Times Square is a living entity. The energy is amazing. The sites invigorating and the crowds pulsing. The scents, the textures, the sounds of it are incomparable. I will never forget Tuesday night when we turned the corner from our hotel and experienced the wow of Times Square in full neon living color. Pictures, video, paintings, nothing can adequately describe it.

The food is as unique as the people. I thought I knew what authentic Italian was. Turns out I can learn a lot.

Last night we went the Hilton Theater (lovely intimate setting) and saw THE PIRATE QUEEN a Broadway show based on the life of Grace O’Malley. It brought many people to tears (Allison Brennan and Sylvia Day come to mind ). I sucked it up. After the show and taking a gazillion pictures in front of the marquee, mom, aunty, daughter, Allison, Rocki, Sylvia and I had dinner at the fabulous Bond 45 restaurant. I have never seen such an extensive (and delicious) antipasto bar. It was 1:30 when we came up to our room, then us girls sat around and chatted. It was almost 4 a.m. before I hit the sack. Of course I missed the first speaker this am. Sleep depravation aside, I wasn’t’ feeling well. I took some drugs jumped in the shower and made it down by 10:30.

After meetings today, me and my girls are going to hit Times Square hard, have a piece of cheesecake at Juniors, then Mario our driver (who I am not sure if we adopted him or he adopted us) will be taking us down to the village for dinner. Mario has been a major source of comfort for me. Knowing he has taken a very personal and protective interest in the four of us, I don’t find myself worrying while I am in conference and my favorite ladies are out on the town with him. Speaking of my fave ladies, my daughter just called from Tiffanies to tell me about a charm she just had to have! lol, she described it and I told her I had to have one too! Thank you lord for inventing credit cards.

Well, it’s time to get back to the conference. More later!

K*

I love this town. Love the people, the food, the sites, everything. Boy oh boy, do I have a few stories to tell.

But before I do, an FYI flash. Ladies, FDNY, is well, let me just say they are a tourist attraction all to themselves. I told hubby, they are the glory boys in this town. The cops? meh. They get no respect from the ladies.

My daughter actually stopped a fire engine yesterday on Broadway. Not that she waved them down, we were in Soho, and she looked so damn cute with her big smile, an engine stopped in the middle of the street to admire her cuteness. The guys waved and hooted, she stopped, smiled and waved back. They tooted that big horn and resumed their driving.
The construction workers do the same thing. They aren’t vulgar, they are admiring. And my kid has a great smile. Her grandmother and aunt just grin ear-to-ear every time someone stops to appreciate the site. I’m so happy they took this trip with me. We are having such a wonderful time.

We took a limo tour of the entire island yesterday. Our driver dropped us off in Little Italy, we had pizza at Lombari’s. Then stopped at Ferrara’s, a to-die-for bakery. OMG the cannoli. Yum. Then we shopped until we dropped.

When we headed back out for dinner, the ‘Steakhouse’ we had reservations at turned out to be a very high class gentlemen’s club. OMG! Nekkid women grinding on guys. But it was done in very good taste. My mil and aunt were too funny! They wanted to stay!! I was the one with the teensy weensy problem. I of course had to let the bouncers and doorman and the ladies know I wrote a book titled GOOD GIRL GONE BAD set in a club just like this! We traded email addies. We opted to have Mario our driver come back and get us (although in hindsight we should have stayed. We would have had a blast). We had a huge laugh. Mario took us down to Cipriani’s, got us in and we had fab Italian food.

Mom, Aunt Carol and the kid are at this moment buying out Macy’s, then they are off to see Chicago. I’m getting ready for an industry reception. Looking forward to seeing my agent and editor and other fellow writers. A few of us closed the bar last night. I did not want to get up this am. Oh, I didn’t.
Gotta run, will keep you posted.

K*

My guest hostess today is Cele, with the AI update!!!
Thank you, Cele.

So many possibilities and yet each year when they have pop week I’m surprised by the choices. This year was no different, but I guess I have to start my comments on rant. Good Lord what is it Sanjaya Malakar? The poster child of Vote For The Worst is a total clown, they chose their mark well, and for it we will continue to suffer. Singers far superior will be out of the competition while he continues on. He is a farce. A crappy singer who has to make his mark by being a joke, I want so much for him to respect the competition and his opponents – I know it won’t happen.

What is it with the judges? Wow, usually it’s just the audience that doesn’t let Simon finish his critiques. This year not only does Paula pooh – pooh his insights, but now Randy is too. And they are both sooo wrong, in my humble opinion. Or I’m just getting bitchy. Hmmm. No, they’re just wrong.

Now to the performances….

Lakisha kicked off the evening with a cover of Donna Summer’s The Last Dance. My immediate response, I thought this was Pop night – er I’m not a disco person. She has far too much voice for the song. I just didn’t like the performance, although she was good.

