One Wish by Robyn Carr – Q&A

Today I'm hosting a Q&A with Robyn Carr celebrating the 7th in her Thunder Point series, One Wish.
I'm also providing a link to one of my favorite bloggers, The Caffeinated Book Reviewer's review.
Enjoy!

• ISBN-13: 9780778317722
• Publisher: Mira
• Publication date: 2/24/2015
• Series: Thunder Point Series , #7
• Format: Mass Market Paperback
• Pages: 384

 

Overview

www.robyncarr.com

#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr delivers another smart, funny, emotional novel about the complexities of life in the small Oregon town of Thunder Point

Grace Dillon was a champion figure skater until she moved to Thunder Point to escape the ruthless world of fame and competition. And though she's proud of the quiet, self-sufficient life she's created running a successful

Read an Excerpt:

Grace Dillon's flower shop was very quiet on the day after Christmas. She had no orders to fill, no deliveries to make, and she'd be very surprised if her shop phone rang at all. Most people were trying to recover from Christmas; many families were away for the holidays or had company to entertain.

Grace drove to North Bend to grab an early skate before the rink got busy. Figure skating classes were suspended over Christmas break and people, mostly kids who wanted to try out their new skates, would dominate the rink later in the day. Grace loved these secret early morning skates. She had a deal with Jake Galbraith, the rink owner. She could call him and if it was convenient, he'd let her skate for an hour or two while they were getting ready to open. He didn't want to charge her, but she paid him fifty dollars an hour anyway. It was a point of pride.

He smiled at her when she came in and told her to have a good skate.

She stretched and then stepped onto the deserted ice, closely following the Zamboni ice resurfacer that had just finished. She warmed up with forward and backward crossovers, backward half swizzle pumps, figure eights, scratch spins and axels. She noticed Jake was watching, leaning his forearms on the boards. She performed a forward spiral and a leaning tower spiral. She executed a perfect sit spin next. She circled the ice a few times, adding a jump here and there. She had been famous for her straddle split jump, touching her toes with her fingers. When she looked for Jake again, he had disappeared.

Suddenly, the music started, filling the rink with the strains of "Rhapsody in Blue." She glided into an arabesque, arms stretched, fingers pointed, wrists flexible. She saw that Jake had returned, was watching her every move. She went for a double axel and fell on her ass. She got up, laughing to herself. She glided around the rink a few times, tried the jump again and landed it, but it wasn't pretty. The music changed to another Gershwin tune. She'd practiced to this music as a little girl; it was familiar and comfortable. Her earliest memories of skating always filled her with nostalgia and comfort. That was before the competition got really fierce.

She'd been on the ice for an hour when the music segued into Alicia Keys's "Girl on Fire" and it lit her up. Her signature music. She was on fire! She skated like she was competing. When she was fifteen, stronger but lighter and more flexible, she could really catch the air. She noticed other people watching—a guy leaned on his broom and gazed at her, a couple of teenage girls who worked in the skate rental shop had stopped working to watch, the Zamboni driver leaned a shoulder against the rink glass, hands in his pockets. Two hours slid by effortlessly. She slowed and got off the ice when she heard the sounds of people arriving to skate.

"Beautiful," Jake said. "It's been a while since I've seen you."

"Holidays are busy at the shop," she said. She tried to get to the rink on Sunday mornings, but the past month had been frantic—wreaths, centerpieces, two weddings and increased day-to-day traffic in the shop.

"You should spend more time on the ice. I have a long list of people looking for a good coach."

She shook her head. "I don't think I'd be a good coach. I don't have time for one thing. And I'd never go back on the circuit, even with students. I left that world."

"I thought the day would come that you might be interested in going back, maybe not in competition for yourself, but coaching. I think on name alone you'd make a fortune."

"I left the name behind, too," she reminded him with a smile. "We have an agreement."

"I haven't said a word. People ask me, who is that girl, but I just say you're training and asked not to be identified. Some of them guess and would show up to watch you if they had any idea when you would be skating. The ice misses you. Watching you skate is like seeing music."

"Nice try. I don't train anymore. I spent as much time on my ass as on my blades. I look like crap."

"Your worst is better than a lot of bests I see. I've missed you. Maybe you'll have more time in the new year."

"We'll see."

