UPDATE: The winner is…Debra Guyette!
*~*~*

I woke to thunder showers today, so no morning pool time. And, yes, I am that spoiled. However, in my defense, I live in Arkansas. Without a pool, summers would be unlivable. The weather’s so muggy it’s like living in a sweaty armpit.

Sooooo, here I am at my desk, trying to procrastinate so I don’t have to start working again on another editing project. I’m cool once I’m “in”, but I have to drag myself to open the document, kicking and screaming. Not that I don’t love the story. So far, I do.

Back to the procrastinating thing. I spend a lot of time working on this website, so it only seems fair I should expect everyone to love it as much as I do, in all its nooks and crannies. For the most part, it’s up to date—except for the “For Readers: Free Stuff” page, since I haven’t been making trading cards or updated my bookmarks in forever. But the books…? You have plenty to peruse. So, in the interest of acquainting some of you with what’s on my site, I’m holding a scavenger hunt!

Now, this is important. YOU CANNOT POST ANSWERS TO MY QUESTIONS IN THE COMMENTS. If you do, you’ve done the work and shared the answers with everyone else, and what’s the point? You don’t want competition for the prize do you? NO! Send your answers to me PRIVATELY at Delilah@delilahdevlin.com!

Scavenger Hunt

Here are the questions…

1. What titles do I already have listed for pre-order on my Upcoming Books page?
2. Which of the future projects at the bottom of the Upcoming Books page interest you?
3. How many Standalone western titles do I have listed?
4. Which series on my By Series page would you like to see more of?
5. Tell me which story on my Short Stories page you’d most like to read. (You might get a surprise!)
6. How many people “Follow My Blog”—meaning, how many people get it sent to their email inbox!?

And the prize?  How about a signed, printed ARC of Stepbrothers Stepping Out: Ultimate Collection!

UPDATE: The winner is…Tracy Howard!
*~*~*

Hello, all! Thank you first of all to Delilah for being such a gracious hostess. Visiting here with you all is always a lot of fun.

So…birthday gifts. My birthday is this weekend. I joke about not counting the numbers anymore, but still wanting the cake and presents, but really, I do still count the numbers, even if they’re daunting. This birthday will be the first without my dad, which is not so much fun. But I have a birthday dinner date with my husband this weekend, so that will help, and my boys will come bearing gifts, but I’ll have to get my own cake, I think. Something decadent and pretty, maybe.

But I’ve been thinking about birthday gifts lately, not just because my birthday is so close, but birthday gifts in general, and from previous birthdays. To be honest, I don’t always keep track of whether a gift was for a birthday, or an anniversary, or a holiday. I only know if it’s something extra-special to me. Sitting here at my desk, I can see several gifts from previous occasions, and I know a few were birthday gifts–a little stuffed dog covered in pink hearts, a small orange traffic cone that says “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” (my husband has a sense of humor about my writing and my love of western movies), and a candle that makes my office smell like pineapples when I light it. None of these are big gifts, but because of the thought behind them and the gift givers, they are special to me and make me smile when I look at them.

As a kid, my favorite gifts were books, no matter what the occasion. Yes, I loved if I got a new doll or something pretty, but the books were the best for me. They’re still one of my favorite things in the world.

My birthday gift to myself this weekend (besides a cake), will be a visit to the eye doctor, which is several years overdue, and an hour on the massage table. And probably some reading time, which is an all-year-round gift to myself, if I’m being honest.

In a manuscript I’m working on, the heroine has never really had anyone make a big deal over her birthday, but the hero’s family always celebrated birthdays in a huge way, so when he surprises her with a party on her birthday, she doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but it does make her see him in a very different light. How can she not fall a little more in love with him after that, even if he is totally unsuitable?

I’d love to know about some of your favorite birthday gifts from birthdays past (or present). Something you always wanted? An unexpected party? Just some alone time, maybe? I have a signed trade paperback copy of Hunting Medusa to give away–everyone who comments with their favorite birthday gift by midnight on Saturday, July 28 will be entered into a drawing for the book.

And if you’re celebrating a birthday soon, or just celebrated recently, happy birthday to you, too!

About the Author

Elizabeth Andrews has been a book lover since she was old enough to read. She read her copies of Little Women and the Little House series so many times, the books fell apart. As an adult, her book habit continues. She has a room overflowing with her literary collection right now, and still more spreading into other rooms. Almost as long as she’s been reading great stories, she’s been attempting to write her own. Thanks to a fifth grade teacher who started the class on creative writing, Elizabeth went from writing creative sentences to short stories and eventually full-length novels. Her father saved her poor, callused fingers from permanent damage when he brought home a used typewriter for her.
Elizabeth found her mother’s stash of romance novels as a teenager, and-though she loves horror- romance became her very favorite genre, making writing romances a natural progression. There are more than just a few manuscripts, however, tucked away in a filing cabinet that will never see the light of day.

