Category: book tour

The
lovable, creative and quirky heroine tackles these challenges. AsDesdemona tries to run damage control on her reputation, she begins
to explore her sexuality. Along the way, she will get a second chance
at genuine love.

Q.
D. loves her rescued puppy, red wine, running through sprinklers,
dark chocolate with sugared ginger, and anything wrapped in a corn
tortilla. Her prized possessions include a hot pink Christmas tree
and a garden full of okra and basil.

She
hasn’t decided what she’ll be when she grows up, but whatever it
is will be filled with romantic impossibilities.

Facebook
* Twitter * Bookbub* Amazon
* Goodreads

Chapter 1

So I’m home alone on Saturday night in my flannel PJs, relaxed on my denim sofa, eating
fudge and brazil nuts, and channel surfing. Jewelry channel—maybe a flashy gem would jazz up
my life. Gag—tonight it’s cameos. Sex in the City—I bet they all faked it, even Samantha.
Marriage Exposure—where do they find people who will go on television and argue about their
sex lives?
Wait.
I don’t believe my eyes. It looks like Burt on Marriage Exposure. I raise the volume and
edge closer to the screen. It is him, the same reddish-brown hair and sharp features. He’s even
wearing his favorite green-striped polo shirt. I haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s wearing that
same shirt. The short-haired woman sitting next to him has her hands covering her face. She’s
wailing something like, “You never loved me! You never loved me!”
It can’t be. Burt’s in an L-word relationship? I edge closer to the screen, hardly breathing.
Burt pulls at the back of his neck with one hand, the way he always does when he’s
stressed, and looks down toward his feet. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t love you.”
Unbelievable. He’s married to her.
She uncovers her red, puffy face and leans close to him. “You never loved me.” Spit flies
out with her words. “You’ve always loved…” She gives a big, gasping sob and then slowly,
distinctly blurts out my name. “…Desdemona. With…with…her beautiful dark eyes. Her perfect
body. Her incredible piano playing.” More spit with the p’s. “Her long, thick raven hair.” She
raises both hands to her head and pulls at her brownish spikes.
No. I must have misheard.

2
But she repeats my name, dragging out each syllable as if it causes her physical pain.
“Des…de…mon…a.”
Could Burt have dated another Desdemona?
Something mushes between my toes. Fudge under my foot oozes out onto my creamy-
white lamb’s-wool throw, which is now on the floor. I must have stood when she wailed my
name. Brazil nuts are all over the floor.
Burt takes her by the shoulders. “Jenny, no.” He always was considerate of everyone’s
feelings. “I could never love Desdemona. She…she’s a freak. She fakes orgasms.”
A crazy giggle snakes its way up from my chest. Is this really happening? How could he
have known? Guys can’t really tell, can they? The giggle morphs into a nauseated groan. Am I
dreaming? Drugged? In a parallel universe? Has Burt just announced my unspeakable flaw to
the world?
And so what if I don’t get the big O every, single time? Well, I guess I hardly ever get
it…OK—I got it three times, and it would have been four if my vibrator had not quit working. But
I’m not even twenty-seven yet—far from the sexual peak of forty.
At some point during the last minute my phone has started buzzing. My autopilot eyes
glance at it. Friends are texting me about Burt being on TV. So there is something worse than
being a nonorgasmic faker. It’s being a nonorgasmic faker and having the whole world know it.
A loud animallike howl shocks the breath out of me. What is that? I freeze and listen for
a split second before I realize the roar is coming from me.
I muffle my howls, hoping I haven’t alarmed my landlady, who lives in the attached
duplex. With foot in fudge and phone facedown, I’m transfixed.

3
Burt embraces his sobbing wife and mutters endearments. The MC hoofs it into the
audience, whose members are clamoring to speak into the microphone.
A long-haired, leather-vested guy gets the first shot. “Hey, Burt.” He’s got an oily,
smooth voice—could be a talk-show host himself. “Ah, maybe you just ain’t man enough for
Mona.”
Mona. I hate when people call me Mona. But this could be good. Maybe the world will
forget my real name. Yes! Mona.
Next a clean-cut, older guy steps up and glares at the leather vest. “Des. De. Mon. A. Not
Mona.” Crap. “You should be respectful enough to pronounce her complete name.”
The audience interrupts with hoots that could be boos or cheers or random insanity. The
MC swings the mic toward an elderly lady, but the clean-cut guy jerks him back. “I’m not
finished. The first gentleman—” He rolls his eyes toward the leather vest. “—was correct about
one thing.”
The impatient grandma reaches for the mic, and the MC blocks her hand and tries to
hurry the clean-cut guy, who looks like he’s gearing up for a long lecture. “If Desdemona is not
satisfied, it’s clearly a sign of the male’s lack of technique. Research shows…”
Grandma’s hand darts between the two men and snatches the mic. She runs down an aisle
with the MC in pursuit. “Burt!” Her voice is surprisingly loud and shrill. “Did you ask
Desdemona what’s a matter?” She screams out questions as the MC chases, grabbing futilely for
the mic. “Did you ask her why?” This elderly woman sprints like a teenager. “How do you know
she faked? Did you go down?” The audience is out of control now.