She took off her skates and pulled on her Ugg boots. Sometimes she questioned her decision to leave it all behind, because being on the ice made her so happy. Then she'd remind herself that while a couple of hours felt great, the difficult routine of a competitive figure skater was grueling, exhausting. As a coach she'd never be able to push young girls the way she'd been pushed.

She pulled out a hundred dollars in cash for her two hours alone on the rink. Jake had told her he put the money in a special scholarship fund for young wannabe Olympians who couldn't otherwise afford lessons. She told him however he wanted to spend it was fine with her. As long as he didn't sell her out.

As she left the rink she reflected that her life in Thunder Point was so much more peaceful than it had been in competition and her freedom was hard-won. She had friends now, even if they didn't know who she had been before. At least no one thought of her as tragic or complicated or as one of the saddest yet most triumphant stories told on the competitive skating circuit. No one was threatened by her, hated her, feared or resented her. No one called her a rich bitch or a dirty liar.

Of course, the weight of her secrets sometimes wore on her. Jake Galbraith had recognized her at once. All she had to do was ask the cost of a private rink for a couple of hours and he knew immediately who she was. She hadn't confided in anyone in Thunder Point.

When she got into the van she saw that she had a message on her cell phone. She listened to it before leaving the parking lot. It was Mikhail, her old coach. He still kept tabs on her. They stayed in touch. Often, they left each other a series of brief messages because he could be anywhere in the world. "I am wishing you happy Christmas," the Russian said. "I think I am day late. If so, you will understand."

Grace waited until she was back in her tiny apartment above the flower shop before returning the call. "I thought you had forgotten all about me," she said to his voice mail. "It was a happy Christmas. I was a maid of honor for my friend Iris yesterday—that's how I spent the day. I've never been in a wedding before. It was small and intimate, a beautiful experience. And this morning I went skating. I fell three times." Then she mimicked his accent. "What can I say? I am clumsy oaf with no training." Then she laughed, wished him the best New Year ever and said goodbye.

Grace's beloved father and coach died rather suddenly when she was only fourteen and he was sixty. Her mother, once a competitive and professional figure skater, responded by hiring an even better coach, a very short Russian of huge reputation who could take Grace all the way. There was no time for grieving, they had work to do. Mikhail Petrov was a tough, brilliant coach and they were together for nine years. He had been very unhappy with her decision to leave competition and for a couple of years he pestered her to return to the sport. "Before you forget everything I taught you!"

Her mother, Winnie Dillon Banks, who had herself been a teenage skating wonder, was worse than devastated. She was furious. "If you quit now, after all I've invested in you, you are dead to me." After the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver, Grace walked away from everything and everyone. All she'd ever wished for was to be like everyone else. To not be constantly judged every time she took a breath. She wanted to be normal.

In the afternoon, when Grace was just about to ruin her dinner with a big bowl of popcorn while looking through various online floral arrangements on her laptop, there was a light tapping at her back door. She pulled the curtain to peek out through the window in the door and was shocked to see Iris. She opened the door.

"Don't newlyweds lay around in bed for several days after the wedding? Doing it until their parts give out?" Grace asked, only half teasing.

"Maybe when one of the newlyweds isn't the town deputy," Iris said. "We did eat breakfast in bed and Seth didn't go to the office until about one. I cleaned the house, thawed something for dinner and…" She paused. "I called Troy to tell him."

"You didn't tell him before, huh?" Grace asked.

Iris shook her head.

Troy Headly, high school history teacher and the fantasy of all the high school girls, had had a very big crush on Iris. They had dated for only a few months last spring when Iris told him theirs would have to be a friendship-only relationship. She was the high school guidance counselor and before getting involved with a teacher in the same school, she had to be powerfully sure. And she hadn't been. But Troy had pursued Iris right up until Seth was in the picture. Even then, it was pretty obvious he still had a serious thing for Iris and wouldn't mind if Seth fell off the face of the earth.

"How'd he take it?" Grace asked.

"Like a man," Iris said. "Is it too early for wine?"

"Certainly not!" Grace pulled a bottle of Napa Cellars sauvignon blanc from her little refrigerator and opened it. "Was it awful?"

