The Merzetti Effect

A Vampire Romance (Book 1)

by

Norah Wilson

Copyright © 2011 Norah Wilson

Published by Norah Wilson

All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

AINSLEY CRAWFORD STEERED her 1993 Crown Vic to the empty curb, wincing at the ugly crunching sounds her power steering made as she cranked the wheel. Great. Fluid must be leaking again. She needed another repair bill like she needed a bladder infection.

What she should do is dump the old boat and get something smaller, something easier on gas and maybe with a bit of warranty left so she wouldn’t have to pour money into it so regularly. Of course, if she ever wanted a new car, she was going to have to learn to keep her mouth shut.

Right. Like that was gonna happen. She’d pretty much sabotaged her prospects when she’d reported that handsome anesthetist who was dipping into the anesthetic agent, shortchanging patients in the process. Although the situation was dealt with promptly and appropriately, it turned out no one liked a whistleblower.

Well, at least she had a lead on a new job. A better paying one, even, and God knew she needed the money. Lucy and Devon were depending on her, maybe for their very lives.

Which was why she was here. Except here looked pretty creepy. She glanced around, reluctant to kill her engine or release her door locks.

Okay, not creepy, exactly. It was a respectable enough commercial zone; not a slum by any stretch of the imagination. And she’d lived here in St. Cloud, New Brunswick, long enough to know she was less than three or four blocks from the club district, which would be hopping even on a Wednesday night, so it wasn’t like she was in the middle of nowhere. But the quiet buildings gave off a different vibe once they were abandoned for the night. Beneath the streetlights, the empty avenue shone after the warm August rain.

Ainsley turned off the ignition and the engine stuttered and coughed to a stop. The tic-tic-tic of her cooling motor sounded overly loud in the ensuing silence. Then the rain started up again, drowning out other sounds. Raindrops pattered on the car’s roof and smeared her view of the urban landscape, intensifying her sense of isolation.

Before the cast of her thoughts could get gloomier, she grabbed her umbrella from the passenger seat and shouldered her door open. She fumbled with the umbrella a moment to get it open, then stepped out into the night. Closing the Crown Vic’s door, she peered around. Not a soul moved on the street. Though lights burned in the office building windows, she knew they were deserted.

Well, mostly deserted. Her prospective employer, Dr. Delano Bowen, waited for her in one of them.

She’d balked when he’d asked for an evening interview, and his warm-whiskey voice had cooled over the telephone line. He had a conference to attend in San Francisco, he’d informed her, and he intended to fill the position before he left, one way or another. Desperate as she was for the job, she’d agreed to the nighttime interview.

Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from checking him out. If the research sponsor, a major bio-medical company, hadn’t confirmed his claims, she’d have cancelled. But he had checked out. According to Bio-Sys Genomix, he was analyzing the DNA of individuals afflicted with a particular blood disorder in the hopes of unlocking a cure.

What he needed, he’d said, was a cross between a phlebotomist to draw blood, a research assistant to help with his investigations, and a secretary to deal with the paperwork.

She stood there a moment, rain spattering up on her legs as she contemplated her utter lack of experience in the foregoing areas. But dammit, eight years as an OR nurse in a Level 1 Trauma Center had to count for something.

She pulled the folded piece of paper out of her purse and checked the address again — 420 St-Laurent Street — compared it with the number on the closest building, then headed west. Shouldn’t be more than a half a block.

As it turned out, it was more like a block and a half, which carried her closer to the club district than she’d expected. The rain fell harder and she picked up her pace, cursing. Her low-heeled leather pumps were going to be ruined. She dashed up the walkway to the building’s front door and tried to yank it open, but it didn’t give. Another tug. Locked.

Great. She glanced around for a buzzer, but instead found a note taped to the glass door from the inside.

Ms. Crawford. My apologies. Please use the entrance at the back of the building.

Freaking wonderful.

She backtracked to the sidewalk and dashed westward, stopping at the alley running between Dr. Bowen’s building and the next building. The lane was narrow, barely wide enough for a single vehicle to pass. It was also liberally spotted with puddles. Her shoes would be ruined for sure if she slogged through that.

Maybe she’d be risking more than her shoes.

The thought sent a jitter of uneasiness through her. She glanced around quickly. Nothing moved on St-Laurent. She looked back down the alley. At the midway point, a single security light mounted on the brick facing of the adjacent building cast enough light to show the alley was empty. No nooks or crannies for an assailant to jump out of; no doorways, no garbage bins for them to hide behind.

So why were the hairs on the back of her neck lifting?

She chewed her lip a moment, then made her decision. She had Dr. Bowen’s phone number on the paper in her purse. She’d dash to the nearest bar and use a payphone to call him. If he still wanted to do the interview, he could damned well meet her at the mouth of the alley to escort her into the building. Or better still, in whatever warm, dry pub she found from which to make the call.

