My publisher started a great new promotion for featuring authors and their stories at The Wild Rose Press while giving readers a chance to win a gift certificate to TWRP. It's pretty simple: Feature any book from our catalog on your blog, post the raffle copter widget, and wa la...promotion and a prize. What more could we ask for, right?
So this week I decided to give it a try. I'm featuring Ashantay Peter's Death Stretch. She combines mystery with romance, my favorite kind of read!
When Katie Sheridan's best friend is blackmailed over an affair with a yoga instructor, Katie stuffs herself into workout togs to help identify suspects. Instead of getting fit, she learns yoga can be a killer when the instructor winds up dead. Worse, Katie is a suspect, and finds herself tangling with the sexy, commanding cop investigating the case.
Detective Dirk Johnson knows getting involved with a material witness--especially one as reckless as Katie--means trouble, but his heart and protective instincts aren't logical. More than once, she rescues herself just before he arrives to save the day. Dirk's not sure he can keep up with her, but he'll go down trying.
Blackmail, murder, and adultery teach Katie and Dirk that love obeys its own laws. With passion as the final reward, they find fighting temptation is highly overrated.
I watched Detective Johnson inhale, like he held in a rant. Shame on me, but pissing off the man held a certain appeal.
He took a breath through his nose, his gaze lifted for divine inspiration, or perhaps patience. “Break-ins are common these days, so maybe you should use the dead bolt.”
“How do you know I don't?”
“The lock didn't tumble before you opened your door.”
“Oh.” It's hard to be sarcastic to a guy whose job is to “protect and serve.” Speaking of serve, those lips could offer… no, I wouldn’t go there.
“So, Detective Johnson, what does bring you by?”
“I have a few more questions. Mind if I come in?”
My brain stopped at the word come. Silly, but have I mentioned it's been awhile since I’ve dated?
He grabbed my arm. “Ms. Sheridan? Katie?”
The sizzle of his touch jolted me back to life. “Um, sure. Sorry, I haven't cleaned yet today.” Or last week, but who's keeping count? And why apologize?
I closed the woman's magazine I'd left open to an article on Giving Good Head and shoved it under a pile of papers, hoping Detective Johnson hadn't noticed my reading preference. His smirk suggested he probably had.
My attention shifted into hostess mode. I might be a slut wanna-be, but my Mama raised me right.
“Something to drink? I have iced tea, bottled water, Pepsi.” I stopped before adding “wine and beer.”
The smirk disappeared, and his jaw tightened. “All I want are answers.”
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Until next time,