there was less than a month left until my best friend’s wedding. A month during which time she would be living with me. I had hoped we would have some time to spend alone together, but her schedule was pretty hairy. Not only was there the wedding from Elm Street to content with, there was also a considerable amount of hoopla involving the upcoming spin-off of Amazon Queen. Jungle Heat featured several of Laney’s co-actors and would premiere soon. Wesley Donovan, a relative newcomer to female fantasies, would play the male lead and create most of the hoped-for heat.

            All this meant that the geekster would not only be nearby, he could damned well be in my house. The idea made my skin crawl, but the phone rang again, pulling me from my morbid musings.

            I grinned through the darkness at it. There’s nothing like a trash-talking stalker to make a girl feel special.

            I picked up the receiver on the third ring. “Okay. But bring a condom,” I whispered, then squirmed a little and wondered how I was going to sneak him past Laney. “Hell,” I corrected. “Bring a box of ‘em. Do they still come in boxes? It’s been--”

            “He’s dead,” a voice hissed.

            I jerked upright in bed, heart crammed tight in my throat. “What? Who is this?” I rasped.

            But the dial tone was already buzzing in my ear.

          ___________

   CHARMING THE DEVIL

In book stores now! Or order online.

The third installment of the bewitching

Witches of Mayfair trilogy

A Romantic Times Top Pick! and a K.I.S.S. award winner!

"Danger, deception, and enmity swirl around Faye and Bain as they struggle with love and trust issues in this complex, sometimes dark, and always suspenseful romance..." -- Kristin Ramsdell, Library Journal

See below to read the prologue!

A young Gerard Butler

Inspiration for Rogan MacBain, my current hero.

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CHARMING THE DEVIL

1813 London England

Prologue

            Shaleena was naked. Absolutely exposed from the top of her fiery head to the tip of her ridiculously pointy toes. Not a bonnet. Not a stocking. Not a stitch. She must feel silly, Faye thought. Not to mention chilled.

            Summer had yet to visit the soggy streets of London and none had stirred a fire in the hearth an arm’s length to Faye’s left. The hearth which housed a secret compartment where one could hide if need be. A compartment where she rather longed to closet herself away even now so she could no longer see Shaleena’s demmed pointy…

            “And what of you, Mrs. Nettles?” Lord Gallo’s voice broke through Faye’s reverie with a jolt, though, in actualiry, she’d been watching him the whole while. Far better even to concentrate on the man in their midst than to stare agog at Shaleena’s oversized…

            “Do you still feel prepared to take on this mission?”

            Panic struck her like a bolt of lightning. Mission? There was a mission? What mission? Had she agreed… But yes. Of course she had, even though she was as mad as a wild hare. Or, perhaps, because of--

            “Mrs. Nettles?” Gallo said again, and Faye focused with an effort, calming her mind before something went awry, lifting the delicate tea cup carefully from its saucer. It was hand-painted. Imported through the East India Trading Company. She took a refined sip.

            “Of course, my lord,” she said, pinky just so, not too stiff, not too limp. She was not, after all, a barbarian. Or so she had been told. “I shall learn who, if anyone, caused the death of Lord Brendier. All will be well.”

            There was a moment of silence before Madeline spoke. Some might have felt a bit of breathless anxiety in that silence.  “You understand you’ll be expected to speak with…men.”

            Faye kept her grip light on the cup’s delicate handle for they had been known to snap off with the slightest provocation of late. “Of course,” she said and forced a genteel smile.

            “We’ve reason to believe a Mr. Rogan McBain may somehow be involved. It is said he visited Brendier some hours before the baron was found dead,” Madeline added.

            God help her. “Valuable information,” Faye said.

            Madeline’s lovely brow furrowed a little. “McBain is thought to be something of an intimidating character. He was a decorated lieutenant.”

            “Ahh.”

            “And there are rumors that he killed someone in a duel some years back. A Mr. Winden, I believe.”
            “Then I shall certainly avoid drawing pistols at dawn.”

            Madeline’s scowl deepened. “So that’s acceptable to--”

            “Oh for Christ’s sake!” hissed Shaleena and jerked to her feet. Her bosoms bobbled as she pointed a finger at the fireplace. Flames popped like firecrackers on the nearby logs.

            Startled from her carefully varnished pretences, Faye jumped, nearly jerking out of her chair. Shaleena laughed.