"Nah, it was fine. Good, really. He was surprised we got married so soon, but then so was everyone. So were we, when you get down to it. He congratulated me and said he hoped I'd be very happy—all the right things. Then I asked him if he was going to be all right and he laughed, but he didn't sound amused. He said he was surprised to find himself disappointed an old girlfriend got married. It's hard for me to think of myself as his girlfriend—it was never that serious. Even Troy admits he's not looking for a wife! Not now. He likes the single life."

Grace poured the wine and put the bowl of popcorn between them. "A gourmet treat," she said. "Or maybe dinner. So, is it different? Being married?"

"Not yet," Iris said. "Ask me again when we merge bank accounts. We've been solitary, single adults for a long time. Right now we're each taking care of our own obligations until Seth either rents or sells his town house. There's plenty of closet space at my house, but we could have issues when his manly furniture looks for space among my decidedly female things."

"You're staying in your house," Grace said in relief.

"It's perfect for us. I like to ride my bike to work in good weather."

"I love your house," Grace said. "Aren't you ever going to have a honeymoon?"

"Eventually. We're looking for deals online right now. We're going to sneak away in a couple of months, hopefully somewhere warm and sunny, when Seth can get away from the town and I can escape my office at school. But what about you, Grace? Why aren't you seeing anyone?"

Grace burst out laughing. It wasn't the first time Iris had asked. "First of all, who? Second, when?"

"Don't you ever meet a groomsman at any of the weddings you do?"

"Never. They all come long after I'm gone and I'm not invited to the receptions. Besides, isn't that the kiss of death? Hooking up with someone in the wedding party at the reception? No thanks."

"We have to get you out more," Iris said.

"Right," Grace said doubtfully. "Maybe I could help you chaperone the prom and meet some very promising eighteen-year-old? Nah, I don't think so."

"We'll go clubbing or something."

"Clubbing?" Grace sputtered. "In Thunder Point?"

"Okay, we'll go up to North Bend. And graze."

"I'm sure Seth would appreciate that!"

"Well, I won't take any phone numbers or bring anyone home…"

"Iris," Grace said, lifting her wineglass. "Let it go. I'll handle my own love life. In my own time, in my own way."

"There's always Troy," Iris said, sipping.

"Nah, we're pals. There's no chemistry." On his side. "We had a beer together once, followed by grilled cheese and tomato soup. It was swell. Besides, I'm not interested in your sloppy seconds. I read, you know. Rebound boyfriends are not a good idea."

"You can't just work all the time," Iris said.

"No?" Grace asked. "I thought you could."

**GIVEAWAY** Interview with Brett Garcia Rose - Noise

Happy Monday all! It's -10ºF today and isn't going to warm up all that much so the best thing for a cold day is a good interview, a great read and a super Giveaway. Well I've got all those bases covered. I'm interviewing debut author Brett Garcia Rose who is filling us in about his new release, Noise. I LOVE the cover!
Brett's publicist Kelsey McBride PR is offering one paperback print copy US only for a Giveaway!! Giveaway details below!

• ISBN-13: 9780991549405
• Publisher: Brett Systems, Inc.
• Publication date: 6/13/2014
• Pages: 236

 

Overview

The world is an ugly place, and I can tell you now, I fit in just fine.

Lily is the only person Leon ever loved. When she left a suicide note and disappeared into a murky lake ten years ago, she left him alone, drifting through a silent landscape.

Or did she?

Brett's PR Firm Kelsey McBride PR
is offering one print copy of NOISE
to one lucky entrant US ONLY
please use the Rafflecopter form below to enter
Thanks Kelsey!
Good Luck!

Read an Excerpt:

Twenty-Eight

The sounds I cannot hear: The whistle of the hammer as it arcs through the air. The wailing of pain and the begging of The Bear. The dripping of blood from thawing meat onto the wet concrete floor. The beautifully crude threats.

My own hideous voice.

I drag The Bear into a walk-in freezer by the hook sunk through his shoulder and toss him into a corner on the floor. When I reenter the freezer, dragging the oak table behind me, The Bear is hard at work on the hook, trying to muscle it out, but it’s sunk deep, through the tendons. Hope is adrenaline, fear masks pain, begging helps no one.

I yank him up by the hook and then hold his hands outstretched, one at a time, as I nail his wrists to the table with railroad spikes. I put all of my 240 pounds behind the hammer, but even so, it takes several swings. His body shakes, the nails sink further into the wood, his face is pain. He screams, but I cannot hear.