4
In a shuffle of arms, a tall, skinny guy commandeers the mic. “Hey, Desdemona.” It’s as
if he’s looking straight at me—in the room with me—seeing me. “Come to me.” Hairs skitter
across the back of my neck. “I’ll get you there, baby.”
Somehow the MC has produced a second mic that overrides the other one and muffles the
noise of the audience. “Thanks for being with us for another shocking episode of Marriage
Exposure. Tune in tomorrow for an unbelievable brother-in-law who sneaks into bed with his
own brother’s wife—” He pauses, moves close to the camera, and raises both eyebrows several
times. “—without her knowing it. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
The camera pans over the audience that is now chanting, “Desdemona, Desdemona,
Desdemona…”
A diet-pill commercial is halfway over before I shake off the shock enough to silence the
TV. Eleanor, my cat, is batting a Brazil nut across the floor. My phone rings. Ugh. It’s Mom. I
grab the phone and the ruined lamb’s wool, scoop up the nuts, and hop toward the kitchen to
stick my foot in the sink. I would ignore my mother, but if I don’t answer, she’ll call my landlady
to come over and make sure I’m not bound and gagged, unconscious, or murdered.
How will I deal with my mother’s shock about Burt’s revelation?
“Mija, where are you?”
“Home.”
“Alone?” She’d like me to be married and have several kids by now. Alone is never a
word she welcomes.
“Yes.”
“On Saturday night—home alone? With all there is to do in Austin?”
“Yes.”

5
She lets a long silence hang. I would normally fill it with disclaimers about being too
tired to go out or the last-minute cancellation of my gig tonight. Instead of chatting her up, I wait
her out and run water over my foot. Eleanor, maybe sensing my misery, rubs against my other
leg. Nothing I could say will divert Mother from Burt’s blast. I take deep breaths, steadying
myself for the onslaught.
She finally seems to realize she’s not getting an explanation about my solitary Saturday
night. “How do I say this?” She sighs loudly. “It’s one thing to know people privately, but to see
them as a nationally known personality…it’s…it’s…”
“Mom, just say it.” Tears well in my eyes. The reality of an insane TV show barging into
my life stabs in places I didn’t know I could hurt.
“OK, OK. Well, it happened while I was with my book-club group at the bookstore.” It’s
really just a book corner in the general store on Main Street.
“You’re at the store?” This makes no sense. It’s too late for the store to be open.
“No—I’m not there now. We were there from six to eight tonight for our weekly
meeting, and then we went to ladies’ night at the margarita bar and had two-for-ones, and I just
now got home. You know that new bar that opened where the bakery used to be?”
There are only a dozen stores in my hometown of Garcia. How could I forget? “Yeah.”
“The antique store is also adding a coffee shop—oh, I’m rambling. Want me to just get to
the point?”
I force out a whisper and blot my tear-slicked face with a paper towel. “Yes.”
She takes a deep breath again. No question that she’s unnerved by the conversation we’re
about to have. My stomach knots. It will be worse to hear my mother talking about Burt and fake
orgasms than it was to hear strangers on national television. I lower my wet but clean foot from

6
the sink so I’m standing solidly. I pick up Eleanor, who allows one of her rare cuddles. She must
know I need it.
“Hunter Johns.”
I gasp. His name triggers the same pow in my chest that happens every time I think of
him, or see a stranger tilt his head that certain way, or hear a laugh that mimics Hunter’s deep
ring, or dream of kissing him only to wake and remember it will never happen again. Pow.
“Desdemona, are you there? Did you hear me?”
I should answer Mom—say something. It’s been over nine years since Hunter and I were
seniors in high school and he left the campus in handcuffs. Nine years since we swore our love to
each other. Nine years since I ruined our chances of ever being together. But still the regret and
loss slice razor sharp.
“Desdemona?”
“What about Hunter?” My voice scrapes.
“Oh, good, I thought we’d been cut off. Well, we were about to discuss our new novel
when all these people flooded in. Not locals, but people from San Antonio, Austin, Houston. It
was just amazing. Our quiet little Saturday-night book talk was turning into…”
“What about Hunter?” I can’t fathom where this is going. I’m so caught off guard that for
a full two seconds I forget Marriage Exposure.
“I’m getting to him. So Alma went up to the manager and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ And
he said a national best-selling mystery writer was here for a book signing. Have you read Des
Amone’s books?”
“Yes. Sure I have.”
“Did you read the one that was made into a movie?”

7

“Mom. Where is this going? What does it have to do with Hunter?”
“Des Amone is Hunter’s pen name. And Hunter came to Garcia to do a hometown launch
of his new book tour. It’s all over the Internet, but none of us noticed. You know we mainly stick
to romances.”
“Des Amone…” I repeat her words to make sense of them. “…is Hunter’s pen name.”
“Isn’t that a hoot? And ya’ll were in school together.” Mom is oblivious to the
relationship I had with Hunter. She lives in her own little world that revolves around her tiny,
barely-break-even flower shop with her upstairs living quarters—my home until I moved to
Austin. “So we each bought his book, and when he signed mine, he asked about you. Can you
believe it—a famous, rich author still remembering a classmate from all those years ago? Isn’t it
funny how his pen name kind of sounds like Desdemona?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So for our next meeting we’re all reading Hunter’s
book. You know it’s just so much fun to read a book with a group…”
“What did he say about me? What did you tell him?”
“He just asked how you are, and I told him you were playing all over Austin and giving
lessons. I showed him that picture of you in your long, red dress, playing that red baby grand. I
think it was taken in some bar on Sixth Street. He said, ‘Still beautiful as ever.’” I shut my eyes
and make myself breathe. “We could have talked and talked, but there was a line behind me, so I
moved on. I told him to look you up when he goes to Austin on his book tour. And I gave him
your number.”
The pow that hit me when she said his name evolves into a melody that fills my chest
while she drones on. The melody, not one that I could ever put to music no matter how hard I try,

8
is always there—inside—below the surface. But at times like this it expands, presses, and hurts
in the middle of my chest.