            “I’m sorry, little witch, did I frighten you?”

            For a moment terror ran rampant in Faye’s soul, riding rough-shod over her senses, firing up ashy memories, but she forced herself to remain as she was, forced her lips to move, her grip to loosen.

            “Not at all. I’m simply--”

            “What?” Shaleena asked and laughed again. “Frightened out of your wits? I’m sorry if my little bit of magic startled you. But that’s what Les Chausettes do. That’s what all those who are gifted do,” she said and swept her hand sideways to encompass the handful of others who occupied Lavender House’s elegant parlor. “We freeze and concoct and enflame,” she said and lifting her arm again, made the fire burst dramatically upward.

            Faye felt her heart thunder in her chest, but when Madeline spoke, her tone evidenced no tension whatsoever.

            “Yes, that’s very nice, Shaleena. You may well equal Ella’s pyrotechnics if you continue in your studies, but we did not call this meeting to enjoy your fire show. Indeed, there was something else entirely we hoped--”

            “I will challenge your sister,” Shaleena hissed through clenched teeth, “to a match of powers anytime she wishes to humiliate herself and prove to everyone--”

            “We have hired a gardener,” interrupted Lord Gallo. All eyes turned to him. His tone, Faye noticed, was somehow bland but assertive all at once.

            “A gardener?” questioned Darla. She was not the oldest of the witches, yet her hair, hip-length and swaying with a life of its own, was as silver as mercury. “Do you think it wise to bring another into the fold? We have already welcomed the boy named Cur and--”

            “Cur!” Shaleena snapped and turned sharply away, red hair bouncing over fleshy buttocks.

            “Have there been troubles with the boy?” asked Gallo, skimming the faces of the women before him.

            “No,” Darla said. “He’s…impetuous at times.”

            “I’m rather fond of him,” Beatrice said. But Bea had an unearthly bond with the beasts of the field, so it made some sense.

            “He’s quite gifted,” said Heddy. She looked like nothing so much as someone’s grandmother. Few suspected the astounding physical strength she could conjure. “For a young male he is marvelously--”

            “Gifted! What can he do?” Shaleena stormed.

            “He has quite a talent for changing his voice.”

            “Voice. Any jackanapes in Cheapside could do as much,” she argued and grabbed a fistful of locks near her left breast. “He set my hair on fire.”

            There was a moment of stunned silence.

 “Well, I believe that answers your question, then,” Madeline said.

            “I don’t want him here,” Shaleena rasped.

            “His visits are sporadic at most,” Madeline said. “And as you said, this house is for the gifted. Surely you can accept--”

            “I cannot accept. Either he goes or--”

            “I would recommend caution,” Gallo said. His voice was almost inaudible, yet it seemed as distinct as sunrise.

            Shaleena turned to him with a snarl. “He can barely invoke the simplest of spells.”

            “Perhaps you’ve yet to learn all there is to know of our young friend.”

            “He is not my friend. Indeed, I am not entirely certain he’s human. There’s something…disturbing about him. What good is he to us?”

            “What good were you when first you came to us, Shaleena?” Gallo asked, and for the first time in her memory, Faye saw Shaleena falter, but she rallied quickly.

            “Even then my powers were clear. You said as much yourself.”

            “And I am saying the same of the boy. He’s searching for understanding. For a family of sorts that will--”

            “Family!” Shaleena spat and laughed. “What are you trying to tell us, Jasper? That he’s your newly discovered by-blow?”

            Perhaps Lord Gallo’s mouth pinched the slightest degree, but if he was angry, he showed no more signs than that. “I am saying some compassion might be in order. Most of you were well aware of the source of your powers long before you could control them. Is that not so?”

            “Grandmother’s abilities were far different than mine,” Beatrice said. “But she was clearly gifted.” Others nodded. Faye remained silent. Conjuring memories was a dangerous thing these days.

            “Cur was a foundling,” Madeline said.

            She and Lord Gallo had been wed less than two full years, but they worked well as a team. “He has no idea of his heritage. No way of knowing-”

            “Then he’s among the lucky few,” Shaleena said, “for family…” She stopped abruptly, teeth clenched.

            “What of family?” Madeline asked softly, but Shaleena raised her chin, defiant in the face of would-be compassion.

            “He’s had fair warning to stay clear of my path,” she said.