The building above burns a deep blue hue with my smuggled-in accelerants.

The sound of the hammer into The Bear. The pain in his eyes. I have never seen so much hatred. It is beautiful to me, to reach this center, this uncomplicated base, to disassemble the past and honor a new history. It is another film, also homemade and rough, an overlay, an epilogue. The Bear is broken but I have spared his face, and to see those eyes, that is what I needed; to see his hatred flow into me, my own eyes sucking down the scum like bathtub drains. His life whirls into me and I taste the fear, the hope, the sharp sting of adrenaline pumping and the reeking muck of despair. His pain soothes me, a slow, thick poison. We will all die. 

I know it now; I am a broken man. I always was. I imagine Lily watching me, Lily keeping score, making lists, balancing all. As a child from far away, she was the queen, even more so than her mother. But she didn’t survive. The world was not as we had imagined, not even close. The world is a cruel, bastard place, Lily cold and lost somewhere, me hot and bleeding and swinging my hammer. Life as it is, not as we wish it to be.

The sounds I cannot hear: The laughter of the watchers. The groan of my sister as The Bear cums inside of her, pulling her hair until the roots bleed. The Bear screams and shits himself inside the dark freezer. Lily’s wailing and cursing and crying. I scream at The Bear with all my mighty, damaged voice, swinging the hammer at his ruined hands, hands that will never again touch anyone. Lily at the end, beaten and pissed on and begging to die.

Lily is dead. I am dead. It will never be enough.

I remove the stack of photos from my wallet that I’d printed at the Internet café a lifetime ago and place them face down on the table in front of The Bear. I draw an X on the back of the first photo and turn it over, laying it close to the pulp of his ruined hands.

The Bear offers me anything I want. An animal can feel pain but cannot describe or transmit it adequately. The Bear both is and is not an animal. I lack hearing, so the Bear cannot transmit his experience to me unless I choose to see it. His pain is not my pain, but mine is very much his. I swing the hammer into his unhooked shoulder, and then I draw another X and flip another photo.

His lips move, and I understand what he wants to know. Five photos. 

In my notepad, I write: you are a rapist fucking pig. I put the paper into the gristle of his hands and swing the hammer against the metal hook again. It’s a sound I can feel. 

Anything, The Bear mouths. He is sweating in the cold air of the freezer. Crying. Bleeding. 

In my pad, I write: I want my sister back. I swing the hammer claw-side first into his mouth and leave it there. His body shakes and twitches.

I turn over his photo and write one last note, tearing it off slowly and holding it in front of his face, the handle of the hammer protruding from his jaw like a tusk. You are number four. There are a few seconds of space as the information stirs into him and I watch as he deflates, the skin on his face sagging like a used condom. He knows what I know.

I turn over the last photo for him. I turn it slowly and carefully, sliding it toward him. Victor, his one good son, his outside accomplishment, his college boy, the one who tried to fuck him and they fucked my sister instead.

I remove another mason jar from my bag, unscrewing the metal top and letting the thick fluid flow onto his lap. I wipe my hands carefully and light a kitchen match, holding it in front of his face for a few seconds as it catches fully. He doesn’t try to blow it out. He doesn’t beg me to stop. He just stares at the match as the flame catches, and I drop it onto his lap.

The Bear shakes so hard from the pain that one of his arms rips from the table, leaving a skewer of meat and tendon on the metal spike. I lean into his ear, taking in his sweet reek and the rot of his bowels and, in my own hideous voice, I say: 

“Wait for me.”

**Giveaway**Inherited Damnation Tour - Interview-Review - Cursed To Kill

Welcome to my stop on the Inherited Damnation Blog tour celebrating the re-release in digital format of Claire Ashgrove's previously published series. The series is being released one novel every three weeks from January until June 2015, right now the first two are available and I'll be providing buy links.

I've been reading and enjoying Claire's novels for years, I've enjoyed them all and I know you will too.

Claire has two Giveaways going on right now
One- is for three copies of the second in her series - Tormented by Darkness
Two- is her Grand Tour Prize of a $50.00 Amazon Gift Card
I will have links for both giveaways listed below
Thanks Claire!
Good Luck!

**GIVEAWAY** Interview with Erin Quinn – The Three Fates of Ryan Love

Please welcome to the blog a personal favorite that I'm shocked has never been here before, Erin Quinn. She's here to talk about her new release The Three Fates of Ryan Love.
Enjoy the Chat!