Along with her enormous book collection, Elizabeth lives with her husband of more than twenty years, though no one else in the family reads nearly as much as she does. When she’s not at work or buried in books or writing, there is a garden outside full of herbs, flowers and vegetables that requires occasional attention.

Hunting Medusa
The Medusa Trilogy, Book 1

Ever since the original Medusa ticked off Athena, her cursed daughters have been paying for that mistake. To this day, successive Medusas play cat and mouse with the Harvesters.

When Kallan Tassos tracks down the current Medusa, he expects to find a monster. Instead he finds a wary, beautiful woman, shielded by a complicated web of spells that foils his plans for a quick kill and retrieval of her protective amulet.

Andrea Rosakis expects the handsome Harvester to go for the kill. Instead, his attempt to take the amulet imprinted on her skin without harming her takes her completely by surprise. And ends with the two of them in a magical bind—together.

Though there attraction is combustible, her impending PMS (Pre Magical-Curse Syndrome) puts a real damper on any chance of a relationship. But Kallan isn’t the only Harvester tracking Andi, and they must cooperate to stay one step ahead of a ruthless killer before they can have any future, together or apart.

Hello Delilah and friends, and thanks for letting me take over your blog.

Sometimes, when I try to explain to friends and co-workers (or my boss!) where my ideas come from, I get anything from a raised eyebrow to a polite “that’s interesting” or “I never would have thought of that.” Whether that’s a good or bad thing is unclear. Many of my original ideas come from the murky depths of my sleeping mind.

My latest Soul Mate release, Shifting Auras, started life in 2011 that way—as a half-remembered snippet of a dream. I wrote down what I could remember, and the germ of an idea started there. I wrote out some ideas and put the story aside. When I went back to it, a new idea started coming to me. Perhaps it was all the Marvel movies out there but I began thinking of a group of powered humans, ala the X-Men, and the government agencies they might be working through. The idea of having supernormal powers has always fascinated me. What would it mean to be telekinetic or psychic? Would it be good or bad? What would it mean for us and the world? I didn’t want to go down the road of “mutants are evil” as some current shows and movies have done, so I centered it around a shadow government agency. It’s been so much fun to write the series, and there are more books to come. Part of the challenge is finding powers for my characters. Outside of the popular ones, there are many others to play with, and I’m trying them all out.

I grew up reading anything that my parents had in the house. As it happened, much of what they had was science fiction and fantasy, so I skewed toward that from an early age. When I was younger it wasn’t an accepted thing to do, but I found my tribe, and we wrought havoc together. I could identify with Maya Wingfield, the heroine in Shifting Auras, who always felt like a bit of an outcast. I think that’s what makes these sorts of stories interesting. It’s the idea of not quite fitting in, of not belonging, whether you are a newcomer to school, entering an unfamiliar work place for the first time, or visiting a city where you are unsure of your welcome…or you have the ability to know what a person is thinking. I see it as a burden as much as it is a boon. The need to belong, to find people who accept you, is such a part of the human condition that it cuts across all social strata, whoever you are.

I will pick two people who answer this question to get a free ARC of Shifting Auras. If you could have a superpower, what would it be and why? Post your answer at https://www.facebook.com/ClaireDavonindieauthor/

Again, thank you to Delilah for the opportunity to interact with all you fine folks. If you’re curious about me, I can be reached at the following places in addition to my Facebook page noted above.

Website: www.clairedavon.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ClaireDavon
Newsletter/mailing list: https://clairedavon.com/mailing-list/

Here is a snippet of Shifting Auras, available exclusively on Amazon…

Maya backed away from him and toward the door, her hands going up in front of her body. Could she get out if she needed to and start screaming for help? Or could he use his power, whether telekinesis or something else, before she got a word out?

“Relax,” Ian said, his voice rising in jagged syllables. “Crikey, your emotions are written all over your face. The sensitive in Hammersmith can probably hear you. Take it down a level.”

He filled the room. She had no doubt he was faster than her and could get to her before she could yank open the door. He probably didn’t even need to move to shut it.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Maya. Bollocks, can’t you feel that? Reach in and find out if I’m telling the truth. I’ll let you.”

Bobbie made a noise and began to retch on the comforter. The air conditioner filtered the sour smell into the room.

“I . . .” she said and stopped. Touching his mind, she felt his shield again, a malleable surface she wanted—needed—to see beyond. A beat of anger at her friend pulsed under the shield before he lowered it just a little. He burned with determination and a sense of mission, but there was also sensual awareness pulsing under the skin. It was something she’d never touched before in a man. It glowed hot with primal need, searing through her and manifesting as red in his aura.

Maya concentrated on her breathing until she was lightheaded from hyperventilating. Putting a hand on her wrist Maya was relieved to feel her heartbeat slowing. Ian’s hands were overlapping on his belt buckle, a posture of waiting but not of ease. She noted with little surprise that his palms had a faint red glow in the center. Telekinetic, then. No surprise. He could, in fact, shut the door even if she got it open. She was trapped inside with someone of unknown motives, who may not have her best interests in mind. Universe rarely did, from what her parents had said.