            “Very well then,” Gallo said and rising to his feet, touched his bride’s shoulder, his hand almost hidden from view, as if he had no wish to be thought affectionate, but could no longer bear the distance from her. “Then let us discuss the gardener.”

            “I only worry about exposing ourselves to too much scrutiny,” Darla said. “Thus far we have gotten on with a minimum of outside interference, and I would--”

            “I think it a fine idea,” Shaleena said and tossed her hair with vicious verve over her shoulder. “It will be pleasant having a true man about. He will do more than trim the hedges, won’t he?” she asked and raised one suggestive brow.

            “He seems capable of a good deal,” Gallo said dryly. He had long ago become adept at maneuvering the battlefields of conversation. “We have planned for him to care for the stables and to act as driver as well.”

            “Ahh, an accomplished man,” Shaleena said, preening as she glanced at Madeline. It had been abundantly clear for some time before the wedding that Shaleena had set her cap on Lord Gallo. Gallo’s burgeoning interest in the soft-spoken Madeline, however, had come as something of a surprise. “How refreshing.”

            “Can we trust him?” Darla asked.

            “We would not consider him otherwise,” Madeline said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Jasper has a way of sensing these things.”

            Heddy scowled. “Are you saying this gardener is gifted?” Lord Gallo’s ability to ‘feel’ power was what had gained him the unenviable task of gathering the members of the cover, of guiding them, though he claimed no real powers of his own.

            “A small amount, perhaps,” Gallo said. “He seems to have the ability to change his appearance somewhat?”

            “How unusual,” Darla said, “that we would find two gifted males at once.”

            “It is indeed rare,” Gallo admitted.

            “Unprecedented here at Lavender House,” Ivy said. She was tall and willowy, with a round face and pretty eyes.

            “I don’t care if it’s unheard of in all of Christendom,” Shaleena said. “I am only interested in his…” She slanted her gaze toward Faye. “How shall I say this without making our little Faerie there swoon?  Physical nature,” she said finally. “Tell me, Madeline, is this gardener handsome?”

            “I believe you may have met him in the past,” Gallo said.

            “Truly?” Shaleena sounded intrigued. “Well…I’ve nothing against old lovers so long as they know their--”

            “He calls himself Joseph. I believe he might be Hungarian. Or Rom. As you may remember, he was Madeline’s butler for the short while she lived apart from--”

            But Shaleena stopped him with a hiss.

            Faye turned to her in astonishment, for even from Shaleena, she had never heard such vehemence.

            “Is something amiss?” Gallo asked.

            “Why would you invite that foreigner here?” Shaleena’s violet eyes narrowed in her alabaster face.

            “Because he was brought to us,” Gallo said. “And he needs a place in the world.”

            “Find him another place.”

            “What have you against him?” Gallo asked.

            Shaleena shook her head, eyes wild. “There is something about him.”

            “Something…”

            “Dark. Evil.”

            Gallo’s usually implacable expression evidenced the slightest hint of curiosity. “What makes you think--”

            “Hah!” she crowed. “And you are supposed to be the one who knows these things. Who feels these things. The one chosen by the Committee to care for us.”

            Silence erupted in the room, but Lord Gallo had already recovered from his overt display of emotion. “Feel free to broach my regrettable shortcomings with the Committee if ever you feel there’s a need,” he said.

            She glared at him for a seeming eternity. “Keep him from my sight,” she hissed and turning, stormed from the room.

            Silence fell around them.

            “Well,” Madeline said finally. “Are there any other concerns?”

            There were none, but for Faye’s fervent wish that she truly belonged among Les Chausettes. Wished she possessed a fourth of Shaleena’s fire. A smidgeon of Madeline’s wisdom. A nugget of Heddy’s strength. Good heavens, she’d settle for Darla’s hair . For she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could not complete the mission set before her. Not now. Not ever.
 

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SEDUCED BY YOUR SPELL

 February 24th, 2009

Just nominated for Best Historical Paranormal of 2009

A Romantic Times Top Pick!! 

½

"SEDUCED BY YOUR SPELL is a wild ride through the streets of London where people are not who they seem to be; spells and magic are the order of the day, and love is being pushed away by two very needy souls. Mystery surrounds Jasper, as well as the ladies of Lavender House, but it also dominates the real reason why the girls are disappearing off the streets. There are some heated fantasy scenes between Jasper and Maddie, and a few real encounters which will have readers fanning themselves!