She turned to continue up St-Laurent, but a blur of motion caught her eye. She swiveled toward it.

A man, black clothing and a white blur for a face. Where had he come from? Before she could so much as gasp her surprise he was on her, pushing her into the alley.

She brought the umbrella down, intending to defend herself with it, but he was too fast. He squeezed her wrist in a grip that shot paralyzing pain up to her elbow. She dropped the umbrella. And then he was driving her deeper into the alley, bearing her along as though her resistance presented no more challenge than a feather.

Crackhead. Had to be. No ordinary man had that kind of strength. Fear surged as she remembered the one she’d seen in the ER last month. Out of his mind on a dose of crystal meth that should have killed him, he’d shaken off three cops like they weighed no more than dandruff on his shoulders.

She gathered her breath to scream, but again he was too quick. He clamped a hand over her mouth and slammed her against the unyielding brick wall. Tears leapt to her eyes, blurring her vision.

Think.

Resistance was likely to get her killed.

Reasoning was out of the question.

Cooperation… He probably just wanted money. For these guys, it was all about feeding the habit, buying more gack to snort up his nose or shoot into his veins.

Her right hand dropped to her purse, which was still slung over her shoulder. She pushed it toward him. “Take it.” She mumbled the words out against his palm, hoping he’d understand. “Money. Take it.”

His lips curved with real amusement, which stirred a far deeper fear than had his physical attack. For the first time, she looked closely at his face. His eyes gleamed an eerie yellow-gold under the security light. They were most definitely not the eyes of a hopped-up junkie.

“It’s not your money I want.”

Oh, God. She was going to be raped in a rainy alley while everyone huddled indoors where it was warm and dry. Where they wouldn’t hear her cries.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t want that, either.”

His lips parted on a smile and her gaze dropped to his bared teeth. As soon as she saw his incisors, she knew what he did want. Her rational mind rebelled against the truth, but her blood knew. Her pulse leapt into overdrive.

“No!”

The word was smothered against his hand. He angled her neck and sank his teeth deep into her throat. She felt the pierce of his grossly elongated incisors like the hot stab of IV needles. Adrenaline arced through her, lending her strength as she fought him, but she might as well have tried to knock down the brick wall at her back.

On and on she struggled, but he clung to her, oblivious of her efforts. But he didn’t seem to be doing much more than just hanging on. Why wasn’t he sucking or otherwise working the wound? Wasn’t that what vampires did? Or did they tear throats out and lap the blood?

She shivered. God, she was so cold…

Cold. Blood loss. Shock!

Oh, shit, she was going into shock.

Goddammit, he’d pierced her carotid artery. He was letting her own thundering heart pump the lifeblood out of her. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her chest at the irony.

Seconds later, she sagged against the building, mirth — and strength — gone. Only his weight against her held her upright.

A violent tremor shook her. Cold. She was going to die here in this alley.

And her shoes were ruined.

Then, miraculously, he released her. She crumpled to the wet asphalt. Dear God, she was so cold. Was she dead?

No, not yet. If she were dead, she wouldn’t feel the cold rain or the hot abrasion of the asphalt on her hands and knees.

So why had he left her?

She managed to lift her head to peer through the driving rain, searching for her assailant. There, deeper in the alley. And dear God, he was locked in combat with another man! A man who must have pulled the creature off her.

She wanted to shout, to warn her would-be savior that he wasn’t dealing with your average thug, but her vision wobbled. Feeling oddly detached, she put a hand to her throat and it came away red. The rain quickly washed her hand clean, but a downward glance confirmed she was still bleeding. Her tan trench coat was streaked with red.

Oh, man, she was tired. More than anything, she wanted to lie down. She wanted to just curl into herself and let the hovering blackness take her. But the man who’d tried to save her … the Good Samaritan … if she didn’t get help, he’d die.

She pushed herself to her feet and stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, one hand pressed to her neck to try to stem her bleeding and the other pressed against the building’s wall to keep herself upright. She’d lost one shoe, so she kicked the other one off. Almost there.

Then the world started to swim. She blinked and blinked, but the blurriness refused to clear. She found herself on the ground again, felt the asphalt burn her already scraped knees. Then the same abrasive surface kissed her cheek as she pitched face-first onto the street.

Too late, Ainsley. As usual. You’re nobody’s savior.

Delano Bowen watched the beaten vampire’s retreat long enough to be certain the creature was really leaving. He expelled his breath. Thank God. It had been close. For a moment, he’d thought he was going to have to destroy it. Black-hearted devil hadn’t wanted to give up his kill.

Well, they’d soon see who killed whom.

