I was dead before I hit the ground.
As I said, most undignified.
I’d been taught that after death there were three options: good people went to Heaven, bad people went to Hell, and then there was Purgatory for those who fell in the middle. I’d never given much thought to what would happen to me after I died-- if I had, I might have behaved better while living (although probably not), but the instant I was shot I knew I was headed straight to Hell. Indeed, I was halfway there, plummeting downward through the darkness toward the eternal fire pit when I suddenly jerked to halt.
And that’s when I discovered several things: first, that contrary to any doubts I may have harbored on the subject, there is indeed a Most Powerful One, who is privy to all one’s thoughts and actions. Second, the Most Powerful One has a Council, a group of six angels in charge of making certain that deceased humans go where they’re supposed to. And third, that based on my thoughts of changing my immoral ways in those last seconds of my life, it was decided that I deserved a chance to prove myself.
And that’s when I discovered that in addition to Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, there’s a fourth place where the dead like me, those with last minute epiphanies, are sent-- Pre-Pearly Gate Limbo. Spin doctors call it a not-quite-an-angel holding pattern, but the truth is it’s nothing more than a prison, a void where the occupants wait for do-good assignments that will, if completed successfully, push their Goodness Quotient high enough to earn a Review from the Council. Those who make the grade become Full-Fledged angels and are allowed to pass through the Gates and enjoy the full benefits of angelic existence, including the spa (which I hear is to die for. Ha! A little angel humor there). If, however, the do-good assignment isn’t completed successfully, it’s back to the end of the line-- the very loooooong line-- to wait for another turn. Which means, if you’re a perpetual screw-up, you can find yourself in Pre-Pearly Gate Limbo for a very loooooong time.
Welcome to my world.
End of He’s No Angel excerpt.
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AT LAST excerpt
Regency-era Novella, featuring my first Scottish hero
Sophia Mallory, Countess Winterbourne thought she'd left her handsome Scottish lover behind in the highlands. But when Ian Broderick shows up in a London ballroom, Sophia realizes her past is about to catch up with her, and the scandal could cost her everything…
London, 1820
Sophia moved swiftly along the perimeter of the ballroom, focused on fleeing. Escape. She had to escape. When she reached the French windows, she grasped the curved brass handle and opened the paned glass panel just enough to slip outside. A gust of unseasonably chilly air, heavy with the threat of rain, swirled around her, pebbling her skin, but she barely noticed the discomfort.
Heart pounding, she anxiously peered back into the ballroom, her staccato breaths fogging the glass. Dread seized her when she noted Ian no longer stood under the archway leading into the ballroom, but then she spied the back of a dark head standing on the far side of the room, near the punch bowl. The man’s height identified him as Ian and Sophia sucked in a quick breath of relief. Thank God. Now she just needed to circle around to the front of the mansion then request her carriage be brought around. She cursed the delay that would entail, but at least she’d escaped the ballroom undetected. And once ensconced inside her vehicle, with the velvet curtains drawn, she’d be safe.
She turned. And froze at the sight of the snowy cravat mere inches from her nose.
“Going somewhere, Sophia?” Ian’s husky voice, rich with the flavor of Scotland, filled the darkness between them.
And with a sinking heart Sophia knew, that with those three simple words, everything she’d tried to escape had found her.
End of At Last excerpt.
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MINE AT MIDNIGHT excerpt
Contemporary Romantic Comedy
For Cinderella, the fun ended at midnight. But for Merrie Langston, that’s just when things start heating up…
Merrie is a free-spirited, caterer looking for a bank loan to expand her business. Tom Farrell is her buttoned-down accountant who’s trying to get her finances in order-- no easy task as she keeps her receipts in Baggies. Sparks fly when these opposites realize they do indeed attract.
Tom wasn't sure how a caterer dressed in an elf's costume could look so sexy. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he barely refrained from groaning.
One taste. One kiss. Just to satisfy this inexplicable, insatiable curiosity. He lowered his head, slowly, giving Merrie the opportunity stop him, but instead she lifted her face and rose up on her toes.
He brushed his lips over hers, once, twice, experimental touches that enflamed rather than satisfied. He lightly ran the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip, a favor she instantly returned. And in a heartbeat he was lost.
She tasted exactly the way she smelled-- sweet, seductive, and delicious. He heard a low groan. Him? Her? He didn’t know. Didn’t know anything beyond the satiny, luscious warmth of her mouth, the erotic friction of her tongue rubbing against his. The bewitching feel of her pressed against him as he drew her closer and she wrapped her arms more tightly around him.
Heat, want, desire, pumped through him, rapidly depleting his control. His hands glided slowly up her back, and he plucked off her elf hat to sift his hands through her silky soft curls. Everything about her was curvy, feminine, and soft and fit so well against every part of him that was so… not soft. She strained closer, shifting against him, and his erection jerked in response.
Some small, barely audible kernel of common sense worked its way through the fog of lust clouding his judgment and reminded him that they stood in the Baxter’s kitchen and that this had gone far enough.