Readers of Lois Greiman will enjoy her latest passionate, adventurous novel. Don't miss SEDUCED BY YOUR SPELL."

--Jani Brooks, Romance Reviews Today

"Greiman grips readers with a tale of witches caught in a maelstrom of violence and passion. The pages fly by, sexual tension--both real and fantasized-- rises and surprise after surprise lead to the finale.. Greiman is a storyteller extraordinaire."
-- Kathe Robin

Chapter 1

“Lady Redcomb.” Lord Weatherby greeted Madeline with an affable smile, both hands extended, palms up.
Madeline Fallon smiled back and refrained from doing anything nasty. After all, she was only a witch in the most technical sense of the word. In actuality, she had always been quite a nice person. Soft spoken, gentle, and well-mannered. But what had that foolish tolerance gained her?
“You look most ravishing tonight,” Weatherby said and lifting her hands, brushed his lips across her knuckles.
Madeline smiled with demure femininity. Truthfully though, she was fully aware that she looked ravishing. She had looked ravishing since the day she had popped from the womb, perfectly coifed and immaculately groomed. Or so her sister was wont to say.
It was simply that Madeline failed to care.
Delicately waving her fan, she gazed, limpid eyed, over its lacy top at her admirer. He was probably not an unattractive fellow. Tall, wealthy and confident, Lord Weatherby was a man to draw a woman’s attention. Unfortunately, she was not drawn. Indeed, she wished quite desperately that he would go away. Wished, in fact, that she could skim her gaze across the cavernous ballroom in a fool-hearty attempt to find the one man she must ignore.