And speaking of dying, he’d better see to the woman before she succumbed to shock. He strode to the mouth of the alley where she lay crumpled on the wet asphalt. Kneeling, he rolled her over, bent close and deftly arrested her bleeding. He drew away from her to find that her eyes had fluttered open.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right.”

The assurance seemed good enough for her, for she slipped back into unconsciousness. He gathered her into his arms and stood.

“Come on, Ainsley Crawford. We have work to do.”

Hot sex.

No, not just hot sex. Incredibly erotic, deliciously forbidden stranger sex.

Ainsley knew it was a dream. Knew it wasn’t really happening. But dear God, it was good. And it felt so damned real. She could almost smell him, musky and male and incredibly arousing…

A small sound tugged at her awareness, but she clung to sleep. She wanted to stay in the dream, wanted the stranger to keep on stroking and licking and sucking her as her hands clenched in his hair. She wanted him to keep his mouth on her intimate flesh, his hands on her body. Just a few minutes more…

Then the sound came again. A beeping. Familiar but wrong. Out of place in the dream. What the hell was it? It sounded like a … oh, hell, a monitor alarm!

She came awake with a start.

The first thing she saw was the bedrail on the left side. Then the IV pole with the suspended bag of deep red fluid. She glanced down to see an IV line disappearing into her arm.

Holy shit. She was in hospital. And the beeping was a monitor. It blinked at her from its position right beside the IV pole.

Glancing at her hand, she saw the pulse oximeter had slipped off her finger. She slid the clothespin-like device back on and the beeping stopped. A quick glance at the monitor showed her oxygen saturation was okay.

Oh, man, she was really in hospital? Being transfused?

She pressed her legs together beneath the blankets, and the last traces of arousal from her sex dream withered. Urinary catheter. Ugh. She was definitely being transfused. But why?

Omigod, the alley! Heart suddenly hammering, she struggled to sit up.

“Ah, you’re awake. That’s good.”

She yelped, more at the unexpected hand on her shoulder urging her back against the pillows than at the masculine voice from the right side of her bed.

“Easy. You’re safe now. I’m a doctor.”

Her gaze locked on him and she let out a gasp.

It was him. The man she’d been imagining, the stranger/lover.

Okay, she was still dreaming. She must be. How else could she have conjured him to look exactly like the man in her dream?

Then another thought struck her: maybe she was dead.

Maybe she never escaped the alley after all. Maybe her lifeless body lay there still in a blood-darkened puddle, and this vision, this whole hospital room encounter, was just the result of her oxygen-starved brain dying.

She closed her eyes for a second and reopened them. The man beside her remained unchanged. Shoulder-length black hair, glossy under the lights, sprang back from a widow’s peak. Behind the lenses of Italian designer frames, dark brown eyes glowed like banked coals under heavy, slashing eyebrows. Dark, intense, sexy.

She started to lift a hand, thinking to touch his face to test if he were flesh and bone, but — ow, ow, ow — was quickly reminded that her arm had been harpooned with an IV catheter.

Okay, so it looked like she hadn’t dreamed him, she wasn’t dead, and she really was being transfused. So she had to be in hospital. But oh, baby, if this was the ER, this guy was new to the rotation.

“Where am I?”

“You’re under my care, and you’re currently being treated for blood loss and shock.”

Blood loss.

She shivered convulsively. The alley. A creature straight out of her nightmares had attacked her, driven his teeth deep into her neck and —

No!

Her mind shied away from the memory. Better to stick with the rational, the world she knew. Medicine.

Her gaze flicked back to the IV pole. “Whole blood?”

“Yes.”

“How much have I had?”

“We’re coming up on 2000 mls.”

She felt her face go slack. “So much?”

“By my estimate, you’d lost almost forty percent of your blood, Miss Crawford.”

Holy Hannah. Her gaze leapt back to the unit of blood suspended from the IV pole, her brain ticking at a hundred miles an hour. “Then you wouldn’t have had time to crossmatch the blood…”

“It’s perfectly crossmatched.”

She blinked. How’d he manage that feat? With this kind of blood loss, they usually started pushing the O-neg while they waited for typing and crossmatching, switching to the precise match as soon as they had the info. In any case, if they’d pushed that much blood, her coagulation factors would almost certainly be out of whack…

She lifted her right hand — carefully this time — to her neck, only to find her puncture wounds covered by a dressing. She clapped her gaze back on the hunky doctor who sat so quietly at her bedside. The doctor who in her dreams had blazed a trail of kisses down her body……

She blinked the image away, cleared her throat and asked, “What about the possibility of a bleed?”

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “You know your transfusion medicine.”

“I should. I’m an OR nurse.”

“Indeed.” The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile, but he obligingly ran down the numbers — hemoglobin, platelet count and the rest. “Based on what I’m seeing, I don’t think we’ll have to worry, but we’ll keep monitoring the situation.”