Chris Sligh – Performed the Police’s Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic. Good song choice, when he started singing I thought of Christopher Cross for some reason. I didn’t think he was bad. But the darn echo effect was terrible, it kept pulling my attention away from the performance, but not enough to miss the flat spots.

Gina – I love Gina. Boy she picked a perfect song for her, The Pretender’s I’ll Stand By You. A great song choice, she performed it well, put her own mark on the song and sang her heart out. Kudos. She was the best female performance until Melinda sang. But I didn’t like the top she was wearing.

Sanjaya – Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!!!! So many thoughts, none are positive and ranting won’t make me feel better about this guy. First off, what a suck up, last week, this week, next week, and the week after he will suck up. What’s with the hair? A Faux Hawk for a Faux Singer. Dude, No Doubt is a Ska band, they sing Ska songs, get a clue. No amount of Bath Water will help you.

Haley – Looked pretty, she chose a pretty song, changed up the arrangement, and sang a pretty cover of True Colors it wasn’t Cyndi Lauper and definitely not Phil Collins. It just fell flat for me.

Phil – chose Every Breath She Takes by the Police. I was impressed. I remember several weeks back he did a song, I can’t remember which, but he impressed me. In the weeks since I’d wondered why. Tonight I remember why, he was very good, wonderful, his ability shown through, and he under played the song perfectly. But the echo, sigh.

Melinda – wow, she too chose Donna Summers, but it was night in day for me from Lakisha’s performance. I don’t even like Heaven Knows but OH.MY.GOSH when Melinda sings it doesn’t make a difference if you don’t like the song, she is so wow factor.

Blake didn’t beat box tonight – and for me it was down hill from there. I love his beat box, it gives everything a Blake touch, tonight’s song was bland, but it wasn’t terrible, it was just bland. Oh, Blake sang a love song by The Cure.

Jordin – I can’t believe this girl is only 17 years old. She is so incredibly talented. Covering No Doubt’s Hey, Baby she remembered it was Ska, she gave it her own personality, she made it her own and she had a good time doing it. I loved it.

Chris R – Sang No Doubt’s Don’t Speak and all I can say is Boy Band. He just doesn’t cut it for me.

My Favorites for the week…

♫ Melinda

♫ Jordin

♪ Gina

Malakar was by far the worst, and he has to go, but I know he will survive because the Dark Force is with him.

But I have faith. Vote for the Worst can’t keep the cream from rising to the top. They may have supported and consider Taylor Hicks their victory, but this is week number seventeen for Chris Daughtry and band in the Billboard 200. Their album is now double platinum. While sitting at number 4 on the album charts this week, their first hit, It’s Not Over is number one on the Hot Adult Contemporary and CHR Charts, for five weeks, solid gold. Just proving you can’t keep a good man down.

But before I go, I wanted to say, I watched Dancing with the Stars last night, and I have to admit, while I don’t care for Heather Mills on a personal level she did a fab job dancing the mambo. Even Billy Ray Cyrus was better. Joey Fatone and Apollo Ono are my two fave guys, and did Laila Ali not dance or what? Wow!

Cele will be doing the AI recap tonight or tomorrow morning. Seeing as my daughter, mother-in-law, aunt, and I will be painting New York City red when the show airs, I won’t be able to give commentary. But, I predict Sanjaya will have the worst performance of the evening and not be voted off the island Wednesday night. Grrrr.

There is still ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza. My daughter and I hope to slide in on the ice tomorrow night. We have Broadway shows, 5th Ave/Madison Ave shopping, museum haunting and lots of fab dinners planned.

I’ll be checking in periodically.

OH! Important news flash! Since I will not be back in town until late Sunday, the contest judging will have to be put on hold for a few days. I’m hoping to have Round 12 up by Wednesday. Be patient with me.

Also, my most dearest GF Josie Brown will be guest blogging for me over at MurderSheWrites this Friday. Please stop by and keep her company.

Ciao for now!

K*
xo

1. Death comes to all of us in many ways. It doesn’t consider how it leaves us to the mercy of others who must view our remains.
This time, death had come suddenly and without warning. The young man had been in his prime and died with a look of surprise on his face. There were still poker chips and cards set out for two other players on his table; beer bottles and ash trays covered the scarred laminate, and a bowl of potato chips were left uneaten.
He sat in his chair with a .22 slug in his forehead, with plenty of gunshot residue stippled around the wound to show that the killer had walked right up to him and shot him. Blood had trailed down his face from the gaping hole in his forehead. He’d dropped his beer bottle on the floor and its golden liquid had pooled by his feet.
The room temperature was about fifty-two degrees. The killer had turned the air conditioner up on purpose.

2. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes tight and turned her face away from the wicked-looking blade. She’d seen what it could do. Knew first hand the destruction it could bring.
The death.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I…I can’t do this.”
Cold steel grazed the skin exposed by her low bodice and she flinched. Her tormentor shifted closer in the confined carriage. “Oh, but you will. You know the consequences if you don’t, Lizzy.”