“Lord Weatherby,” Madeline fluttered her fan and gave him her most beguiling smile. “You flatter me.”
“Not at all.” He preened a smile and leaned a half an inch closer. “You are, very possibly, the most ravishing woman in this room.”
Madeline blushed modestly and allowed herself a fleeting glance to the left, but Jasper Reeves had not yet arrived at Lady Sedum’s annual ball. Indeed, he was probably doing what he did best: scheming like a mad Frenchman, and all the while planning to give the most harrowing missions to other members of the coven. Faye perhaps. Or Shaleena.
Madeline stifled a snarl of frustration. Snarling was, presumably, considered somewhat uncouth at posh soirees.
“And therefore the most sought after,” added Weatherby.
“Hardly that, my lord,” Madeline demurred, remembering her companion’s presence and raising the frilly fan to cover her peaked chin. Just the carefully-pigmented bow of her full upper lip would show. Which made her wonder who the genius was who decided women should carry fans. The lacy accessories were quite indispensable, able to hide a hundred emotions while conveying just as many. Or, in a pinch, they made decent weapons if delivered with panache and
a reasonable amount of force to a man’s exposed trachea. Then again, if handled properly--
Weatherby moved a little closer, brushing her knuckles with his. “Indeed, when I am near you I can think of little else but how you would look,” His eyes gleamed. “Au naturel.”
Madeline caught her breath audibly and opened her eyes wide as if embarrassed.
But annoyance would more adequately describe her feelings. Dammit. Had the conversation slithered so far in that lascivious direction? If she wished to avoid his attentions, which she most certainly did, despite the fact that she fully intended to become quite scandalous, she was going to have to pay better attention, or employ the fan. The idea was irritatingly tempting, but she only fluttered her would-be weapon with lady-like precision.
“My Lord, I am quite shocked!” she said and glanced to the right, looking for someone more suitable with which to become outrageous. She hated to delay any longer; she had already wasted too much time pining over someone she would never have, someone who would never return her affections. But surely she could find someone more appealing than Weatherby to begin her life as an easy lady-bird.
Her companion laughed. The sound rumbled through the vast, buzzing chamber.
“Are you indeed? Tell me, my lady, how long were you wed?”
It was time to move on, Madeline realized, before the conversation became any more involved, before he inquired about other issues she had no intention of addressing.. Lowering her eyes, she made certain she looked soft and feminine and mournful. It was a fair performance, considering her dearly departed husband had never actually existed.
“I fear my sweet William succumbed to consumption well before his time,” she murmured.
Weatherby shifted his hand up her arm. It was bare. Madeline didn’t favor the long, kid gloves oft worn by the ladies of the ton, for she was a tactile creature, able to ‘feel’ as much as she could see.
Lord Weatherby, she mused, ‘felt’ irritating.
“It is rumored,” He gave her a smoldering look, designed, she assumed, to make her smolder. “, that your bridegroom died before the two of you were truly,” He twirled a finger into a ringlet that had been designed to look as if it had somehow accidentally escaped the confinement that so artfully captured the others. “Joined.”
Madeline managed another modest blush, letting it pinken her cheeks but not her ears. She had heard the rumors, of course. Indeed, she had initiated most of them herself. Few things were, after all, what they seemed. The idea that she was British, for instance. Or the ridiculous notion that she was normal,or wished to be.
Indeed, she would give much to possess her sister’s dynamic powers. But while Ella had been gifted with seemingly infinite abilities, Madeline had been granted little more than a visage that drew men like fruit flies. A parade of foolish dandies that must be brushed away at every turn.
And all the while she had worked like a conniving mule to achieve even a modicum of what Ella could do in her sleep. But perhaps that was changing.
“I’ve embarrassed you,” Weatherby said, and raising his hand, brushed his knuckles, seemingly inadvertently, across her nipple en route to her inflamed face. “My apologies.” His tone was raspy. “I had no wish to make you uncomfortable. Indeed,” He stroked her cheek. “I’ve a desire to make you so much more than comfortable.” He raised a manly brow. “Ecstatic even.”
Madeline refrained from laughing. Why did men forever believe sex was what every woman secretly desired above all else? It was a ridiculous notion. True, she herself had never actually experienced connubial bliss. Or bliss of any other sort come to that, unless one considered the relationship a woman could engender with a truly fine chocolate. Regardless, she tended to believe the male of the species was wont to overemphasize the act of copulation. It was, after all, only one of many bodily functions, several which could be relatively enjoyable if--
But in that instant Madeline felt a too-familiar flash of electricity and knew in that place where she kept her powers that Jasper Reeves had arrived. Something stirred restlessly inside of her. Something feral and impatient and sharp. Something she herself had awakened. But she controlled her erratic heartbeat and allowed herself a momentary glance toward the door.
Lord Gallo stood solemn and silent, dressed to perfection in white breeches and
a charcoal tailcoat that hugged his tight waist like a lover’s embrace. He was not a particularly tall man, but his careful, military bearing made one forget that fact. And though most were unaware that he possessed the hard thighs and muscled chest more oft found on a street fighter than a pampered peer of the realm, there was something about him that turned heads and caused feverish whispers. His aged-whisky eyes seemed older than his years demanded, and his hair, dark and curling, brushed lovingly across the dusky hue of his southern-clime skin.
Madeline felt a little breathless at the sight of him, but she eased her gaze away, pushing it smoothly back to Weatherby. “My Lord, you are quite bold,” she murmured and felt Reeves’ attention fall softly on her face. He was watching her, she realized, but knew far better than to think the cool-headed director of Les Chausettes would show interest. Still, she couldn’t seem to put him out of her mind, her dreams. Why was that? she wondered. She could have her choice of men. Indeed, she intended to do just that, for Les Chausettes had made her not only wealthy, but titled and learned as well.
“Too bold?” Weatherby asked, and with his hand hidden between their bodies, swept his knuckles across her nipple again. She stifled a dark flush of irritation. “Or not bold enough?”
“My Lord!” she gasped and stepped abruptly back. It was then that she felt the electricity again. A bright flash of something from Reeves. But she knew better than to mistake it for any sort of personal interest. One must not forget that he was the guardian of Les Chausettes, paid to keep the sisters productive and safe. After most of a decade with the coven, however, Madeline no longer wished for safety. Not from the world, and not from him. But he had made his disinterest abundantly clear, and since she was not totally without pride, she would not badger him, would not beg for his attentions like a fishwife hawking her wares.