Okay, so she seemed to be out of immediate peril. Time to tackle the hard stuff.

“How’d I get here?”

One beat, two, three, as though he were weighing how much to tell her.

“I brought you.”

“You brought me?”

“Yes. I was there, in the alley. I saw the attack.”

“No.” The denial emerged on an exhalation. She wasn’t even sure what she was denying.

“Yes. I witnessed it. I saw that creature attack you.”

Her heart started banging again. A man fiercely grappling with her attacker. A black-haired man.

“You were there.” A statement, not a question. She remembered now. And she remembered something else.

His was the face she’d seen when she’d surfaced from that cold hell she thought was death. Then she remembered what had wakened her from that icy place — his mouth, hot on her bare throat, like a lover’s.

No. No way. It hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have. Just a dream, like the other one.

She wet her lips. “Where are we?” Lifting her head, she scanned the room. No nurses came and went. Nothing fit her experience with various wards at the hospital. “This isn’t the Regional.”

“You are in my home. But I assure you it is as well equipped as your hospital to deal with your particular emergency. Better equipped, in fact.”

This was his home? It looked more like a trauma treatment room. And how freaky was it that he’d brought her here to treat her? Scary-freaky. Fear warred with anger. By the slimmest margin, the latter won.

“I can see for myself that you’re well equipped. My question would be, why? And while we’re at it, why didn’t you call an ambulance to take me to the emergency room? That would be the logical response.”

Those glowing eyes narrowed to dark slits. “And what would you have told them at your ER, Nurse Crawford?”

She lifted her chin. “That I’d been attacked by…”

“A vampire?” he finished.

“Yes! You know I’m telling the truth. You were there. You saw it.”

He didn’t move so much as a muscle, but for all his stillness, he emitted an odd leashed energy. It poured off him in waves so potent, she could almost imagine she saw an aura of energy surrounding him.

“Indeed I did witness it. But the ER staff who would have attended you weren’t there. They didn’t see it.”

“You could have hung around and explained.”

His lips turned up at the corners in a flash of amusement that was gone so quickly she wondered if she imagined it. “Yes, I suppose I could have given them the Readers’ Digest version of events, but I rather value my professional reputation.”

“Okay, yes, they’d be skeptical in the extreme, until they’d seen this.” She lifted a hand to her throat, where she could still feel the pain of her wounds beneath the bandage.

“Remove the dressing.”

She blinked. “What?”

He opened the drawer on her bedside table and extracted a hand mirror, which he offered to her. “Remove the dressing and have a look.”

Panic flared. Did she really want to view those puncture marks? She knew the attack had happened. She remembered it in horrifying detail. But to look on her wounds would make the proof of it incontrovertible. If she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t then decide she’d dreamed it. She couldn’t then conclude, for the sake of preserving her own sanity, that she’d had some kind of psychotic break.

“Not up to it? I see.” He started to return the mirror to the drawer.

“Give it to me.”

“Are you sure?”

Her answer was to peel the adhesive dressing away with one swift motion.

“So be it.”

She accepted the mirror from him, angling it to get a look at the puncture marks. Once again, her pulse skyrocketed. The skin of her throat was smooth and unbroken, with nothing but some faint bruising and some redness from the adhesive removal to suggest any kind of trauma.

Impossible.

She put a hand to her throat, running her fingers over the area to confirm what her eyes had already told her. Sweet Jesus.

“You see why the medical staff at the hospital might question your story?”

“But how? I was bitten… I can still feel the burn. Where did the puncture marks go?”

Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes seemed to blaze even stronger than before. “These creatures cover their tracks by infusing their victims with a substance that promotes coagulation. It’s similar to the MPH beads you might use in surgery to stem a bad bleed, but it also promotes ultra-rapid healing of the wound.”

She laughed, a choked sound that bordered on weeping, which God knew was closer to what she felt like doing.

“You’re telling me vampires walk around with Bleed-X in their pockets, ready to sprinkle it on their victims’ wounds afterward?”

“They secrete the substance at will.” He pried the mirror out of her hand and put it back in the drawer. “Of course, the victim of an attack like this typically expires from shock shortly after the evidence fades.”

“Well, that must give the Coroner’s Office fits on cause of death.” She heard her own words and marveled at how reassuringly sarcastic they sounded. Was she really having this conversation with this stranger about vampires?

He shrugged. “Occasionally. Though many victims are street people — drug addicts, prostitutes, vagrants, runaways. No one investigates too closely when one of them turns up dead.”

The truth of the latter statement was undeniable. She’d seen for herself the ease with which street deaths were accepted. She’d even protested it. Until the business with Lucy. Until she decided she couldn’t afford to make waves over something she wasn’t going to be able to change anyway.