***

Until nine years ago, Hunter’s and my lives had always bordered each other’s. Garcia has only
one high school, which at that time had fewer than eight hundred students. Hunter stood
apart—confident, smart, athletic. For years my eyes were drawn to him whenever we had a class
together—his height and his thick mahogany hair were like banners catching my attention. Even
the bones in his face seemed more substantive than anyone else’s. His strong nose, his forehead
with its masculine bulge above his eyebrows, the vertical line that creased each cheek, making
his face strong even when relaxed. Our art teacher in ninth grade had said, “Hunter, with your
bones, you’ll look the same when you’re an old man as you do now.”
Throughout high school, whether I was in class or the hallway or a common area, my ears
sought out his deep voice and warm laugh. Every day, no matter what else was going on, a part
of me was always listening for Hunter.
In our junior year, we had homeroom together. During the first semester, he sat in the
middle of the room, usually surrounded by three cheerleaders, who acted as if it were their
official role to keep him entertained. I sat in the back, pretended to study, and wished I could be
pretty, blond, blue-eyed Georgina, the one sitting behind Hunter. Get over it. He’s a nice
guy—nice to everyone. His occasional smile at me is just that—a simple smile. I was totally out
of the in-crowd, and piano practice took all my time. So I never knew for sure who he was
dating.

9
One morning in homeroom, his three groupies were giggling about some whispered joke,
and Hunter turned around to face Georgina, who was tapping his shoulder. I watched her hand
relax onto his bicep and imagined it was my hand—imagined I was stroking those prominent
muscles. When I let my gaze slide up his arm to his face, I was shocked that his eyes were
waiting to meet mine. An involuntary gasp escaped from me, and somehow my soft sound
pierced the giggling, and all three girls followed his gaze and turned to stare at me.
I shook my head, and frowned down at whatever textbook was lying open in front of me.
I pretended to be perplexed at some academic mystery. Then I gazed slightly to the right of
Hunter, hoping they would think I was deep in thought and not that I had been salivating for him.
After that embarrassment, I vowed to myself that I would keep my eyes off of Hunter, but
the very next day, I was again drawn into watching Georgina and him. She slid into her desk and
pulled a tightly folded sheet of notebook paper out of her jeans pocket. Hunter seemed to be
ignoring her, focusing on an open book on his desk. She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, but
he just held up one finger as if to acknowledge her. He didn’t turn to face her. She stood, leaned
her whole body over his shoulder, and passed the note to the cheerleader sitting in front of
Hunter.
The cheerleader unfolded the note, scanned, and instantly turned and slapped the paper
onto Hunter’s desk. “Hardcore.” She grinned wickedly at Hunter.
Hunter shook his head, covered the note with his hand, and slid it under his book. Clearly
whatever he’d seen written on the paper was something he saw fit to cover up. By now a
smattering of giggles all around Hunter caught the teacher’s attention at the exact moment
Hunter tried to hide the note.

10
Miss Gomez walked purposefully down his aisle, halted at his desk, and held out her
hand. “Let’s have it, young man.” She was a first-year teacher, and she took her role as
disciplinarian very seriously.
Hunter gave her the note.
The teacher’s eyebrows shot up above her black-framed glasses. Her tan skin flushed a
burgundy red. “Does this…” Her voice shook. “…this thing belong to you?”
Hunter nodded solemnly with his eyes cast downward toward his desk. “Yes, ma’am.”
She wadded the note, stomped back to her desk, and started writing furiously on her pink
pad. Hunter, anticipating a discipline referral to the office, dropped his book into his bag and was
standing, ready for the pink slip as soon as she ripped it off the pad.
Unbelievable. He was innocent. It was Georgina’s note. He had nothing to do with it. I
gaped at Georgina, waiting for her to own up, but she slumped into her chair and guiltily stared
at Hunter as he walked out of the room.
I fumed all morning. And Georgina’s weeping in the hallway, telling her friends about
Hunter taking the blame for her, didn’t soften my resolve. She needed to own up.
I’d always been so frozen by my crush on Hunter that I’d never actually walked up to
him and initiated a conversation. But now. Now I was determined to help him. At lunch I waited
near his locker, hoping to talk with him. The hallway was almost empty. It looked as if he wasn’t
coming. My heart sank lower as each second ticked by. Then he rounded the corner and started
toward his locker.
I blurted out, “Hunter.” My voice was too loud in the quiet hallway. “I…” I lowered my
volume. “Could I talk to you?”

11
He grinned and picked up his pace. In a few long strides, he was next to me, looking
down at me. Warmth radiated from his body. The scent of him made my heart rate speed
up—made me want to inhale deeply. His neck, up close, was strong and muscled, and I could see
his pulse beat on one side. He had black stubble on his chin. His lips, the bottom one thicker than
the top one, were slightly parted, as if waiting for me to say or do something. For long moments
we stared at each other. Was he remembering the time in our sophomore year when he rescued
me and we almost had a date? My face got hot, and then I did what I always do when nervous. I
babbled. “Georgina brought that note in. You had nothing to do with it. You even ignored her
when she tried to get your attention. She practically bowled you over leaning across you to pass
the note. You are innocent. And it wasn’t fair for you to take the fall. I witnessed the whole—”
He put his hands on my upper arms and gently squeezed. “Are you worried about me?”
He grinned, and his eyes lit up as he peered into mine.
“Well, I…it just isn’t right. I don’t think you should be blamed for something—”
He squeezed again. The touch of his hands on my bare arms arrested my thoughts and my
words. It wouldn’t have mattered what he said at that moment; I was speechless just from the
touch of him.
“Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to me—coach will just make me run extra laps—it’s
no big deal.”
I shook my head—mainly in an effort to clear my head. Then I said as much for myself
as for him, “You must really, truly love her.”
“Georgina?” He huffed out a laugh. “Everyone loves Georgina. But she’s with Leo.
They’re solid.” Leo had graduated the prior year—I had known they were an item while he was