He lifted his head and fought to control his ragged breathing. Merrie clung to him, short puffs of breath emanating from between her moist, parted lips. A hint of crimson stained her cheeks, and she slowly opened her eyes. A growl of want rose in his throat. She looked glazed, dazed, and thoroughly aroused. Much the way he assumed he must look.
“Holy cow,” she said in a breathless whisper.
Personally, he didn’t think ‘holy cow’ did that kiss justice, but damn, he was impressed she was capable of speech. He sure as hell wasn’t there yet.
She blinked several times, her stunned gaze searching his face as if she’d never seen him before. “I, um, didn’t know accountants could kiss like that.”
He had to swallow twice to finally locate his voice. “I didn’t know elves could kiss like that.”
“I’m not sure they normally do. Seems like it would melt the north polar cap.”
She could say that again. He felt as if he were roasting from the inside out. And if he didn’t step away from her, he was going to kiss her again. Which would definitely be unwise-- for some reason he couldn’t think of right now, but he was pretty sure there was one.
After slowly releasing her, he took a step back. Her arms slipped from around him, then settled at her sides. He immediately missed the feel of her against him, which was bad. Really bad. But now that she wasn’t touching him, his brain was kicking back into action, shouting recriminations at him. Since he felt responsible for starting this… whatever it was, it was up to him to cut it off at the pass.
He raked his hands, which weren’t completely steady, through his hair. “Look, Merrie, as pleasant as that kiss was, I think we can agree that it wouldn’t be a good idea to repeat it.” He forced himself not to wince at using a tepid word like “pleasant” to describe a passionate exchange that had steam all but exuding from his pores. “You’re my client, and I wouldn’t want to start anything that could be construed as a conflict of interest, especially where your loan might be concerned.”
As soon as the words passed his lips his inner voice scoffed and shoved the reasoning aside. Hey, he was her accountant, he prepared her financial statements, but it’s not like he was the loan officer. Now that would be a confl
ict of interest. He could imagine that Merrie’s kiss would induce the loan officer to not only give her the money she requested, but also the keys to the freakin’ vault.
She nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously. “You’re right, of course. Besides, it’s not as if that kiss could go anywhere. Let’s face it, personality-wise, we’re like oil and water.”
“Exactly,” he agreed, wondering why he didn’t feel quite as relieved as he should. “Like night and day.”
“Like wet and dry. So we’ll just forget it. Go on, business as usual. Blame the last few minutes of insanity on that common holiday malady, Mistletoe Madness.”
It took him several seconds to answer because he was still trying to figure out which one of them was ‘wet’ and which one was ‘dry’-- a difficult task because nothing about their kiss could be labeled ‘dry’, and when he thought about wet… hell, his train of thought completely jumped the track.
End of Mine at Midnight excerpt.
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HEART’S DESIRE excerpt
Victorian-era Novella
Callie Albright appeared in my very first book, Red Roses Mean Love, as a precocious five-year-old who loved tea parties. Now she’s all grown up and on her way to London to attend Queen Victoria’s coronation and to announce her own engagement. A stop in the village where she spent her childhood brings her in contact with a man and an antique mirror-- and both will change her destiny.
CHAPTER ONE
Halstead, Kent
June, 1838
William Lawton swore under his breath as the bell above the shop door jangled, announcing the arrival of a customer. He pulled his attention from the dusty crate he’d just opened and glanced at the mantle clock. Twenty-three minutes past closing time.
Damn it all. He should have turned the lock and flipped the carved wooden sign propped in the window to “closed” when he was in the front of the shop a half hour ago, but as neither his grandfather nor his father had ever closed Lawton’s Antiques and Curiosities so much as one minute before six p.m., William had been loath to break with tradition.
Unfortunately, as often happened when the anticipation of discovering a new treasure had him firmly in its grasp, he’d become completely engrossed in removing the stubborn wooden top of the crate in the back room and forgotten the time. And now, just when he’d finally managed to pry open the damned crate, his curiosity well and truly whetted to examine the contents, he’d have to abandon the project.
Bloody hell. Everyone in Halstead knew the shop closed at precisely six, which meant this late-arriving customer was no doubt a visitor. Probably one who wanted nothing more than to browse, pump him for information about the village’s history, then depart without making a purchase. Not only would William be forced to make idle conversation when he’d rather be working, but he’d also be late for dinner. As if on cue, his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Bloody double hell.
“That will teach me to lose all sense of time,” he muttered. With impatience scraping at him to return to his task, he brushed the dust off his hands as best he could and strode toward the front of the store. He’d simply tell whoever had entered that they’d have to return the next day, a decision he mentally seconded when a whiff of the meal Mrs. Worthington had prepared for his dinner wafted down from his rooms above the shop.
He lifted his chin and took an appreciative sniff. Lamb stew. He could almost taste the savory concoction of meat, potatoes, and vegetables. No one prepared a lamb stew like his long-standing housekeeper, and he’d be damned if he’d allow the meal she’d left him to turn cold while he listened to a bunch of palaver from a tardy stranger.