She forced her numb mind to work. “I still don’t understand why you brought me here. Why not call an ambulance and let someone else worry about it?”

“Because, as you must be coming to appreciate, I have a special expertise in these matters that conventional medicine lacks. Indeed, I think it’s safe to say I’m alone in my field.”

Well, there was something she had no trouble believing.

“Besides,” he added, “had you not been coming to meet with me, you would not have suffered the attack. For that, I feel a burden of guilt.”

Going to meet him? Then he must be… “My God.”

A smile ghosted over his lips. “No, not God, Ms. Crawford. Though on occasion, I have been accused of harboring a God complex.” He offered his hand. “Dr. Delano Bowen.”

Buy The Merzetti Effect here:

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I am so happy to have Bonnie Vanak as my Workspace Wednesday guest today. I’ve long been a fan of Bonnie’s, and not just of her Khamsin Warriors of the Wind or her Draicon Wolves. Her work in aid of the poor in some of the poorest countries in the Western hemisphere has earned my undying respect. Such work is not easy, and we owe a debt of gratitude to those people who do it. Thank you, Bonnie! And thank you for the amazing books, too!

With that introduction, I’ll turn you over to Bonnie.

BONNIE: It’s hard to write with a Shih Tzu on your lap.

As the owner of three rescue Shih Tzu dogs, I’ve learned to share my “office” while writing books. Because I work at a day job and I’m tied to a computer all day long, I prefer a laptop while writing my paranormal romance novels.

While my husband sits on the couch repairing model trains in his extensive collection or watching television, I write. But just because I have the laptop opened, it doesn’t mean the space is mine.

I’ve lost count of how many times the dogs have decided my lap is “their” space and have either walked over my computer to lick my face (Hey, pay attention to me!) or they have stubbornly climbed into my lap and refused to relinquish said space.

Prime real estate, they seem to say. We were here first. That machine must go.

Recently I was writing a steamy love scene for The Phantom Wolf, the next book in The Phoenix Force, a mini-series about Navy SEALS with paranormal powers. There I was, typing:

Kelly made a humming noise of pleasure deep in her throat and slid her hands around the thick muscles of his neck. He muttered something against her mouth and pulled her tight. She played with the fine strands of his hair, enjoying the silk slipping through her fingers… lost in the sensation of his mouth and …

Holly chose that moment to jump onto the couch, and park her butt firmly on the computer keyboard.  The love scene ended up looking like this:  dkfjkdjafdkajdfkdjfc.,xm vc

I have an office at home. It has a nice desk, a computer and it is organized and holds all my files. The dogs took that over, too. Every time I am in the office, they follow me and look up with pleading, big doggie eyes. So in order to work, I put them on the bed.

Not only do I work full-time, but my job also requires traveling to developing countries. After getting published in 2002, I learned to be flexible and make my office wherever they stamped my passport.

In Haiti, it was often the Hotel Montana (pictured here), where I always stayed while traveling for work. After spending a day in the field, interviewing poor people, I’d retire to the hotel and immerse myself into a world rich with Egyptian sheikhs or fierce werewolves protecting their mates.

Then came the horrific tragedy of the 2010 earthquake inHaiti, which destroyed the hotel and killed 200 guests. The months following the earthquake were spent in a frenzy of work at the day job, and trying to reconcile with the fact that the Haiti I had known was forever gone.

If not for a scheduling conflict, I would have been staying at the hotel during its collapse. That sobering realization changed my outlook on writing books when I travel to Haiti. Now I don’t open the laptop and become immersed in stories. There’s always a sense of tension that prohibits free-flowing creativity. I keep my shoes, clothing and emergency supplies like a flashlight and a bottle of water handy, just in case.

Because of the day job, the dogs and distractions, it’s nice to get out of town to focus on the book. I enjoy traveling to destinations where I can write in a mad frenzy. Just me, the laptop and my imagination.

My office becomes a kitchen table, a chair on a quiet porch overlooking the mountains, or the deck of a cabin in rural Tennessee.

Or a sofa in a ski lodge during the Christmas season (pictured here), where I wrote part of The Empath, my first paranormal romance for Harlequin. The inn became my inspiration for the lodge where Nicolas takes Maggie to join his pack.

The Covert Wolf, my new Nocturne about a Navy SEAL who is a werewolf, was partly written while renting a cabin in Colorado, immersed in how Matt and Sienna hunt for a magick orb they need to find before demons use it to destroy the world.

But no matter where in the world, I make my workspace, my primary office will always my home. It’s there where my husband is ready to support my writing, just as he did 12 years ago when he gave me a “magic wishing star” pendant to encourage me to follow my dream of becoming a published author. Home is where my heart is, where my imagination truly takes flight as my fingers fly over the keyboard to create worlds where brave Navy SEALS risk all for the women they love.