12
still in high school; I didn’t know they were still dating. “He probably gave her the joke—saw
him with it last weekend.”
My head was reeling with this new information. “But, still, you shouldn’t have to take—”
“Desdemona.” My heart stopped when he said my name, especially when he squeezed
my arms again and moved a little closer. “Georgina wants to be class president. If she took the
wrap for the note, they’d probably DQ her. All that will happen to me is laps. And I do laps
every day. It’s nothing.”
My need to babble had ceased. All I knew was that Hunter, gorgeous Hunter, wasn’t with
Georgina, and he was standing closer to me than necessary, and he was holding my arms way
longer than he needed to, and his breath was warm on my face, and if I were to stand on tiptoes
and lean four and one half inches forward, I could put my lips on that pulse beat on the side of
his neck.
And then one side of his lips tilted upward in a grin that tugged at a secret place deep
inside my body. He whispered into my ear. “It will be worth every single lap just to know it
matters to you.”
And the next morning in homeroom, Hunter dragged a desk to the back of the room and
sat behind me. No one questioned it. We were suddenly together. We didn’t get to actually go
out on dates that year—neither of us had a car, and Hunter had huge responsibilities helping his
mom take care of his dad, who had suffered a brain injury in a construction accident. But all day,
every day at school, we were together. And within weeks we started having stolen moments
alone in the piano room.
The band director had given me keys to the high school’s main entry door and the small
piano room because I spent so much time there either practicing alone or accompanying a

13
student instrumentalist. From my freshman year on, my piano teacher often hooked me up with
paying gigs in the community, so with no piano at home, I needed lots of practice time at school.
During our junior year, Hunter’s mother took the job as school secretary, and often, hours after
most people had left the campus, she and I would be the only ones in the building. Usually, few
people ever came down to the small piano room, wedged between janitor’s supply and book
storage.
But sometimes Hunter would come in before he checked in with his mother after athletic
practice. At first I would be surprised to look up from my music and find him listening to me
play. But soon I tingled with hope everyday—hope that he would come in and tell me about his
day.
The first time we kissed was on the piano bench.
He had been standing in the doorway while I practiced “Always on My Mind” for a
fiftieth-wedding-anniversary party the next weekend. The small spinet piano was angled so that
my side faced the doorway, and I could see him in my peripheral vision. After the last measure, I
turned toward him. The word huggable flashed through my mind. That’s how he looked with his
shower-wet hair, gray sweats, and sleeveless T-shirt.
His head was tilted in his reflective way. “That’s beautiful.” Our eyes connected. “You’ll
play it this weekend, right?”
“Yeah—and some others—all their favorites.”
He stepped closer. “Will it bother your playing if I sit beside you while you practice?”
“Of course not.” I patted the bench.
Instead of facing the piano, he straddled the bench and faced me. His closeness set every
cell in my body dancing. His warm exhale touched my neck. My body breathed in on its own as

14
if hungry to capture his breath. My eyes dropped from his eyes to his lips—and lower. As if my
hands had a will of their own, they moved to reach for him. I caught myself. Forced my eyes
forward. Forced my hands to the keyboard.
But he leaned closer, his gaze on my face. I turned back toward him.
“Maybe…” His brown eyes burrowed into mine. He seemed to be casting for his next
words. “…maybe someday you and I—” I inhaled the breath of his words. “—will have a
lifetime—” He moved so close that I felt his lips moving with his last words. “—of favorite
songs.”
I wanted to say, “That’s the sweetest, most romantic, most touching, beautiful thing
anyone could say.” I wanted to say, “You’ve just probed into my deepest, most wonderful
fantasy.” I wanted to say, “Hunter, I love you, love you, love you.” But I froze. Somehow his
eyes asked me if I was OK. I must have nodded because the distance between our lips closed.
The feeling of being connected to him—of not knowing where I ended and he started—blurred
out everything else. For a time, I lost track of where our hands were, of how his legs were
embracing me along with his arms, of how our bodies were plush together, of how his secret
bulge was speaking to my thigh.
Footfalls, his mother’s high-heeled shoes clanking up the empty hallway, pulled us apart.
Hunter stood, and I played the opening measures of “Always on My Mind” as she opened
the door.

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

Maybe
it’s the weather. But the whole town is overrun with the littlegreen bastards this year. They’re causing a lot of damage. They’re
eating everything in sight. And they’re just the babies . . .

“Old
school horror.” —Jonathan Maberry

“A
lot of splattery fun.”—Publishers Weekly

“Frightening,
gripping.”—Night Owl Reviews

Add

to Goodreads

Amazon* Apple
* B&N
* Google
* Kobo

Website
* Facebook *Twitter * Amazon

* Goodreads

They fed Tony to an alligator!
Frank Ferrante woke up in a cold sweat, heart galloping to break free from his rib cage. His
mouth was gritty with sand, the sour taste of thick morning breath compounded by the fact that he
hadn’t brushed his teeth in two weeks.
He rubbed his sunburnt lids with filthy knuckles. The image of Tony, screaming like he’d never
imagined a man could scream, the alligator clamped on his leg like a vise, refused to dissipate like the
ghost of a dream.
Because it wasn’t a dream.
The crying gulls overhead were drowned out by Tony’s pleading cries within his head.
The sun stabbed his face when he sat up, the Gulf of Mexico surf creeping toward his hiding
space in the tall beach grass. He spat into the sand, the yellow gob of mucous quickly absorbed.
“You’re safe. You’re safe,” he muttered, hoping if he said out loud enough, he’d eventually
believe it. So far, it wasn’t working. What he did know was that he was safe for the moment. That didn’t
mean his ultimate fear wasn’t standing right behind him, waiting to ruin the next moment.
An old couple walked along the surf, gray hair standing on end against the breeze. A guy wearing
nothing but a nut hugger and headphones jogged past them, his body glistening with sweat or sea spray.
Frank really didn’t care which.
Every joint and muscle in Frank’s body hurt. He was used to sleeping on one of those sleep-
number beds, not within itchy beach grass, alleys and dark stairwells. He was sore and tired and hungry
and scared. He wondered how long his heart could hold out, always on the brink of disaster and misery
like this. He was young, only thirty-two, but he’d aged at least fifty years over the past couple of weeks.
Shit, being forced to watch what they did to Tony had taken him right to the front of the old
codger line.
“What the hell?”
Something tickled his back. He reached an arm to pull what must have been grass out of his
shirt. His shoulder popped, ripples of pain shooting down to his fingertips. The pad of his index finger
touched something long and hard. It moved up his back. More like scampered.
Frank yelped, the old couple pausing in their morning walk to see him pop out of the reeds like
an overexcited meerkat.
Something was in his shirt, clawing its way up and down his back. He went into an impromptu
St. Vitus dance, clawing at the dirty rag he called a shirt. Now there was something in his front and back!
He stepped on his own foot, toppling backward. He heard and felt whatever was in his shirt give
a soft pop. A sticky wetness oozed down his spine. Tearing his shirt open, the buttons popping free, a
sleek green shape leapt off his scarred belly and tore ass along the beach.
Goddamn lizard.