• ISBN-13: 9781476727493
• Publisher: Pocket Books
• Publication date: 1/27/2015
• Format: Mass Market Paperback
• Pages: 384

 

Overview

Two star-crossed souls discover that their fates are intertwined—for better or worse—in the second book in the Beyond series of paranormal romances that began with The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love.

Erin is offering one of her Backlisted titles
Winner's Choice Click HERE for Erin's Booklist
Please us the Rafflecopter form below to enter
Open Internationally!
Thanks Erin
Good Luck!

Read an Excerpt:

The Three Fates of Ryan Love

Ryan heard the first of the sirens as he turned into the home stretch of his run. He ran most every night after he closed Love’s, the bar he owned with his two sisters. The exercise usually cleared his mind, but not tonight. A storm had started brewing as he’d clocked the first mile and the kind of cold that was indigenous to the desert seeped beneath his skin and made old wounds ache. The glowering sky pressed down on him, sinister against the excessive Christmas lights twinkling merrily around every palm tree and the festive banners that snapped in the bitter wind. Instead of clearheaded, Ryan felt chased.

His German shepherd, Brandy, ran at his side, ears up and swiveling. Even she didn’t seem to be enjoying the ritual as much as usual.

Glad when Love’s came into sight, Ryan slowed his steps and tried to catch his breath. The sirens were closer now and a police car flew past to join more flashing lights about a block down the street. It was after two in the morning, but Mill Avenue near Arizona State University never really slept. Probably drunks out causing trouble. Maybe even the three he’d thrown out of Love’s that night. They’d left him with a bruised face and sore ribs.

Watching through the spitting rain, Ryan cut across an alley and into the parking lot behind Love’s. That’s when he heard the woman scream.

He spun to face the nook between the south wall of Love’s and the cinder-block barrier that hid the side door to the kitchen. He peered into the dark recess, sure that’s where the sound had come from, but nothing moved. Brandy’s ear swiveled as she barked, trying to sniff and see everything at once. She didn’t seem able to pinpoint the scream either.

The next scream echoed around him at the same time pressure filled the space behind his ears and made him feel unbalanced. He stumbled back as lightning flashed and a tremendous bolt snapped down right in front of him. When he looked again, a woman sat inside the small, sheltered alcove with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them. Seconds ago, only darkness had waited there. Long, dark hair gleamed under the muted light, spilling over her shoulders and hiding her face. Her skin had an alabaster sheen. There was a lot of it, too. He frowned. She was naked.

With a hand signal for Brandy to sit, Ryan wiped the rain from his face and approached her cautiously. The walls and awning shielded her from the rain, but not the cold. She shivered violently as he crouched down in front of her.

“Hey,” he said in a soft voice. “How’d you get here? Are you okay?”

She looked up with wide, clear eyes as blue as a desert sky. Even in the dark the color was vivid and they shimmered with something he couldn’t begin to define. Long lashes the same rich shade as her hair framed them and accented their luminescent glow. They tilted at the corners, catlike. The dark wings of her brows drew focus to the shape of her face, the smooth line of her nose, the dusting of freckles that covered it.

He dropped his gaze and saw a raw scrape on her shin, another up high on her thigh. A third marred her shoulder. He thought of the sirens and police he’d heard. Was she involved in whatever had been happening?

“Ryan?” she whispered, chasing that thought right out of his head.

The sound of his name on her lips raised the hairs at the back of his neck, somehow trumping everything else. Like who she was, what she was doing here stark naked in the middle of the night.

“You know me?”

He peered into her face, sure he’d never seen her before.

“You’re Ryan,” she said with more certainty.

Her gaze shifted to something behind him. Ryan looked over his shoulder to find Brandy right at his heels with perked ears and a wet, wagging tail, watching the woman. The woman stared back at his dog with what Ryan would swear was wonder.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Sabelle,” she replied, still watching his dog.

Brandy got down on her belly, inching closer in the most unthreatening manner a ninety-five-pound German shepherd could manage.

“Where are your clothes, Sybil?”

She shook her head, pulling her gaze from Brandy to look him in the eye. “S’belle,” she corrected. “Not Sybil.”

“S’belle,” he pronounced carefully. “Why are you naked?”