Home is my real workspace, be it the office, the couch, or the Florida room. When I travel, it’s always wonderful to return home.

And when I get there, I know the dogs will be waiting… to reclaim the lap again.

Thank you, Bonnie, for sharing your various writing spaces – and your furry “helpers” – with us!

In my introduction, I failed to mention Bonnie has one of the most amazing imaginations I have ever encountered. Try one of her Draicon wolves books and see if you don’t agree.

You can read more about Bonnie at her website. She’s tons of fun on her blog, on Facebook, and on Twitter.

Now, it’s giveaway time! Bonnie is offering two signed copies of The Empath, the first book in her fascinating Draicon wolf series, for two lucky winners. All you need to do is comment on this post for a chance to win.

I’m loving Wednesdays more and more! Today it’s my privilege and pleasure to have as my Workspace Wednesday guest the lovely and talented Elisabeth Naughton. I’ve never met Elisabeth in person, but I’ve gotten to know her a bit from our cyber-paths crossing. Her online persona is just as warm, lovely and gracious as you might guess from her photo.

Okay, over to Elisabeth.

ELISABETH: I guess you could say I’m more concerned with how productive I am when I write than where I write.  Over the years I’ve discovered two things about my productivity: 1) I can’t work on a desktop. I need a laptop to be productive, and 2) I can edit just about anywhere, but when it comes to new writing, I can only be productive somewhere soft.

Below is a picture of my desk. Gorgeous, huh? I love it. Love how it’s built into a bay window, love the natural light from the window and the view. Unfortunately, it’s not soft. Which means I can do just about everything here—answer emails, do promo, even edit—but I can’t write here. Since I’ve developed neck issues from hunching over my laptop, my doctor (who is a D.O.) and I go around and around about this. But alas…gorgeous desk space, zero writing.

To the right is my bookshelf. Built-ins are awesome. We originally had this office designed for my hubby but I’ve since taken it over. I have lots of great places for my books, for my research materials, and plenty of storage space for all those office supplies so they’re tucked away from view. And when I’m working in here (on promo or marketing or mail-outs or emails or general office work), I’m highly productive. But again…no writing gets done here.

Where do I write then? Here, of course:

Yep, that’s my living room. I usually sit cross-legged on the couch with my laptop on my lap. Hence, the neck issues as I hunch over. If I can’t be productive in the living room, then I move here (yes, I’m nomadic):

This is my Lazy Boy recliner in our great room. I can only really work here when the house is silent, otherwise people are around me watching TV and generally just being noisy. (Notice the can of Diet Coke on the end table. Can’t write without that either.)

But, because I have three Gremlins (er, kids), if they’re in the house, I usually have to leave, which means searching for a coffeehouse that has…yep, you guessed it…couches or comfy chairs. Easier said than done. I think I’ve been to every coffeehouse in my area and have found only a couple spots that will work. But because I like to get up and down when writing and can’t sit for long periods of time, these aren’t always great solutions either. There’s also the issue of food. Why do coffeehouses ONLY serve pastries and coffee?

At the moment, I can’t wait until Panera Bread opens near my house in January. I’m hoping that will become my new office. Comfy chairs, wifi, QUIET, and yummy food. We’ll see how long it lasts.

If ONLY I could write at my desk!

Bio

A former junior high science teacher, Bestselling Author Elisabeth Naughton traded in her red pen and test tube set for a laptop and research books. She now writes sexy romantic adventures and hot paranormal novels full time from her home in western Oregon where she lives with her husband and three children. Her work has been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA awards by Romance Writers of America, the Australian Romance Reader Awards, the Golden Leaf and the Golden Heart. When not writing, Elisabeth can be found running, hanging out at the ballpark, or dreaming up new and exciting adventures. Visit her on the web at www.ElisabethNaughton.com.

Thank you for that tour, Elisabeth. And oh my, I do love that red chair! But I totally fell in love with that desk in the bay window. I think I could make it work for me! LOL.

Okay, before we get to the giveaways (yes, plural!), I just want to put a plug in for Elisabeth’s wonderful books.

I so need to read her Eternal Guardians series from the beginning. Here’s the tagline for ENSLAVED (#5), the cover for which appears below:

GRYPHON—Honorable, loyal, dependable…tainted. He was the ultimate warrior before imprisonment in the Underworld changed him in ways he can’t ignore.

Prefer a Gladiator? All I had to read from the blurb for SLAVE TO PASSION (Firebrand #2) when it released last week was “Kill them all…”, and I clicked that One Click button. I have a feeling I’m going to be picturing the amazing  and much-missed Andy Whitfield as I read this one.