“Um,” she said and stopped. After several moments of silence Maya relaxed and inclined her head. “You’re a big man and the whole thing is a bit sketchy, don’t you think?”

“It’s dodgy, luv, I get that. Do you think I’m dangerous?”

Maya swallowed, wishing she had a glass of water. Silence filled the room, punctuated only by Bobbie’s piteous noises. She noticed that he hadn’t made any move to go from the room. His aura was barely visible in the dim light. Pink and blue banded together, not mixing but staying distinct. Compassion, then, and dedication. No darker emotions, although something lay deep inside, but it was in a place she couldn’t get to.

“Not dangerous per se,” she said. “Not safe either. Thank you for helping Bobbie.”

Ian made an impatient gesture with his hands, waving them first toward Bobbie and then Maya.

“There is a lot we need to discuss.”

“Please,” she said, putting a hand to her head, feeling an incipient headache begin. “Just go.”

He opened his mouth but then shut it. Still he waited, his heavy scrutiny pleading with her to change her mind. She pointed to the door, aware she was being rude, but in that moment not caring. Too much had happened, and she needed him gone.

He retrieved a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. Their hands clasped momentarily, and electricity danced down her forearm. Without looking, Maya curled her fingers around it, but still gestured toward the door. Finally, Ian nodded.

“Call if you need me. We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” she replied. “Thank you but I have no interest in any of your groups.”

“You will.” With that, he made a short bow, spun on his heel, and left.

Maya leaned against the door after he had gone. He felt so familiar, but he was Universe. Never trust the government, that’s what her parents had said. Even if she felt like she should.

UPDATE: The winner is…Nancy Gilliland!
*~*~*

I’m releasing a story I wrote a while ago that was part of a series, but I’ve revised it to stand on its own. It’s one I loved writing, because I let my imagination run wild inside the stories I read when I was a child and completely in love with mythology. This is mostly based on Greek mythology and, of course, the reader gets to meet the dark and dangerous God of the Underworld, Hades. Well, you get to see quite a bit of him, actually. 🙂

Be sure to enter to win the contest, and read the very naughty excerpt I’ve included below…

Contest

Comment for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card! 

Is there a particular country’s/region’s mythology you love best?

Gargoyle’s Embrace

Lust trapped them in darkness…only love can free them…

Petra Pedersen has lived as a recluse all her life thanks to a shameful power inherited from the father she will never know. The power to incite lust in men and women with just a touch.

Exploring the garden of the mansion she’s just inherited, she comes across a fascinating stone gargoyle whose raw, passionate expression draws her to caress its powerful body. Her imagination follows her fluttering fingers. As she closes her eyes and gives herself up to the arousal, something shifts beneath her touch.

Long ago, failure to stop a demon battle trapped Octavius in a prison of stone. Freed by the woman’s incendiary touch, he doesn’t hesitate to unleash his pent-up rage and desire in a blistering fury. Yet once the haze of lust clears, he discovers he isn’t really free after all.

They are both trapped in another realm where he must choose between his last chance for redemption or returning Petra home…

Warning: Sex with inanimate objects, lusty m/m/f ménages with gods… It’s all good when the reward is freedom.

Pre-order your copy here!

It will be free to KU subscribers for a limited time!

Read an excerpt…

At the end of the path, she exited the dense, tall foliage into a clearing. A gazebo, its lattices intact but in need of paint, stood against the darkening forest. To her left a stone bench sat next to a large statue. The fading sunlight limned the statue and lent its surface a pearlescent sheen. The figure of a winged gargoyle, its massive body upright, its arms and wings outstretched as though ready to take flight was so exact, so detailed, she couldn’t help but stare. “Oh, my.”

She crept closer. Oddly, the large statue wasn’t supported by a sturdy base. Instead, the feet of the mythical creature were mired in dirt and grass. Vines crept up the thickly hewn calves and thighs, curling around and around. Leaves like ivy and blooms of honeysuckle entangled to clothe his naked body, even twining around the masculine appendage rising between his thighs.

She wondered how such a large statue remained supported by only the two feet planted in the dirt and thought the artist must have been truly gifted to achieve the balance. Entranced, she could only stare in awe at the massive object.

Shadows accentuated the outline of the long muscles cloaking his legs; light sparkled on the bulging, straining curves; veins tracked along arms and thick, leathery-looking wings.

While she stared, she realized there was nothing stopping her from touching it with the bare pads of her fingertips. She’d touched intimately only one masculine body in her life and had learned to her dismay the dangers. But this figure carved in stone couldn’t respond to her curse, and she could indulge her curiosity about his masculine form.

Timidly, she touched his knee, opening her palm over the cap. Surprised, she pulled back her hand. The stone wasn’t cool to the touch. Perhaps it had soaked up the warmth from the sunlight. The surface was so smooth it had felt real, almost pulsating.

The allure of the forbidden was too great to resist, and she pressed her hand against his thigh, trailing it upwards, admiring the sleek, hard muscle. But vines impeded her exploration.