No. She had finally learned her lesson; she would find another. Many others perhaps. Men who adored her, who showered her with attention, with gifts, with praise. Maybe even men who made her laugh.
After all these years she was finally over Reeves. Done with him. Through pining and dreaming and fantasizing.
So what would be the harm in toying with him she wondered, and against her better judgment, indeed against her own principles, she crafted a shadowy image and quietly slipped it into Reeves’ mind. It was vague, misty. The faintest suggestion of Weatherby and her together. Unclothed and, She sensed Reeves moving toward her and stifled a smile. Oh, it wasn’t as if he wanted her for himself. Hardly that. But the idea of one of his carefully trained Chausettes flaunting herself made him all but--
“My Lady! Thank heavens I’ve found you!”
Her thoughts were torn asunder as a man tugged at her sleeve.
She turned, startled to find Bertram Wendell at her elbow. He bobbed a greeting, but his florid face was not glowing with friendly bonhomie as it always did when he chided her for wearing her dancing slippers too thin. As it did when he bent over his workbench, plying his trade.
“Mr. Wendell,” she said, shocked by the worry on his face, by the sweat that soaked his simple tunic. He crunched his tattered slouch hat fretfully in his hands, looking old and harried amidst the foolish foppery of the ton.
“Who is this?” Weatherby demanded.
But Madeline didn’t turn toward him, though the cobbler dashed a worried glance toward the other.
“Mr. Wendell,” She brought his attention back to her and reached for his hand. Feelings struck her like lightning: terror, dread, worry as sharp as a blade. “Whatever is amiss?”
His eyes, deep and dark, turned back to her. “It’s my Marie!”
“Marie! No!” If asked, Maddy couldn’t have explained exactly how she knew what had happened. But she felt the panic, sensed the horror. Or maybe, maybe she saw the story in the old man’s eyes. “How long has she been gone?”
“She failed to return home last night,” he rasped.
“Where-”
“Good heavens!” Weatherby’s tone was rife with annoyance. “Why are you bothering the lady with your troubles, man?” he asked, but in that instant Jasper Reeves arrived at her side.
“Lady Redcomb,” he said and sketched a bow. His costume was immaculate, his expression impassive, but Madeline had no time to play at elegance.
“Mr. Wendell’s daughter has gone missing,” she said.
For one sparkling moment their gazes met, but Jasper shifted his smoothly away, settling on the cobbler. “Missing?” His tone was cadenced, just short of bored. “Surely not.”
“Aye,” Bertram said. “She drove the dog cart to Islington the morning past. I had no wish to send her alone, but she assured me all would be well. She laughed at my worries. Said,” He winced, remembering. “Said a well-turned ankle could do as much as a tankard to improve the tanner’s--”
“How old is the chit?” Weatherby asked.
Bertram sent him a hunted glance. “Barely eight and ten. I knew better than to let her go alone, but when she smiles I cannot seem to--”
“A pretty miss, then?” Weatherby said.
Bertram crushed his hapless hat again. “She’s got her mother’s dimples.” He said the words with a quiet reverence that seemed to steal the very breath from the room, but when Reeves spoke, his tone was unaffected.
“I assume you’ve notified the proper authorities.”
The old man rushed his gaze from one face to another. “In truth, the news seemed of little interest to them.”
“Which is as it should be,” Weatherby said. “The girl probably spent the night in some,”
Madeline flashed her gaze to him and he caught himself.
“friend’s home,” he finished, but his tone suggested more.
Bertram shook his head vehemently. “She wouldn’t allow me to worry so.
She’s headstrong, aye. But she knows I can’t live,” He paused, his voice cracking, his eyes imploring Madeline again. “I thought perhaps you could help, my lady.”
“Lady Redcomb?” Weatherby laughed. “Whatever made you think such a thing?”
“Surely the authorities will come to your assist once they realize the seriousness of the situation,” Jasper said, but Maddy turned her attention on him, letting her emotions storm through, letting him feel the truth.
“Bertram is a friend,” she said.
Jasper held her gaze for an elongated instant, then gave her a carefully patronizing smile and turned smoothly toward Weatherby.
“Well, perhaps woman’s intuition is just the thing that is needed here.”
“Lord Weatherby, it is said you’ve a fair team of bays to carry your phaeton.”
The baron raised his brow and his ire in gentlemanly unison. “Fair? To whom have you been speaking? Some inebriated houseboy who has never laid eyes on a horse in his life?”
Reeves gave him a jaded glance as he made his way toward the buffet table.
“Sir Exter seems to believe your beasts capable of matching his sorrels if the former were well rested.”
“Sir Exter wouldn’t know a thoroughbred from a thimble if he--” Weatherby began, but Madeline tugged Bertram away from the fray, urging him to a quiet corner of the room.
“Lord Gallo is correct. The authorities will surely--” she began, but
Bertram held up a leathery hand.
“I am not a wealthy man, my lady,” he said. His eyes were a pale, winter blue, set deep in a face seared by years and troubles. “But what I have I offer you.”
She felt his pain in the pit of her being. Felt it like an ulcer, mirroring the agony she had felt not so many years before when Ella had been taken. Taken and tortured.
But even from this distance she could sense Jasper’s disapproval. Les
Chausettes did not choose their own missions. Their tasks were appointed by some unknown committee. Indeed, no one outside the secretive commission could know of their powers. It was their foremost rule, set in stone, cemented in tragedy.
Yet here was this man, a good man, an honest man. A man who had known more than his share of sorrows. He stood before her, his soul as tattered as his hat, begging for help. But she dare not admit her gifts. Dare not compromise her coven.
“I fear I can do nothing for you,” she said. “You must return home.
Surely by morning she will have--”
“She’s my life,” he said. “The very air I breathe.” His voice was
quiet, almost drowned in the intensity of his feelings.
Madeline felt herself wince, but steeled her resolve. She couldn’t take the risk. For her own sake as well as for the others. “I know she is, Bertram.”
Her tone sounded trite and worthless to her own ears, but she continued on, a wintery shadow of the woman she wished to be. “She will surely return though.
I am certain of--”
“Something dreadful has happened.” His voice was low and deep, shivering across her senses like a eerie note on a silent night.
And he was right. She knew it, felt it, but she laid her hand on his arm, placating, lying. “All will be well. You’ll see. But if she does not return by--”
“She has always admired you,” he said and straightened slightly so that he exceeded her height by a few scant inches. His hands looked large and red, bisected by a thousand dark, wayward lines as he squeezed his hat harder. His balding pate shown in the golden lamplight.
Madeline’s chest hurt.
“Said you were not like the other fine ladies who stopped by our shop. Said you had a heart as lovely as your countenance.”
“Mr. Wendell,” She felt breathless, lost. “I cannot--”
“You can,” he said, and suddenly she realized the truth.
He knew what she was. Knew, and asked anyway.
 