A hot flush turned her skin pink a second before she lied. “I don’t remember.”

She shifted with agitation and Brandy made a sound low in her throat. Not aggressive. Consoling. The dog had managed to army-crawl close enough to put her big fluffy head on the woman’s lap. Sabelle’s lips parted as she settled her fingers on Brandy’s silky black ear.

She shivered and goose bumps rose on her skin. Ryan quickly reached over his head and pulled off his shirt. It was warm from his body, but damp from the rain. It would cover her, though.

“Here, put this on,” he said, handing it over.

She accepted it, fingering the soft fabric before she pressed it to her face, smelling it. The action was so surprising that at first all he could think to do was mumble, “Sorry, it’s all I have,” while hot embarrassment flooded his face.

“It smells like you,” she said.

Like it was a good thing.

His mouth opened but no words came out. He lowered his eyes while she pulled the shirt over her head. When he looked back, she was covered, thank God. His shirt was huge on her. The shoulders drooped to her elbows and the long sleeves hid her hands.

She huddled in it, her gaze roaming his face, lingering on the cut over his nose, the puffy skin on his cheek, and his swollen jaw. He almost felt the quicksilver stare on his bare chest and bruised ribs. He must look like a big, ugly thug to her.

She had bruises and scrapes of her own. He could only hope that her wounds had come from something less violent than his had.

“What happened to you? Did someone hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she said with a definitive shake of her head.

“You screamed.”

“I didn’t expect it to be painful.”

“You didn’t expect what to be painful?”

She flinched at his sharp tone. “Coming here.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Here—in the parking lot in the middle of the night—wasn’t anyplace she should be, but she’d obviously been hurt, was probably in shock. She might not even know where she was. He dug his phone out of his pocket and leaned in so the rain running down his back wouldn’t get it wet as he dialed 911.

The storm picked up its pace, hitting the asphalt with such force that raindrops bounced and pooled, pounding the awning overhead with fury. Storms moved fast in Arizona, but this was insane.

“Who are you calling?” she asked.

“The police. They’ll—”

She snatched the phone out of his hand and hit the screen repeatedly until the ring cut off.

Ryan’s mouth was open again. “Okay, now it’s getting weird.”

“No police,” she said. “What time is it?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, she repeated the question sharply.

“I don’t know. Two, three in the morning?”

Her eyes rounded and she scrambled to get her feet under her. “We need to go. Now, Ryan.”

She stood, long legs protruding from his big shirt. Her hair brushed her shoulders and impatiently she swiped it back. Standing as well, Ryan reached out to steady her as she swayed.

“Easy, girl,” he murmured gently. “Slow down. Take a breath. You’re safe now. Let’s get the police here. They’ll get everything worked out.”

“No police,” she insisted. “They can’t help.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Neither could he. “Can I have my phone back?”

She turned and started out of the shelter.

“Wait,” he said. “Sabelle Whoever-You-Are. Wait.”

She seemed more alert, more focused, but she’d obviously hit her head. She tucked her arms tight, hands jammed under her pits and head bent as she gingerly picked her way through the glass, gravel, mud, and puddles covering the parking lot, ignoring him until she stepped on something sharp and gasped.

“Hold up. Would you stop?” he said, exasperated. “Let me help you.”

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the back door before she could protest. She wasn’t a big woman, but she was lush with all the right curves in all the right places. She felt solid against his chest and soft in ways that played games with his traitorous thoughts and made him glad for the bracing rain. Brandy escorted them like a devoted admirer, her wet nose brushing Sabelle’s feet whenever the dog could reach them. Ryan paused before opening the door, half convinced he was making a big mistake. This was the kind of thing you saw on the news where some dumb putz just trying to help ended up accused of wrongdoing.

He jockeyed her weight as he fumbled his keys from his pocket into the lock. Sabelle tightened her arms around him, pressing all those feminine curves closer as Ryan tried valiantly not to notice.

Darkness clustered just inside and obscured the stairs all the way up. The rain boomed against the roof and the cold made plumes of their breath. His skin felt icy.

Except where he held Sabelle. She was like a furnace heating his bare chest.

The door slammed shut behind them as Ryan hit the lights and set Sabelle on her feet again. She continued to hold on to him, staring into his face as if to memorize his features. For all her crazy talk, her eyes looked clear and focused in the dim glow.