She reached up and took the uppermost strands and peeled them away, one by one, exposing his body to the fading light, unwinding them as she moved around him. “Almost like undressing a man,” she mused whimsically.

When the vines lay in long tendrils on the ground, she stepped between his bent thighs and stared into his face. Here wasn’t the bug-eyed gargoyle she’d expected, but rather he wore a warrior’s fierce grimace, frightening in its intensity.

She smoothed her fingertips over his heavy brow, caressed the sharp blades of his cheekbones and blunt nose, and traced the curve of his thinned upper lip and the surprising fullness of the lower.

“How would such a man’s lips feel beneath mine?” she whispered.

She glanced over her shoulder at the house that seemed farther away than it had when she’d first entered the garden but found no curious glance trained her way through the windows.

She shook her head, her mouth curving slightly. “If Mr. Spalding sees anything, I will tell them it must have been someone else.”

Turning back, she gripped the tops of the figure’s broad shoulders, stood on her toes, and grazed his mouth with hers. The texture of the warm stone was soft, deceptively malleable, but perhaps it was only the give of her own lips as she brushed over his again.

She dropped down, her glance following the flow of her hands as she cupped and molded the densely muscled chest, swept over the hard whorls of hair, marveling over the detail. The abdomen, a study of tautly ribbed slabs, caused her breaths to deepen and her imagination to imbue them with life that rippled gently beneath her caress.

Downward she trailed her hand, halting just above the whorls framing the phallus, and again, she noted the veins tracing along the long shaft, the finely carved cap, so smoothly sanded there wasn’t a single rough edge or bump to mar the surface. Her hand smoothed up, then down, then dropped away. She’d gone too far.

The engorged state of the statue tempted her beyond common sense. Beyond her own natural modesty. Moisture dampened her sex. Her heart fluttered. Her breaths betrayed a ragged texture.

Waning sunlight glimmered through the trees, flashing bright orange, then faded. Darkness settled around the garden, and still there were no lights beaming from the house.

No one could see her in this dark, lonely garden. No one would be disgusted or repulsed by the impulse that burned inside her.

She’d lived alone so long, repressed desires that were natural for a woman, due to the curse that kept her separate from others.

Her touch couldn’t arouse this beast-man, couldn’t incite him to rape. For once, she could pretend she was any other girl, learning the wonder of completion with something other than her own fingers. She could pretend she held a lover inside her embrace, one who wouldn’t be so consumed with lust that her pleasure was forgotten. She could take what she desired to serve her own needs.

Petra stepped backwards and dropped her gaze from his stony, unseeing glance, nevertheless embarrassed by what she contemplated. Just once, she’d heed the urge. Just once, she’d dare something indescribably erotic. Tomorrow, she’d be surrounded by the workers the executor had hired to complete refurbishing the house, and again, she’d hide her true nature within gloves.

She opened her blouse, her fingers gliding down the row of buttons. Her bra opened with a deft twist, and she dropped both items onto the ground beside her. She stepped from her slide-on mules, unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her hips.

When she was naked, she succumbed to the urge to cover her breasts as she approached the statue. At the last moment, she reached behind her head and removed the clasp, letting her hair fall like warm silk between her shoulder blades.

The bend of his upper thighs made a convenient perch, and she stepped onto one thigh then slid her left leg around his waist. Holding his shoulders again, she squatted over his cock, finding the nudge of the warmed marble, and circled her pussy over the blunt tip.

The feeling was indescribable. And almost enough to send her over the edge. She did it again, moaning when liquid seeped from inside her to anoint the rigid tip. Growing more breathless, she knew she must slow down, must breathe, must savor this moment because she didn’t know if she’d ever find the courage to try this again.

Wrapping her hands around his thick neck, she leaned toward him, kissing his open lips, sucking on the lower, pretending he was alive and responsive to her overtures. And she sank, slowly, her slick folds consuming his cock, inch by inch, her moisture and warmth heating up the thick phallic stone she rode as she began to move on him.

Her heartbeats quickened, growing louder. “Can you hear them?” she whispered. “Can you hear my heartbeats? How they tremble for you, my gargoyle?”

Petra rose and fell, her body melting inside and out, growing slick with desire and sweat. Her breasts rubbed against his stone chest, chafing softly, her nipples blooming. Her belly undulated, rocking slightly forward and back as she thrust downward, her inner walls stretching to surround him.

He filled her, the notches of his hips and the strength of his shaft supported her as her limbs weakened the closer to release she climbed.

Her eyelids fluttered downward, and her mouth gaped open as fine ripples began to climb along her inner walls, vibrating around his solid cock. And then her mind flew, imagining a pulsing tension emanating from the cock lodged so deeply inside her, imagining that the stone gave slightly as she sank then rocked, shallowly stroking inside her.

It wasn’t until something soft caressed her shoulders and back that she opened her eyes.