Okay, we promised a giveaway. Elisabeth is offering two prizes: FIRST PRIZE – an Advance Reading Copy of ENSLAVED,  which releases on November 6, 2012; and SECOND PRIZE – an ebook copy of SLAVE TO PASSION, Book 2 in Firebrand series, which is newly released.

For a chance to win, all you have to do is comment. Tell me what you liked best about Elisabeth’s workspace. Tell us your best advice for laptop-induced neck pain. Tell us what you love about Elisabeth and/or her stories. I will use Random.Org to generate the winners from the comments received.

Chapter 1

Aiden  Afflack hummed to himself as he lifted the brass doorknocker to summon St. Cloud Police Chief Weldon Michaels to the front door of his Carrington Place residence. Rapping twice, he stepped back.

What was that tune running through his head? It had been with him since he’d risen this evening.

Audioslave? Nope.

Queens of the Stone Age? Un-uh.

Collective Soul? Yeah. Yeah, that was it. Definitely. He cricked his neck one way, then the other and felt the satisfying crack. Ooh, I’m feeling better now.

The curtain in the bay window twitched, but Aiden feigned obliviousness. From inside, he clearly heard Michaels jam a clip into a pistol. Aiden rolled his eyes. Nobody trusted anyone anymore.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The voice came through the door. A very cautious man indeed.

“I’m a friend of your wife’s,” Aiden called. “Well, more a friend of a friend, actually, but I have a personal message for you, from her.”

“Nice try. Now move on, before I call the cops.”

Aiden thought about knocking the door in. It was solid oak with a good deadbolt on it, but it could have been made from cardboard and paperclips for all the challenge it would present. On the other hand, there was no reason to get messy.

He cleared his throat, did his best to summon a puzzled tone. “Well, hell, I thought you were the cops. Do I have the wrong address? I’m looking for Chief Weldon Michaels. Got a message for him from his wife Lucy. Pretty woman, ’bout an inch over five feet, brown hair and eyes? Oh, and a real cute little daughter. What’s her name? Devon? Any of this sounding familiar?”

Silence for a few heartbeats. “What kind of message?”

“She wants to come home, but before she can see her way clear to doing that, we need to have ourselves a talk.”

Another pause, then the sound of the deadbolt retracting. The door cracked open, and Weldon Michaels peered out past a security chain.

God save me from fools. Aiden pushed the door open. The hardware anchoring the security chain tore free from the wall. Before Michaels could cry out, Aiden stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In the next heartbeat, he seized Michaels’ right wrist and squeezed until the other man screamed and dropped the pistol he held. It hit the hardwood floor with a clatter but didn’t discharge.

“A gun?” Aiden released the other man’s hand. “Now I ask you, what kind of a greeting is that?”

Michaels — clearly a slow learner — reached for a second weapon jammed into the waistband at the small of his back. Before he could get to it, Aiden had Michaels face down on the floor with his right hand way closer to his right shoulder blade than God ever intended it to go.

“Jesus, my arm. You’re breaking it!”

“Not even close. You develop a feel for these things,” he said conversationally. “It’s sort of like braking when you’re driving on ice. You gotta find the threshold.”

“No, my shoulder! It’s gonna pop! I swear to God!”

Aiden reefed Michaels arm a half inch higher, eliciting a scream, followed by a stream of curses.

“See? Still plenty of play. It’s a feel thing. Now are you gonna behave yourself if I let you up?”

“Yes! I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Atta boy.” Aiden helped the other man to his feet. “Now, let’s go plug the code into the alarm, shall we? And don’t fuck with me. If the alarm company or the cops call in a minute to ask if everything’s okay, things will be very much not okay for you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Aiden “helped” Michaels to the alarm panel, where he keyed in a five-digit number. The winking red light went out.
“Good man. Now we’re going to need your handcuffs. I know they can’t be far away, since you laid hands on that pistol fast enough. So be a darling and let’s go fetch them.”

Michaels swore again.

“I know, I know. It’s gotta sting, getting cuffed with your own bracelets, but look at it this way: they’ll be a helluva lot more comfortable than the alternative if you force me to improvise.”

Michaels sagged. “In that drawer.”

A minute later, Chief Weldon Michaels sat cuffed in one of his own kitchen chairs, a sturdy-looking oak proposition. Michaels somehow managed to look both scared and pissed at the same time.

Aiden took a seat at the table, placing both guns — one retrieved from beneath the telephone table in the entryway and the other from the small of Michaels’ back — on the gleaming wood surface. “Okay, Weldon — may I call you Weldon? — we need to talk.”

Michaels glared back. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t keep anything of value of here, at least nothing portable enough to carry off. And damn you, you’ve already scored both my guns. I suggest you just let yourself out and get while the getting’s good.”