Which meant the thing that had exploded on his back was one, too.
Disgusted, but not as much as he would have been weeks ago, he slipped his shirt off and
inspected the Turin-like stain that was in the vague shape of a lizard. He scooped the sticky remains off
his back, flicking it onto the sand but refusing to look.
Still in his clothes, he walked into the warm waters of the Gulf, washing the remains from his
flesh.
There were more goddamn lizards in this poor excuse for a Florida town than squirrels in all of
New York. He’d gotten used to them flitting over him while he slept. But this . . . this was an intrusion
that would not stand. He was glad he’d crushed the one, pissed he’d let the other get away.
After a thorough soak, Frank left the beach, wet shoe prints in the sand. He needed to find food
and something to drink. Worsening dehydration was making his heart beat all kinds of funky. He should
be home in Ozone Park right now, having a hot cappuccino, huevos rancheros and a side of home fries
at the North Avenue Diner.
Frank choked back tears at thinking he could never go back there again. That life was as good
and done as Tony’s.

Followthe tour HERE

for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

FIVE
KNIVES welds the intensity of Jack Bauer’s “24” to the
scorching heat of THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST.

“Theauthor is a great talent.” — Aaron C. Brown, Amazon Top 1000
Reviewer

When
a man plummets to his death from an apartment tower, Will Finch’s
shock soon becomes a nightmare. As he studies the open windows above
the corpse, Finch notices a lamp blinking erratically behind a drawn
curtain on the eleventh floor.

When
he investigates the distress signal, Finch discovers a woman
handcuffed to a bedpost. Over the following week, he uncovers a
conspiracy that ties the murder to a series of bombshells. The
victim’s bankruptcy. A global stock fraud. A murder spree that
began in Baghdad and is now haunting the citizens of San Francisco.
Is this the work of a serial killer, a copycat — or both?

But
before he can file his report for The San Francisco Post, Finch’s
leads evaporate. Within days, three victims are dead. Does a pattern
of five knife wounds provide a clue? Can he unravel the mystery
before he — and his fiancée — are caught up in the web of
murder?

Five
Knives is the prequel thriller in the Will Finch crime series — a
novel that opens on the first day of Will Finch’s journalism
career. Everything that Finch learns about crime reporting begins
with Five Knives.

In
2015 D.F. Bailey published The Finch Trilogy — Bone Maker, Stone
Eater, and Lone Hunter — three novels narrated from the
point-of-view of a crime reporter in San Francisco. Second Life
(2017) is the first in a series of stand-alone books that follows the
characters established in the trilogy. The series prequel, Five
Knives, came out in 2018.

His
first novel, Fire Eyes, was optioned for film. His second novel,
Healing the Dead, was translated into German as Todliche Ahnungen.
The Good Lie, another psychological thriller, was recorded as an
audiobook. A fourth novel, Exit from America, made its debut as an
e-book in 2013.

Following
his birth in Montreal, D.F. Bailey’s family moved around North
America from rural Ontario to New York City to McComb, Mississippi to
Cape May, New Jersey. He finally “landed on his feet” on
Vancouver Island — where he lives next to the Salish Sea in the
city of Victoria.

For
twenty-two years D.F. Bailey worked at the University of Victoria
where he taught creative writing and journalism and coordinated the
Professional Writing Cooperative Education Program — which he
co-founded. From time to time he also freelanced as a business writer
and journalist. In the fall of 2010 he left the university so that he
could turn “his pre-occupation with writing into a full-blown
obsession.”