The expression of her stone gargoyle was no longer gray and frozen, but dark and taut; his dark eyes stared back at her. The wings were no longer spread, but folded forward, surrounding her in heat and trapping her against his body as he brought her to the ground.

But it was too late to scream because her orgasm erupted, bowing her back, shoving her pelvis hard against her demon lover’s as the rhythmic pulsing swept over her body, causing her to tremble and moan.

With the corners of his lips curving upward, Petra’s heart thudded against her chest. Indeed, her curse was so vile she’d incited lust and awoken a stone god.

I love my Uncharted SEALs series. All have rugged, alpha heroes. All have strong heroines. Humor. Action. All the ingredients that make the stories fun for me to write, and hopefully, fun for you as well.

With Uncharted SEALs, I experimented a bit. For the first time, I did sequels with the same characters—for the simple reason I couldn’t say goodbye to them. I wanted to see inside their Happy Ever Afters. Through Her Eyes and Between a SEAL and a Hard Place share the same main characters, as do Dream of Me and Heart of a SEAL. Big Sky SEAL gave birth to my Montana Bounty Hunters, introducing Jamie and Reaper, who as a result of their work in Big Sky earned their own satellite office of MBH.

A fun theme I used in two of the stories was a cruise ship. Both Before We Kiss and Hard SEAL to Love are set on the same ship, and have the same supporting characters. You’ll meet the old guys in the scene below. Hope you enjoy it!

   

   

  

Click on the covers to learn more!

Contest

Win your choice of one of my Uncharted SEALs stories! There will be 3 winners! All you have to do to enter is answer me this…

If you could go anywhere in the world, what would be your cruise destination?

Before We Kiss

Navy SEAL, William “Wiley” Coyote, should have known his “piece of cake” assignment would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz.

A general’s daughter, Poppy Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a man made famous for defeating insurgent forces. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, and the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq—not from the physical wounds that had claimed his two legs—he’d taken his own life. His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances. Her mission in life is to see that no veteran of war would ever feel so alone, so hopeless he’d choose her dead fiancé’s path. Which was why, despite the current threats against her father, she was on this cruise, assessing the ship’s ability to accommodate the soldiers rather than sending a surrogate.

However, the first threat doesn’t come from terrorists with an axe to grind. Mexican banditos stop her tour bus heading toward Mayan ruins to shake down the passengers for their money and belongings. When one snaps a picture of her, he soon figures out there’s a much bigger payday. She knows she’s going to be kidnapped, but she didn’t know someone was on that same tour bus who had her back.

Wiley’s unconventional takedown of her would-be kidnappers exposes the fact her father didn’t honor her wishes to fly under the radar. And now that the cat’s out of the bag, Wiley’s made it clear he’s moving into her suite for the rest of their time at sea to keep her out of harm’s way.

Excerpt from Before We Kiss…

William “Wiley” Coyote should have known the “piece of cake” assignment his team leader, Deke Warrick, offered him would go sideways in a hurry. But he’d been lured by the promise of an all-expenses-paid cruise. A nice “fluffy” assignment after the last one spent escorting freighters through pirate-infested waters in the Strait of Hormuz. He was due a vacation, and he’d envisioned slipping into a chaise on the cruise ship’s deck while his target sunbathed nearby. Something his team leader had warned him might not be in the cards. After all, Deke’d had a similar, simple assignment when he’d been tasked with protecting a girl. And look what it had gotten his buddy. Shot at. Then married. Happily, it seemed.

Not that Wiley had marriage on his mind. No, sir. Not him. Everything he owned was stuffed into a duffle bag. He lived in hotel rooms, tents, and, now, a cruise boat cabin. No, he had nothing to offer a bride. Marriage wasn’t something in his cards. And certainly not to some celebutante who couldn’t keep her picture off multiple social media sites on a daily basis. That sort of exposure, even by association, would be deadly in his line of business.

He’d listened intently when Deke outlined his assignment, determined to keep this job all business, despite the photos that had spilled from the envelope during his initial briefing.

“Every time she steps out of her suite, the room attendant will buzz you. You keep on her tail, but not close enough she notices. Her daddy said she’d raise hell if she knew he’d hired security after she refused a special detail.” At that point, Deke had grinned. “I think he’s a little afraid of her.”

Wiley hadn’t smiled. Instead, he’d grunted. General Shackleford wasn’t any lightweight desk-jockey. He’d seen his share of action.

The ship had barely left the Port of Miami before Wiley understood. The woman never stopped moving. Or talking. Sometimes loudly, if she didn’t like what she heard. If he could have worn earplugs, possibly his first impressions of her would have been very different.

Poppy Shackleford was a pretty little thing. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, lightly tanned, curves in all the right places. And maybe five-foot-two in her espadrille sandals. He’d had a girlfriend charge two pairs to his credit card years ago, so he knew darn well what they were and how much the cork-heeled things cost. Although he could appreciate the sexy curves the three-inch heels gave her toned calves, he wasn’t risking getting any closer. So far, he’d managed to operate under the radar. He had no doubts she’d know exactly what he was there to do if she got one good look at him. Nothing escaped her attention. Not the too-steep ramps leading onto the ship when they’d embarked. Nor the undercooked steak she’d been served last night in the dining room.