Then she twisted away and started up the stairs to his apartment without asking or waiting for an invitation. With a muttered curse, Ryan started to follow, but fingers of disquiet played down his spine, making him pause.

The area under the stairs to his apartment served as storage for cases of beer and other supplies. A door straight ahead made a convenient back entrance to the bar, just as the door behind him was a quick shortcut to the parking lot. Usually the stairwell smelled of cardboard, hops, and old french fries. Familiar, comfortable odors that lingered in most bars. Tonight a whiff of rotten eggs hung over it.

Sabelle was already at his front door, waiting. He’d figured out what smelled after he dealt with her. She tried the knob, found it unlocked, and let herself in before he made it up the stairs. Stunned by her audacity, he picked up his pace. Brandy raced ahead and was beside her as Sabelle padded past the kitchen breakfast bar, trailing fingers over the back of the couch as she took in her surroundings.

His apartment was a loft that stretched over Love’s. One room with a wall of windows, it had a spacious, open feel that suited him. Her gaze lingered on the screen sectioning off his bedroom before moving to the clock on the microwave. The digital display read 2:30. He saw her note it with a deep breath and a nod.

“There’s still time.” She faced him with determination. “I’ve come with a warning. Your life is in danger.”

He might have smiled if she hadn’t looked so distressed. “Okay,” he said carefully.

She nodded, apparently satisfied with that response. “Good. I’d hoped you’d understand. We need to leave here.” She glanced at the clock again. “Quickly.”

“And go where?” he said, not understanding at all.

“Away from here. Here is where it happens.”

Ryan studied her, suddenly weary to the bone. Ever since his brother’s bizarre death—Murder? Suicide? Ryan doubted he’d ever know the truth—Love’s had been a tourist attraction for lunatics. Fanatics who thought that Ryan’s twin brother and sister were blessed by the heavens or cursed by demons had always been on the fringe of their lives. Reece and Roxanne had died—and miraculously been revived—more than once. It went with the territory.

Some of the crazies were dangerous, others merely curious. He didn’t know which camp Sabelle fell into, but the sooner he got her out of here, the better.

“You don’t believe me,” Sabelle said with a hint of disappointment in her voice. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s in your nature to be suspicious. You have trust issues.”

Maybe so. But that was his business. “What’s this danger I’m supposedly in?” he asked politely.

“Death,” she replied almost eagerly. “Yours, I mean.”

He let out a deep breath and shook his head. “Listen, Sabelle. I’d like to help you, get you someplace safe. How about back home?” Or the psych ward you escaped from?

“I can never go home,” she said vehemently.

He lifted his hands, palms out. “Fair enough. But you can’t stay here. I just pulled a twelve-hour shift. I’m tired. All I want is a hot shower and bed.”

Her eyes widened and she shot another quick glance at the screen that hid his bed. Something darkly erotic flashed across her features. For a moment, he couldn’t look away.

“I know you don’t believe me,” she said, her voice breathy and low, “but this isn’t a game or a joke. You can’t just take a shower and pretend it will go away. Do you think I would risk so much to warn you if there was nothing to fear?”

“I think you’re a confused woman who needs some help.”

“I’m not confused. An explosion will decimate this building sometime between now and three a.m. Your apartment will be incinerated. Boom. Gone.”

“Between now and three a.m.,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Stop it. Stop pretending disbelief you don’t feel.”

“Oh, I feel it.”

Narrowed eyes were the only clue that she’d heard him. She didn’t argue, she didn’t try to add details to support her claim. Most liars did.

“You’ll need the money you have stashed beneath the floorboards in your bedroom,” she said with a challenging glance. “Clothes, of course. And Brandy. We’ll need her.”

“We?”

“I don’t know how much time we have, Ryan. I only know that by three it will all be over. For both of us.”

She was all-in when it came to this fantasy quest, and her conviction planted a seed of doubt that startled him.

“You are more important than you know, Ryan.”

The laugh he’d tried for earlier finally emerged and his doubt waned. The poor woman was definitely delusional.

“I own a pub. Actually, I own about one-fiftieth of a pub. The bank owns the rest. I spend most of my days and nights behind a bar, serving drinks to people who have less of a life than I do. Unless it’s critical that the drunks get their next drink, I’m the opposite of important.”