Website

* Facebook
* Twitter * Amazon
* Goodreads

CHAPTER ONE
SAN FRANCISCO. FALL, 2007.
Will Finch saw the corpse less than a minute after he heard the horrible noise. He never
imagined that death could sound so leaden. And yet, so wet. The punch of a heavy body
splatting onto flat concrete. A splash punctuated by a gasp. Then a faint wheeze as the lungs
released a final breath into the city night.
At first, he couldn’t see the body. Four people stood on the sidewalk blocking his view. Their
heads tipped down at an angle as they absorbed the catastrophe that sprawled next to their
feet.
“What happened?” Finch pushed forward and stepped around the blonde girl. She held a hand
to her mouth and let out a cry.
“I don’t know.” The boy next to her glanced at the building above them. “He fell,” he offered with
a stony expression. Finch studied them a moment. Two couples in their midteens, white,
vibrant, all well-bred and dressed for dinner at an upscale restaurant in nearby Jackson Square.
Probably making their way down to the Embarcadero where they could catch a street car or
train back to their suburban homes. He checked his watch. 11:18. These kids were probably
trying to beat their midnight curfews.
But now he observed the change coming over them. The reality seeping in. One by one, the
cold hand of death caressed their faces and forced them to look again at the bloody pulp on the
ground. Turn and watch. This is what I can do.
“Did you see him fall?” Finch studied their shocked expressions.
Two girls and two boys, standing stock-still. They all shrugged and glanced away from the
corpse. One of the boys lurched to the sidewalk curb and vomited into the gutter.
“Yeah. I did.” The blonde rubbed a hand over her mouth, her trance now broken. “Just in the last
second.”
“Do you have a phone?”
“What?” She glanced at him for the first time. Her eyes swept over his face as if she were
memorizing the features of his eyes, nose, mouth.
“To call 9-1-1.”
Her look suggested some uncertainty. Then she rummaged through a small purse that hung
from her shoulder by a chain strap.
“Here.” She offered Finch her Nokia.
He made a mental note of her number on the flash screen, then placed the call. The dispatcher
advised him that a response team would be by as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he should
remain on the line and not leave the scene. As he waited, he leaned his buttocks on the door of
a parked car, pressed his ear
to the cellphone and stared at the building. He counted fourteen stories which rose above the
Bank of America outlet on the corner of Stockton and Washington Streets. He tried to determine
how many apartments had open windows. Maybe six. His eyes swept from room to room,
scanned for fluttering curtains or someone above who might be peering back at him. Nothing.
Then he detected something unusual. Behind the curtains in an apartment on the eleventh floor
a lamp clicked on, then off. On and off. As the pattern continued Finch tried to time the periods
of each interval. Five seconds, seven, ten. Then the apartment blinked into darkness. And lit up
again.
Finch made another calculation: the intermittent flashes came from the sixth window along the
left side of the building. He guessed that each apartment had two windows facing the street.
The third apartment in from the north side on the eleventh floor had one window open, one
closed. The room behind the closed window was the source of the flashing light.
He took the phone from his ear and passed it to the blonde.
“What’s your name?
“Alice.”
“Alice?”
“Winkler,” she added.“All right, Alice. My name’s Will Finch. The 9-1-1 dispatch said someone should be here soon.
They want you to stay here and stay on the line.” He gave her a serious look. “Now I think I saw
something up there, so I’m going to see what happened.”
“Okay.” She said this as if she were making a polite concession and then held the phone to her
ear and nodded. She turned to her friends. Both were tending to the boy who’d lost his dinner.
Will walked along Washington Street past the bank and approached the glass doors that led into
the apartment building. He tugged on the handles. Both doors were locked. He stepped to the
curb and turned his attention back to Alice and her friends. Three pedestrians had come to their
aid, and then an
older couple coaxing a Shiatsu on a leash paused to provide more support. Another minute
passed, and Finch saw a couple approaching the apartment doorway from the interior elevator
bay. He stepped up to the door. When it opened, he smiled at the two women strolling past him
and said, “Thanks. I don’t
seem to have a key.”
He rode the elevator alone up to the eleventh floor and wondered if he’d counted everything
correctly. The car door opened onto a hallway illuminated by covered fluorescent ceiling lights.
The carpets bore a floral pattern of braided roses that stretched from one end of the empty
corridor to the other. As he eased toward the north side of the tower, he detected the flat odors
of fried food. Years of fried chicken and beef dinners had added their heavy flavors to the stale
air. He guessed that the building was about thirty years old. Perhaps it had once been an
impressive residential tower, but years of wear and disrepair had tarnished its pedigree.
He stepped along the passageway counting off the numbers on the street-side apartments.
1110, 1108, 1106. He approached 1104, the third door from the end of the hallway. Like all the
others, it was closed. He knocked once, twice — and again.
Nothing. He pressed an ear to the wood panel. From the apartment’s interior, he could make out
a quiet mewling. The sound of a puppy whimpering? In the distance, he heard the wail of
approaching sirens.
He hesitated for a moment and wondered what he was doing. What business is it of yours?
Good question, he decided and made a bargain with himself. He would try the door handle, and
if it were locked, he’d go back to the street and tell the emergency responders what he’d
discovered. On the other
hand, if the door were unlocked, he’d go in. He turned the handle. The door opened.
※
He stepped onto the beige carpet and closed the door behind him. He paused a moment to
assure himself that he was making the right move. Who could know? The apartment appeared
to have a standard one-bedroom layout. To his right stood a galley kitchen with an eating nook
that faced into the living room. On the left, a bathroom. Adjacent to the bathroom a closed door
— which Finch assumed led into the bedroom.
Directly in front of him, he could see the living room window had been pulled open. The sheer
drapes, drawn tight to the side window frames, lofted slightly in the breeze coming off the bay.
Finch sniffed the air. It smelled fresh, full of life. He heard the emergency vehicles stop on the
street as the blare
from their sirens wound down. The whimpering noise he’d heard from the corridor was
detectable again.
He walked to the open window and stood to the left of the window frame. From there he peered
onto the street. Directly below him lay the corpse, which from eleven floors up, appeared to be
little more than a sack of flattened pulp leaking a dark stream of blood that slipped toward the
curb. A crowd of
fifteen or twenty people made way for the ambulance crew. A fire truck pulled up behind the
ambulance. One of the attendants approached Alice, who still held the phone to her ear.
They began to talk and she slipped the phone into a pocket. Her friends moved to the corner
across the street. One of the boys waved to her, a gesture to let her know they were still
present, if not at her side.
The trucks left their flashers on alert. The silence surprised Finch, and for a moment he tried to
grasp the conversation of the ambulance crew as they attended to the body. He could make out
a few words, some standard commands, he guessed, but no complete sentences.
Then he heard the mewling again. He turned from the window and approached the bedroom