He’d begun to think she was deaf because she talked so loudly, but then he’d realized her complaints were on behalf of her fellow passengers, and this cruise had been billed as senior-themed. Most of the thousand passengers on board were over seventy. The dinner conversation surrounding him last night consisted of tracking blood sugar levels as his companions pricked their fingertips and fed droplets of blood into their readers. Afterwards, their conversation drifted to the best fiber to promote healthy bowels and where the captain would store their bodies if they happened to pass during the night.

“No kidding?” Deke had said after Wiley’s status update early that morning.

Wiley’s jaw ground shut at the snickering no hand over a receiver could muffle. “The Countess cruise line’s security seems pretty tight. Someone is always nearby, although they’re better at blending in than I am.”

“You mean you didn’t pack any Hawaiian shirts?”

“Don’t own one,” he’d gritted out.

“How are you keeping from blowing your cover?”

Wiley grunted. “I haven’t shaved, and I have on my cowboy hat and boots.”

“So you’re sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“She won’t expect a security detail to blend in quite like I do.”

Deke grunted. “Just remember you have people positioned around the ship. Channel two if you need them.”

Which would be great if his assignment was actually aboard the ship. The farther into the jungle their tour bus drove, the deeper his concern grew. They were on an excursion to view Mayan ruins. Anywhere along their route would be a great place for an ambush. The two security people provided by the cruise line to accompany his target were in good shape, but he could tell neither was armed. Conventional weapons were impossible to smuggle aboard the ship, and the weapons kept under lock and key aboard the vessel wouldn’t have been permitted for this little jaunt.

And why were they out here? If he remembered right, the pyramids weren’t exactly wheelchair-friendly. But he knew Poppy was thorough, that she took her tour coordinator job seriously. No stone would be left unturned. No tour unvetted, personally, by her.

He’d read the dossier Charter Group had put together. Poppy Shackleford, daughter of Lieutenant General Randall Shackleford, wasn’t some spoiled daughter of a famous man. She’d endured her own tragedies—the loss of her mother when she was young and her father stationed in Afghanistan, the loss of her fiancé after he’d sustained wounds in Iraq, although not from the physical wounds that had claimed both his legs. Frank Sutton, who’d been despondent over the loss, had killed himself.

His death was why Poppy was involved in Soldiers’ Sanctuary, a non-profit that helped disabled soldiers adjust to their new circumstances, whether supporting wounded vets with additional therapies the VA was slow or unable to provide, or seeking the latest in prosthetics and mobility devices. And the organization provided mentorship, one wounded soldier to another, to ensure no veteran of war would feel so alone, so hopeless, they’d choose Frank Sutton’s path.

Wiley understood and admired her for not simply crying then moving on, but embracing a cause that might help others. However, today he wished she wasn’t quite so determined to make it impossible for him to protect her. Not that she had a clue he was there. If she’d glanced toward the back of the air-conditioned bus, all she might have noted was one dark head amid a sea of white, gray, and blue.

The fellow seated next to him gave another narrow-eyed, flinty glance.

Wiley aimed a frown his way, hoping the old guy would mind his own business. The man was burly, surprisingly muscled for an old dude.

He leaned sideways in his seat and whispered, “Name’s Joseph Olinsky, but you can call me Joe. I’m a Marine.” He nodded toward the head of the bus where Poppy stood beside the tour guide, asking questions. “She someone important?”

Not as invisible as I thought. Wiley blinked. “No, sir. I think she’s just another passenger. A noisy one.”

Shaking his head, Joe grunted. “She has a detail. That guy with a clipboard ain’t a cruise director. I’d say he’s ex-Navy, probably a SEAL. Has a trident tattoo on his upper arm. Saw it when he was stowing her backpack into the overhead.”

Knowing there was no use convincing Joe he was just a guy on a trip to see a pyramid, Wiley gave him another look. He recognized the type—his dad had been the same steady, patriotic sort. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Maybe he did need backup, should shit go sideways. “You’re right,” he murmured. “The cruise line provided her security.”

“What about you?” his gray-haired companion asked.

“Name’s Wiley, and I was Navy.”

“A SEAL,” he said, nodding. “Can’t hide that look. Everyone else, besides her, has been taking a nap. Not you. You’ve been watching the road ahead. Expect trouble?”

“Not expecting, but prepared.”

Joe nodded. “Don’t get along as well as I used to,” he said, patting his right knee. “But I can be another set of eyes. And I do know who she is, son. She’s the daughter of that general ISIS wants taken out. They had his face and his daughter’s plastered all over Facebook faster than Homeland and the FBI could take down the pages.”

Wiley almost smiled at how in tune the old guy was. “Nothing much gets past you, does it?”

Joe lifted his chin toward two older gentlemen seated across the aisle from them.

Wiley glanced over to find both old codgers staring back.