Bristling with impatience, not to mention his newly recalled hunger, he crossed the threshold into the front section of the store, pausing in the archway when his gaze fell upon the figure of a woman. She stood in profile to him, her features obscured by both the peacock feather curving around the wide, semicircular brim of her dark blue bonnet and the golden shaft of early evening sunlight spilling through the window panes.
A single glance at her fine, cream-colored gown, the fabric printed with small bouquets of flowers, its long sleeves fashionably shirred and puffed, as well as the delicate lace draped over her shoulders marked her as a woman of means. No doubt passing through on her way from London to rusticate at a country estate or one of the resort towns popular with the Quality.
She leaned over the glass counter, and William heard her quick intake of breath. He barely suppressed the groan that rose in his throat. Something had obviously caught her fancy, the price of which she’d probably wish to haggle over endlessly.
Damn it, he really wasn’t fond of cold lamb stew.
He moistened his lips to voice a greeting, one he hoped wouldn’t sound overly insincere, and stepped forward. The floorboard beneath his boot creaked. The woman quickly straightened and turned toward him. Their gazes met.
And everything in William froze. His limbs. His breath. His heart. Recognition slammed him like a battering ram to his gut. He hadn’t seen her in two years. Two years, three weeks, and seventeen days, his inner voice whispered. Not that he kept account of the time. Certainly not. He’d known she would someday visit Halstead again, but he hadn’t dreamed that today would be the day. A bolt of panic struck him. He wasn’t prepared for this. For her.
Yet really, there was no preparation that could adequately shore up his defenses against her. God knew he’d been trying for the last decade. One would think that ten years was enough time to exorcise her from his mind. He’d tried valiantly. And failed utterly.
He blinked to see if she was just a figment of his vivid imagination, but she remained, her eyes, the unforgettable shade of aquamarines, riveted on him. Still, he wasn’t truly certain she was real until her lips parted and she said, “Hello, William.”
Hello, William. Two words. That’s all it took to damn near knock him off his feet. The sound of her voice swamped him with memories, recollections that both haunted his days and invaded his dreams. Thoughts that no amount of work or alcohol or travel could fade.
A tremor rippled through him-- part desire, part dread. For as much as he desperately wanted Callie Albright here, he just as strongly didn’t want her anywhere near him.
End of Heart’s Desire excerpt.
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When Emily Kissed Logan bonus chapter excerpt
At the end of Seduced at Midnight (Book 3 of the Mayhem in Mayfair quartet), Lady Emily Stapleford and mysterious American Logan Jennsen found themselves alone in the library. What happened between them? We find out in Tempted at Midnight (Book 4 of the Mayhem in Mayfair quartet), but because Tempted at Midnight begins three months later, the library scene doesn't actually appear in the book. Here's an excerpt from the bonus “on screen” scene-- available FREE on my website-- of exactly what happened in the library. (http:/www.jacquied.com/WEKLChapter.htm)
London, 1820
Curiosity was killing Lady Emily Stapleford. Could it possibly be true that the mysterious, obscenely wealthy American Logan Jennsen, a man she considered nothing more than an uncouth colonial, was an excellent kisser?
Surely not. Surely her friend Carolyn had exaggerated. Still, the claim had piqued Emily’s curiosity and she found herself stealing but yet another glance at the tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered man standing across the drawing room, hating the fact that her gaze continually sought him out. It was as if Logan Jennsen was a powerful magnet and her errant eyeballs were made of metal.
He stood alone, glass of champagne dangling from his long fingers, observing the guests who’d attended the small wedding ceremony between Lady Julianne Bradley and Gideon Mayne. She watched his gaze pan over the small group, telling herself that she’d shift her attention before he looked at her. But just then his eyes locked with hers and she found herself unable to look away, an irritating turn of events as she didn’t like the man. No
t one bit. Every time she found herself in his presence, she felt vexed and annoyed, a situation made even more grating because her three closest friends all liked Mr. Jennsen and didn’t understand her antipathy toward him.
Of course Carolyn, Julianne, and Sarah weren’t aware that Emily’s father owed Mr. Jennsen a great deal of money. Had Mr. Jennsen lured her father into an unwise investment? Emily didn’t know, but she wouldn’t put anything past the American. After all, in spite of the fact that he’d been in London for months, what did anyone really know about him? Rumor had it he’d been born into poverty and amassed his fortune through his business acumen and the non-gentlemanly pursuit of hard work. Rumor also had it he’d left America under mysterious circumstances.
And, if Carolyn was to be believed, that he was an excellent kisser.
Could it be true? Since the moment Carolyn had made the claim, Emily hadn’t been able to erase the words from her mind, nor the unsettling images they evoked-- of Logan Jennsen’s mouth touching hers. Curiosity had frequently proven too strong a temptation for Emily to resist, and she simply had to find out. Once her curiosity was satisfied, she’d be able to put the matter, and the man, out of her mind. She didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d find his kiss the exact opposite of excellent, something she’d delight in knowing. And there was no time like the present.
Read When Emily Kissed Logan bonus chapter now for free!
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