door.
“Hello?” He tapped the door panel with a knuckle and said, “There’s been an accident. I’m here
to check on you.”
The whimpering now turned into something more human.
A gasp of surprise.
“What? See-See, is that you?” A woman’s voice, rigid with fear.
Finch eased the door open. The bedroom was half the size of the living room. The curtains were
pulled tight across the window. With her left hand, the woman clutched the bedpost opposite the
door. Her left leg was poised on the floor as if she was about to stand. The right calf was curled
under her thigh
and resting on the bed. She wore a bra and panties. Nothing else. Her almond-blonde hair was
disheveled. It appeared as if she’d just showered but hadn’t had time to dry and brush her hair.
From where he stood Will thought that she could be leaning on the post to support herself.
“Jeez. Who are you?”
Her question came out with another whimper. Finch felt confident she was the source of the
cries he’d heard from the hall.
“Do you need some help?”
“Help?” A startled frown crossed her face, then a rising awareness that something had changed.
“Get me that key,” she demanded and shook her wrist against the bedpost. She flicked her free
hand toward the bureau in the corner.
Finch now saw the handcuff that clamped her left wrist to the post. He moved to the bureau and
examined a standard handcuff key that sat in a glass ashtray on top of the bureau. Will almost
picked up the key, then thought again. He turned to face her.
“Who busted you?”
“Busted me?” A flash of panic gripped her face. “No one busted me. This is all a setup for some
psycho with a rape fantasy.”
A stick lamp stood on the bedside table next to her. He assumed that she’d been able to reach
the light with her free hand.
“Was that you clicking the lamp on and off?”
“Yes, damn it!” Her panic shifted to exasperation. “Now get the key so we can both get out of
here before it’s too late.”
She tipped her head back toward the bureau.
“Before what?”
“Before we both get thrown out the fucking window!”
The panic in her voice sent a chill through him and he knew he had to take her seriously. At the
same time, his doubts and uncertainties multiplied. He didn’t understand what was going on.
Not half of it. But he had to make a decision. Will grabbed the key from the ashtray and
approached the woman.
“What’s your name?”
“Jojo.” She shifted her right leg off the bed.
“Jojo who?”
“Joanne Joleena. Jojo. Get it?”
“Hey, look — I don’t need the attitude.” He examined the key and the handcuff fastened to the
bedpost. It took a moment to determine how they fit together.
“All right. Just unlock me,” she pleaded with another gasp of exasperation. “Please.”
Finch unlocked the cuff from the post and took it in his left hand.
“What are you doing?”
He noticed that she had two script tattoos on her forearms. One read Forever Young. The other,
Love Now. “Where are your clothes?”
“In the bathroom.”
He locked the free cuff around his right wrist and slipped the key into the half pocket in his
jeans. “Okay, let’s get you dressed.”
“What the fu—”
“Come on.” He yanked on the cuff and pulled her toward the bathroom. “Let’s get going before
it’s too late.”

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

Rebel Heart by P.T.
Macias

Uncharted by Amanda Kimberley

Bearly Breathing by C.D.
Gorri

Ritual Island by J.P. Uvalle

Sandy Toes by Kim
Deister

Awakening by Nicole Banks

Summer
reading just got hotter with the Wicked Nights of Summer anthology!
This collection of paranormal romance stories is filled with sexy
heroes and hellacious heroines in a tropical setting! Dive into
romance with this sizzling boxed set that is guaranteed to set your
summer on fire!

Get
ready to heat things up with Vampires, Shifters, Angels, Mermaids,
Hunters, and more in this sensual boxed set!

Brought
to you by Mystic Ink Publications

Featuring
International, Amazon Bestselling, Vincent Price Award

Winning,
RONE Award Nominated, and HEA Bestselling Authors!

Patricia
Mattern, P.T. Macias, Amanda Kimberley, C.D. Gorri, J.P. Uvalle, Kim
Deister, and Nicole Banks.

*All
proceeds go to StandUp For Kids Charity Organization!

Valerian Smith is a globetrotting vampire and
the head of an international corporation. Caddie Tinsley is a
recently homeless aspiring actress who seizes an opportunity to
stowaway on his private jet. When Caddie is discovered, Valerian is
convinced she is a corporate spy and determines not to release her.
In his mind he has two options: kill her by draining her of blood, or
keep her as a slave on his private island. He has no idea that the
scrappy little blonde with excellent tits and impossible hair will
end up capturing a heart he didn’t know he possessed.

by P.T. Macias

Baxter
Mackenzie, the influential and commendable supernatural attorney, is
charged with protecting the powerful Rakshasi demon shapeshifter, and
one that can shift into any creature she wants. Baxter doesn’t have
time to babysit, and especially a shifter that looks so damn sexy as
a human, disrupting his world. Who’s going to protect his
rebellious heart? Restraining in his Wolff is no easy chore. The
Rakshasi demon is Apollyon’s, the supreme destroyer, protégé.
Shasi has contently lived in the deep dark Citadel assisting her
master. Now, her soul wants Baxter, but could she claim him?

by
Amanda Kimberley

Some Expeditions areUnknown.

Genevieve’s life as a hunter was simple.
Vanquish every monster, even if that monster turns out to be someone
you dated. An escape from her former life with a werewolf was just
what she needed when her bestie Carina booked a trip for the two to
the Loften Islands. But when she met Gunnar, a high powered leader of
a vampire coven in Norway, she found herself falling into uncharted
waters.

by C.D. Gorri

Sweet and curvy, Leya Tremayne is
tired of being a shoulder to cry on for the men in her life.
Determined to shed her image, she goes on a tropical vacation with
plans to let her hair down! She meets Marcus Devlin and is instantly
attracted to the devastatingly handsome stranger. He is exactly the
type of man she needs to help her build her new image! Can she handle
a one night stand with this rugged Bear Shifter or will she lose her
heart in the process?