“We were in the same division, the 3rd, during Vietnam. We’re all that’s left of our company. Try to take a trip every couple of years. Went to Nam five years back. There were eight of us then.”
Wiley nodded his understanding.

“That’s Morty,” he said, pointing at the thin one with a round belly. “The other one’s Sly.”

Sly gave him a grin that displayed unnaturally white teeth.

Wiley gave both men a nod then turned his attention back to the front of the bus.

“She know you’re tailing her?”

How had the old guys figured out he was there for Poppy? He remembered how the old men had jostled him, cutting him from the rest of the group when they’d boarded the bus. He’d thought it unintentional, but now knew they’d meant to be seated beside him. Admiring their cunning, he shook his head. “She doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Need a better cover,” Joe said, eyeing his boots and the scruff on his chin. “Could tell folks you’re my grandson.”

Wiley chuckled. Sounded like a better plan than the one he’d started with. “Just don’t get in the way. If things go down…”

“You could use another set of eyes—between the three of us, we might just make one good pair.” Joe tilted his head toward his buddies.

This time, Wiley laughed.

Joe grinned and gave a slow nod to his companions, who settled back in their seats and now directed their attention to the job at hand—and the woman wearing the pretty blue dress at the front of the bus.

Suddenly, the bus shuddered and slowed. Cries arose from those seated near the front.

“Fat’s in the fire now,” Morty said, pointing forward.

Wiley cussed. A pickup was parked sideways in the middle of the road. He began to rise, but then he noted the four men standing in front of the truck. All dark, but with features that were clearly Mestizo. So, bandits rather than terrorists. He settled back in his seat. He’d let this play out a bit before he gave himself away. As long as no one was hurt, he’d keep his cover.

UPDATE: The winner is…Susan Landowski!
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All the Kindle Worlds are gone. 🙁 As a result, I’m repurposing stories that lived in other authors’ worlds and getting ready to republish them. One story I can never repurpose, because it’s solidly locked inside another world, is a piece of fan fiction I wrote for The Vampire Diaries. I was invited to write a story for the world, and Amazon even mailed me the first four seasons of the show (the only seasons available at the time) for me to immerse myself in the Diaries. Unbelievably, I’d never watched the show. I binge-watched with my dd and her husband, and then had to dream up a story that could have happened—like an episode of the show.

Since I can never repurpose this enough to sell and not run into copyright issues, I’ll be giving this one away to my newsletter subscribers. So, if you aren’t already a subscriber, here’s the link: Delilah’s Newsletter.

Contest

My original story had an uninspiring title—Making Amends. It centers around Damon and a creature he encounters. Read the excerpt, then try to think of something better than what I had. I thought maybe, Woman on Fire, but yuk. Offer a suggestion—good or bad, it’ll still count!—and you could win a $5 Amazon gift card!

Untitled

Damon knew something was afoot the moment the door closed behind him. The usual soft snick of the lock was replaced by a dull, echoing thud. Instantly all senses went on alert.

Tilting his head, he concentrated, listening to the sounds of the old boarding house, dismissing the usual creaks and groans, and then narrowing his focus to anything living—anything with a heartbeat. No sounds alerted him. He raised his head and sniffed, but beyond dust and the odor from an open whiskey decanter, he detected nothing. And yet, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Never one to ignore his instincts, he let the change come over him, his fangs descending from his gums, and his face and body tightening as he allowed his bloodlust to overtake him, giving him added strength to greet whatever might be lurking in the evening shadows.

An amused snort sounded beside him, and he shot a glance toward the sound. Nothing.

Although he’d relish a fight, the speed at which this mysterious creature apparently moved removed that option. Better to know his foe before engaging in a battle…

He shook his head, retracting his teeth, his thoughts racing, but only in anticipation of a challenge. Not from fear. For him to fear, he had to give a damn about his un-life. He stepped deeper into the house. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he sang softly and narrowed his eyes.

A soft caress, lighter than a stir of air, touched his shoulder. A thin giggle sounded, high-pitched, young, moving from behind him, then retreating toward the large open living room. Logs shifted on the fireplace, then burst into flames, and for the first time, Damon saw the outline of something, a translucent echo of an image, as it shimmered in front of the fire, and then moved fluidly and quickly away, disappearing against the gloomy paneled walls and heavy furnishings. Legs, a torso, but beyond that it had moved too quickly, and oddly meltingly, for him to discern more of its shape.

“You are female,” he drawled, pretending unconcern, when he knew whatever had joined him in the house wasn’t benevolent. Just a hunch, but he knew.

“Am I?” came a voice, hoarse and deep, whispering into his ear.

Damon held still. He hadn’t felt a gust of breath, so whatever was here in this room wasn’t living, wasn’t breathing, since he’d felt no glint of recognition—not a vampire using some sort of glamour to mask his or her presence. Also unlike any ghosts he had encountered, which tended to appear as their former selves. What the hell was it? “You are…male, then?”

“What would be the point of that?” came a breathier whisper.