With a superior-sounding sniff, she moved behind the Japanese screen and into his bedroom. Dumbfounded, Ryan followed, watching her open his closet. She yanked his backpack off the top shelf and stuffed his favorite jeans, a T-shirt, and a flannel button-down into it.

As she turned, she caught her reflection in the dresser mirror and did a double take. For a moment, she stared at her pale face like she’d expected to see someone else looking back.

He tilted his head to the side, watching her watch herself. She saw the movement and quickly glanced away, but her cheeks pinked up and she avoided looking at him. She began opening his drawers like she had every right.

And instead of throwing her out on her pretty little ass, he watched her, still trying to figure out what to do about her. Wrestle his phone away? Humor her back outside and lock the doors behind her?

The storm boomed so loud it shook the walls. He couldn’t throw her out in this.

In his top drawer, she found his briefs, added a pair to the pack, and pulled open the next drawer. She rummaged until she retrieved some basketball shorts and held them up to her hips. When she tugged them on, she gave him an eyeful of long legs and bare behind.

She turned and busted him staring. His gaze snared hers and something darkened in the uncertain blue. Neither one of them looked away.

“Do you have shoes I could borrow?” she asked, her voice husky.

He pointed to the other closet door. It took her a moment to turn around and slide the door open. She eyed his size 14 shoes dubiously before she spotted a pair of flip-flops on the floor and slipped her feet into them.

“Get the money, Ryan.”

Crazy with sprinkles on top. That’s what this was.

“You planning on robbing me?” he managed to say.

She faced him. “Is that what you think? Are you afraid I’m going to tackle you and steal all your precious belongings?”

She was swimming in his big shirt. The shorts hung down to her knees and the flip-flops looked like snowshoes on her feet. She had the threat potential of a puppy.

Again he wished he could muster a laugh. Instead, “No” emerged in a wooden tone.

“Get your stuff and wait it out on the sidewalk with me, then. If nothing happens by three, you can call your police and wash your hands of me.”

She handed him his phone like a gesture of good faith. He took it.

“Or I could do that now and save myself the trouble.”

“Yes. You could do that. But we’d both pay the price for your stupidity.”

“Did you just call me—”

“You are in danger,” she said, enunciating each syllable sharply. “You’re going to die if you don’t trust me. How much clearer can I be? I know you’re the kind of man who has to see something to believe it. But why not see it from the outside with me?”

With that, she grabbed his backpack and dropped it at his feet.

He still hadn’t moved, but Sabelle didn’t wait. She crossed to the front door with a stiff back and an air of determination, ridiculous in her borrowed getup and yet somehow . . . convincing.

“How would you know what kind of man I am?” he asked softly.

The question made her pause. She shot a guarded glance over her shoulder, eyes wide and lips parted. Bravado and hunger stared back at him, a combination so mystifying that it shut his mouth.

So what if she was right? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to have happened in the past month. Hell, in the last week. Even as common sense told him that it was more likely she had someone waiting downstairs to relieve him of the money she’d insisted he pack, he felt himself giving in.

She’d said beneath the floorboards. If she already knew where he kept the money, why not just break in and steal it while he’d been out for his run? Why the elaborate naked-and-afraid act?

“I see you thinking,” she said. “You’re deciding on all the reasons not to trust me. But that’s wasting time you don’t have. Look at the clock, Ryan.” She paused. “Please.”

It was the hitch in her voice that unplugged his common sense and pushed him to the edge.

He exhaled a heavy breath. “Let me get a shirt.”

The tremulous smile she couldn’t hide fast enough called him a fool, but the baby blues sent another coded message he couldn’t be sure he was reading right. He ducked behind the screen that divided the rooms and pried up the floorboard by his bed with a long flathead screwdriver he kept in his nightstand drawer just for that purpose. He stuffed the whole hard-earned $10K into his backpack, shrugged on a shirt, and snagged jackets for both of them on his way out. What could it hurt to sit in his truck and wait it out? If nothing else, maybe he’d get to the bottom of her story.

She waited impatiently by the door, watching the clock switch numbers. Brandy sat at her feet, ready to go. According to Sabelle, they had less than fifteen minutes to get out of there before the whole place was incinerated.

“Hurry,” she said and stepped onto the landing without a backward glance.

Shaking his head, Ryan clicked his tongue for Brandy to follow and locked the door behind him.