Faeries Gone Wild

• Coming June 2009 written with New York Times bestselling author Mary Janice Davidson and with authors Michele Hauf and Leandra Logan 

MARYJANICE DAVIDSON “Tall, Dark and Not So Faery”

Scarlett is not your typical pint-sized faery. At six feet, four inches tall, she’s an unlikely candidate for a match made in heaven. But when she ventures to Cannon Falls, Minnesota, on royal orders to survey its extraordinary residents, she stumbles upon the one man who just may measure up to size…

LOIS GREIMAN “Pixie Lust”

William Timber is a cutthroat developer who refuses to let a few trees come between him and his next million. But when Avalina—a sparkling faery charged to protect all things green—comes to town, William is forced to choose between life as he knows it and the unknown reaches of his heart.

MICHELE HAUF “Dust Me, Baby, One More Time”

A librarian by day and a tooth faery by night, Sidney has absolutely no time to find Mr. Right. Until she flies smack dab into sexy, sun-bronzed Dart Sand, a man who makes her wings a-flutter…and whose allure could get her banished from the Mortal Realm.

LEANDRA LOGAN “A Little Bit Faery”

Tia is mystified when she strikes out on the Luna faery singles scene, in spite of her hourglass curves and vivacious charm. Then she takes off for Manhattan and lands on the doorstep of a steamy firefighter who sets her soul on fire—and shares a strong connection to her secret past.

One Hot Mess

• Chrissy McMullen's 5th adventure coming March 24th 2009 

Review
“Sexy…sassy…An entertaining series.” —Mystery Scene

“For the Janet Evanovich fans who are craving a protagonist similar to Stephanie Plum.” —CurledUp.com


In southern California it’s raining crime—and psychologist Christina McMullen could use an umbrella. Her clients are crazy, her on-again-off-again relationship with LAPD lieutenant Jack Rivera has just started heating up again, and now Rivera’s womanizing dad has come calling—asking Chrissy to investigate a mysterious death that might haunt his next campaign: for president of the United States. Soon Chrissy is investigating not one “accidental” death, but two—until she stumbles on a trail of bodies littering Senator Rivera’s distinguished career. As she untangles a web of high-stakes lies, Chrissy believes that she’s found the secret to a serial killer’s underground campaign. The killer has a list, a motive, and the perfect disguise—the only question is: who’s next?

Relax and Read Zone