Damon quirked up one side of his mouth. “Do I know you?”

“Wrong question.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Did I know you?”

Breathless laughter rang around him, from just in front of him and then to the fireplace where flames licked outwardly before bouncing back as the tinkling laughter faded, nearing him again.

Damon felt almost dizzy from the frenetic movements of the entity. “Maybe I should leave you to your amusements, since I’m tired of this game.”

“Not a game, not a game,” came a singsong voice, still androgynously husky.

But decidedly female since he was intrigued. Damon drew a deep breath and strode toward the sideboard to pour a drink. No movements or sounds intruded, so he took a seat on a leather couch and drank, breathing in the sublime scent of 50-year-old whiskey while he pondered this latest mystery.

“Female, maybe,” he said softly. “Not human. Not vampire. . . .” He raised his voice slightly. “Not ghost.”

“Clever, clever.” The seat beside him sank, the indention pointed rather than a smooth curve like a round bottom sitting.

He stared at that point. “Won’t you introduce yourself?”

The point slid toward him, a faint groove marking the dark leather, until it skipped to his thigh. Damon felt the sharpness, like the dull side of a knife’s blade as it skimmed one thigh, then trailed upward, jumping to the arm holding the drink, up to his shoulder, then across his face to his mouth. There was sizzling heat in the scrape.

Instinctively, he gasped, then quickly pressed his lips together to keep whatever was touching him from entering. He arched a brow, not wanting the creature to see his unease.

The point scratched his bottom lip, drawing blood, and then left. The shimmer touched the fire in the hearth and crouched there, holding still for the first time while its form continued to glint red, orange, white, and blue, until it slowly solidified, colors dulling, but its form revealing its true nature.

Damon held perfectly still, his drink dangling from frozen fingers as he tried to gather his scattered wits. Cold spilled down his spine.

Although her appearance was strangely altered, he recognized her. How could he not? He’d killed hundreds of women, maybe thousands, but who was counting? Too many to remember all their faces. But he’d never forgotten his first meal. The one who’d made him a vampire.

UPDATE: The winner is…Peggy Harrington!
*~*~*

Thought you might like to see what I’ve released so far this year—just in case you missed it! I published the last three Texas Cowboys stories, the entire Triplehorn Brand series, three more Montana Bounty Hunters, a couple of Colorado cowboy stories, one multi-author anthology, and just one short story! I have to pick up the pace for the rest of the year! Think I can do it? I don’t know, I did just hit 60… 🙂

1. 01/02/18 – BOUND & DETERMINED, Texas Cowboys series
2. 01/23/18 – SLOW RIDER, Texas Cowboys series
3. 02/13/18 – NIGHT WATCH, Texas Cowboys series
4. 02/27/18 – PIRATES, A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology
5. 03/06/18 – LAYING DOWN THE LAW, The Triplehorn Brand series
6. 03/08/18 – DAGGER, Montana Bounty Hunters series
7. 03/20/18 – IN TOO DEEP, The Triplehorn Brand series
8. 04/03/18 – A LONG, HOT SUMMER, The Triplehorn Brand series
9. 04/05/18 – REAPER’S RIDE, Montana Bounty Hunters series
10. 04/27/18 – THE BOUNTY-2, short story
11. 05/11/18 – TRUE HEART
12. 05/22/18 – LONE HEART
13. 06/26/18 – COCHISE, Montana Bounty Hunters series

I have favorites among these stories for differing reasons…

My favorite covers? In Too Deep is just gorgeous! Cochise is sexy as hell!

 

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My favorite characters? Reaper is a grumpy hard-ass, who can show a surprisingly tender side to his wife, Carly. I made him suffer in Reaper’s Ride! And then there’s Lacey Jones from Dagger… I haven’t had that much fun writing an introduction to a story in a very long time. If you want to read that intro, head here. My “Bounty Hunter Barbie” is unique.

 

*~*~*

My favorite stories? What can I say, I love writing bounty hunters. I love writing the action-packed takedowns of stupid criminals. They are a blast to write. My bounty hunter stories are chock-full of action!

 

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My sexiest story? Hands down, it’s The Bounty-Part 2, because for the shorties, I let the “dirty girl” out to play!

What’s coming?

Coming soon, I have two more bounty hunter stories in the works, Hook (I’m shooting for August), and a crossover with my SEAL stories, S*x on the Beach (coming in September). I’m revising the hell out of a fantasy story, Gargoyle’s Embrace (coming in July). All three are up for pre-order. As well, I’ll be writing a new shorty, Stepbrothers Stepping Out: With His Client. So sexy times are coming. This fall, I’ll give you the next With His SEAL Team installment. So, be sure to check back in with me!

  

Contest

The projects I have listed above aren’t going to keep me busy, so I was wondering what else you might like to see from me. Want more bounty hunters? Texas cowboys? Witches, vamps, or werewolves? More SEALs?  Comment below for a chance to win one of the stories I’ve released so far this year. Your choice!