Marcus Devlin is looking for his true mate.
After months of searching, he is just about ready to give up when
destiny lands in his lap. Literally. After rescuing the beautiful
blonde tourist from an untimely accident, Marcus knows instinctively
that she’s the one. He just has to convince her!

by J.P. Uvalle

Blaire and her best friend Melanie win the
vacation of a lifetime—an all-inclusive cruise to Bora Bora. Once
aboard, the girls start to notice it’s not your ordinary luxury
cruise line. Something more sinister is at work. They are surrounded
by shifters with insatiable appetites, leaving the girls to question
how badly they want to remain aboard ship.

Life as a shifter king
has its perks, but when King Dorian encounters his latest sacrifice,
he is left to question what he can’t live without. Will the shifter
king risk everything for love or will he restore his supernatural
powers and continue to reign over Ritual Island?

by Kim Deister

Ireland
needed a break. It had been a rough year and she needed a fresh
start. Her coven was embroiled in a civil war and when she refused to
fall in line with the rest of them, she was kicked to the curb. By
her friends, by her family, even by her boyfriend. She’d moved past
the grief stage, even past the anger stage. For the first time in her
life, she was free to do what she wanted. She had no one’s
expectations to fill but her own. So, she decided to celebrate. She
bought herself a three-week vacation to Hawaii. No responsibilities.
Just fun in the sun and time to figure out what was next for
her.

When Sully brought home two tickets to Hawaii, he thought
Kallie would be thrilled. He’d envisioned three idyllic weeks on atropical island. Swimming in the ocean, laying on the beach, catching
a few waves, and eating in world class restaurants. But within an
hour, he found himself holding an extra ticket as he watched Kallie
put the last of her bags in another man’s truck. He’d torn up that
ticket and flushed the pieces down the toilet. But he still had every
intention of using that other ticket. Maybe some time alone was
exactly what he needed.

by Nicole
Banks

The most sought
after hired gun. She’s ruthless, but even killers need a vacation.
He’s being hunted and there’s only one warrior strong enough to
keep him alive. A king whose seeking protection and a killer
searching for peace, but in each other they find so much more. When
survival instincts kick in, so do their primitive instincts. This
summer won’t be the only thing heating up.

Amazon
* Apple* B&N

* Kobo
* Books2Read

 

 

 

 

I
love stringing words together. I love making people get lost in astory and connecting with fictional characters that remind them of
someone they know.

Facebook* Twitter * Amazon

* Goodreads

 

The
award-winning The
Sisters, Texas Mystery Series continues
in this exciting Book 7. This is a stand-alone book, but best when
enjoyed as a full series experience.

Goodreads* Amazon

Goodreads

* Amazon

Becki
Willis, best known for her popular The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series
and Forgotten Boxes, always dreamed of being an author. In November
of ’13, that dream became a reality. Since that time, she has
published eleven books, won first place honors for Best MysterySeries, Best Suspense Fiction and Best Audio Book, and has introduced
her imaginary friends to readers around the world.

An
avid history buff, Becki likes to poke around in old places and learn
about the past. Other addictions include reading, writing, junking,
unraveling a good mystery, and coffee. She loves to travel, but
believes coming home to her family and her Texas ranch is the best
part of any trip. Becki is a member of the Association of Texas
Authors, the National Association of Professional Women, and the
Brazos Writers organization. She attended Texas A&M University
and majored in Journalism.

Website
*
Facebook*FacebookThe Sisters

* Twitter*

Amazon

* Goodreads

 

“Well, hello, you two.” It was the innkeeper Sophie, stopping by for a visit. “Your
grandmother isn’t joining you this evening?”
“Not this evening,” Maddy confirmed.
“It’s a messy night out. Perfect for staying in by the fire.” Sophie turned a pointed look toward
Madison. “I trust today has been smoother than yesterday?”
Maddy’s answer was slow in coming, as she debated how best to answer. She still hadn’t told
the innkeeper the whole truth, that someone had been in their suite and taken the suitcase. In the
end, she simply smiled and said, “Yes. I’m sorry for any trouble I may have caused.”
“Not to worry. I’m just glad it was a false alarm. All the same, I think perhaps we should lay
off the spy stories tonight, don’t you?”
They made the appropriate sounds of laughter. “By the way,” Madison said, before Sophie
moved along to greet new guests coming into the room, “I was wondering about one of your
guests. A tall, blond woman, quite commanding with her presence. Do you know who I’m talking
about?”
Sophie looked around. “Is she in here now?”
“No, I haven’t seen her since last night. She was wearing a lovely dark gray pantsuit. The first
night we were here, she had on a navy blazer and a blue sweater.”
“That would be Logan. She’s not a guest. She’s our local CIA agent.”
The news surprised Madison. Too stunned to speak, Genny spoke for her. “CIA?” It was more
of a gulp, than a question.
“Yes. She pops in and out quite often. With the NSA and so many other government agencies
practically in our backyard, you never know who might be here at any given moment. We don’t
advertise the fact, but they often use the inn as a secure meeting location. It’s even served as a
safe house a time or two.”
Madison’s brow puckered in thought. “So this Logan McKee is an agent?”
“Yes. One of the best, so I understand.” Sophie waved to the couple approaching the pastry
tray. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Asano.”
“Certainly,” Madison murmured, her mind already miles ahead. She turned toward her friend,
reluctant to voice her thoughts. “Genny, you don’t suppose…”
Genny’s blond head was already bobbing. “…that we somehow intercepted a piece of
sensitive information?”
“Yes! It would make sense, you know. The note from the little girl, all those crazy letters and
numbers, the case.” She gasped and clutched her friend’s arm. “The shadow from the chandelier!
What if that’s some sort of coded message for Logan McKee?”
“I don’t know whether to be excited, or to be frightened,” Genny admitted.
“Why? They have the case back.”
“But you still have the note.”

Followthe tour HERE

for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!