“You think I was bullshitting earlier, don’t you? You think I was feeding you a line about your wife to get inside?” Aiden leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up to rest on the table. “That’s rich.”

Fear flashed in the other man’s eyes, which he quickly attempted to hide with bravado. “Look, mister, if you have a message for me, let’s get on with it.”

“Afflack.”

“What’s that?”

“If you’re gonna call me mister, you might as well make it Mr. Afflack. Or Aiden, if you prefer.”

Another flash of fear. Aiden could almost hear the wheels turning in Michaels’ head. He’s shown me his face, given me his name. There can only be one reason for that….

“Not to worry, Weldy. I think I’ll call you Weldy.”

Michaels tensed. Testing the cuffs and the strength of the chair’s spindles, no doubt.

Aiden sighed. “For Chrissakes, I’m not planning to kill you. I’m just going to spend the night here chatting, much like we are right now.”

Michaels blinked. “Spend the night?”

“Forgive me. It’s probably horribly uncomfortable with those cuffs on. Let me just deal with these nasty guns. Then I’ll take the bracelets off so we can talk all civilized-like.”

Aiden picked up the SIG 9mm with his left hand, grasped the barrel with his right. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand up and down the barrel a few times to attune his mind to the metal. Then he bent it effortlessly.

“Jesus Christ!”

 Aiden placed the ruined pistol back on the table, picked up the .22 and repeated the process on the gun’s short barrel.

“What the … how’d you do that?”

Aiden shrugged. “A parlor trick. You should see what I can do with a dinner fork.” He stood and extracted the handcuff key from the pocket of his worn jeans. “Now, about those cuffs….”

Michaels shrank back.

Aiden lifted his eyebrows. “What? You’d prefer to keep them on after all?”

The other man collected himself, embarrassment staining his cheeks. “Of course not. Please remove them.”

Aiden obliged.

As soon as his hands were free, Michaels immediately started massaging his sore right shoulder.

“Ah, yes, the shoulder. Sorry about that.” Aiden gave him his best aw shucks smile. “But I couldn’t have you putting bullet holes in me, could I?”

Michaels said nothing, but the stiffness in his face spoke volumes. Good. Get brave, you miserable little wife-beating worm. Get angry. Give me a reason to hurt you again.

Michaels cleared his throat. “So, this message from my wife?”

“She wants to come back to St. Cloud. In fact, she’d like to move back into this very house, seeing as she put so much sweat equity into it.” Aiden glanced around at the tastefully appointed kitchen. “I must say she did a great job.”

“Of course she can come home. That’s all I’ve wanted since she left.”

“Ah, but there’s a catch, Weldy. You can’t stay.”

Michaels made a choking sound, but quickly found his voice. “She thinks I’m just going to clear out of town?”

“That would be ideal, but no, I don’t think she expects that. It will be sufficient if you leave this house and never darken the door again.”

Michaels started to bluster that he owned the goddamned place and no one could put him out of it, yadda, yadda, yadda.

“Save it,” Aiden commanded. “You see, I know what you did to her, Weldy.”

A pause. “I don’t know what she told you, but—”

“You systematically isolated her from her friends and pressured her into quitting work. Then, when you got her where you wanted her, you escalated the abuse. You terrorized her, Weldy. You threatened the life of her child if she tried to leave you. Is any of this sounding familiar? No? Well how about this: you used your position and power to convince her that escape was impossible.”

Michaels leapt up, his face wreathed in fury. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about my family.”

Aiden swung his feet to the floor, but remained in his chair. “Oh, I know quite a bit, Chief Michaels. For instance, I know you’ve been abusing the police resources at your fingertips to search for her, ensuring she had to stay on the run, unable to stay anywhere for any length of time. I know she’s terrified for her life and that of her daughter.”

“If she’d just—”

“Shut up, Weldy, and listen. I’m the messenger, and the message is that it’s over. She’s coming back, and you, my friend, are going to become the most obliging, most accommodating, most respectful ex-husband on the face of the planet. Oh, and you’ll relinquish any rights to the child.”

“Fuck you.” Powered by rage, Michaels gripped the table’s edge and overturned it, then bolted for the door.
Grinning, Aiden swept the table away as if it were constructed of matchsticks and gave chase, overtaking his quarry in a blur of speed. By the time Michaels reached the door, Aiden lounged against it, the picture of indolence.

“Jesus!” Michaels’ face suddenly looked like it was stretched too tightly across the underlying bones. Shock did that to some people. With others, their faces went slack, as though—  

“Who are you?” Michaels rasped. “Dear God, what are you?”

Aiden allowed his smile to spread, noting the precise moment when Michaels caught the first glimpse of his grossly elongated cuspids. This time, Michaels’ face slackened.

“I’m glad you asked.”

# # #

So, whaddya think? Would you read on?