3. “Damn loser recruit,” Captain Connors muttered as he sweltered in the alleyway, forced to endure the scents of week-old Chow Mein coming from the Dumpster he leaned against.
A mingle of sweet citrus and coconut strong enough to turn his stomach overpowered even the stench of the restaurant refuse surrounding him as the hairs rose on his arms. It was one of them, had to be, only shape-shifters gave off that cloying scent a recruiter could catch a whiff of a hundred yards away. He inhaled the rancid fumes rising from the pavement to clear the shifter smell from his nostrils.
Connors stayed leaning, body tense, as a gorgeous blonde strolled into the cramped, trash-filled alley like it was a neighborhood park at lunchtime. Shifter females were breath-taking, making you want, until you remembered what they were and worried about going to bed with Sue Ann and waking up with Jim Bob. He pushed out from the metal at his back, spit on the ground, and thought for the umpteenth time, God, he hated when they were female.
He inhaled deeply of her Shifter scent, verifying she was what she appeared to be and said, “Michael or Michelle?”
She reached up and grasped her breasts in two overflowing handfuls, looking him straight in the eye as she uttered in sultry tones, “It seems it is Michelle today.”
His breath caught in a gasp as she reached down and grabbed her crotch, his gaze forced to follow.

4. Jack Sutton heard a whisper of movement a split second before an arm wrapped around his neck and something sharp plunged into his gut. The shocking reality that he’d just been stabbed registered as he was shoved to the cold, grease-stained concrete floor, his entire midsection on fire. Instinct forced him to his hands and knees before a hard shove sent him crashing back to the floor.
“You should’ve slit his throat,” a croaky, unfamiliar voice complained.
“He’ll be dead in an hour,” a second voice assured the first. “Come on, let’s get the cash register opened—if this don’t look like a robbery, we don’t get paid.”
Jack lay still as death, praying whoever these bastards were they’d hurry the hell up. If he could crawl to the phone and dial 9-1-1, he might have a chance.
Jesus, he was going to puke. *Concentrate, Sutton,* he thought, swallowing hard, choking down bile.

5. The man lay face-up in a pool of his own blood. Kyra Walsh recoiled but not in terror, she’d seen dead bodies before. In her other life, not here.
Recognition flashed – even in death the curly, black hair now tinged by a dull, reddish-brown, the bushy uni-brow, and the pointy nose all combined to give Larry Jones a look of cruelty. What had the bastard been up to at her construction site?
Her heart jerked like the rev of a jackhammer. Here’s one problem the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program sure doesn’t cover with mentors–how to tell your “little sister” her uncle is dead in ten easy steps. Poor Lani, between her mother’s emotional abandonment and her cousins’ harassment, how much could one kid take? Larry wasn’t her favorite person but she wouldn’t wish him dead, well maybe . . .
Bending down, Kyra examined the poor son-of-a-bitch; the fresh corpse had congealed blood sticking to his skin and his right hand clenched a red Sharpie marker…except Larry was left handed.

6. Across the crowded ferry, the little girl looked up and Gabe Moreau ducked his head, praying she’d sit tight and stay the hell away. Blunt fingernails trenched into sweat slicked palms and a phantom tingle in his right palm itched to feel the reassuring weight of his standard issue Glock.
But the Glock was gone.
Along with his badge.
Above him, a green awning blocked the bright July sun, a wayward corner flapping with the ocean’s stiff breeze, but neither noise nor movement distracted his traitorous mind from the waif of a girl or her piercing gaze.
A gaze that left him paralyzed, as if the meanest SOB he’d ever hauled downtown had a boot planted across his throat and the cold blue steel of a barrel pressed against his teeth.
Unbelievable. He’d been rendered useless by the
unassuming glance of a mere child.
A nauseating burst of steamed blood pulsed through his arteries and his stomach pitched.
Maybe the Sarge was right.

7. Jordan Blake always figured he’d go to hell someday, but he never expected it to be this soon. His first clue was a no-brainer, the sign posted outside the town limits read: Hades, Colorado, population two hundred and six.
He almost hit the second clue as he wheeled his Lexus onto Main Street and immediately swerved to avoid the horse tied to the hitching rail. Swearing under his breath, he parked across the street, then jerked on the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t been seeing things. Yeah, there was a horse tied to a hitching rail, all right.
He stepped out of his car and looked up and down the street, squinting against the fine mist that dampened his face. Not much to look at—a barber shop, some tiny crafty-looking store, a gas station/mini-mart/Laundromat, an old stone church, three houses, and a flat-faced building with a faded *Oleson’s Mercantile and Coffee* sign above the door. Between the name and the horse, he felt like he’d been transported onto the set of *Little House on the Prairie.*
Only the jagged peaks of the Rockies veiled by gloomy clouds weren’t no prairie, and the girl walking out of the mercantile with saddlebags slung over her shoulder wasn’t Laura Ingalls; Half-pint didn’t limp.
A gust of wind blew the hood of her dark green rain duster back, revealing a pale face and long hair the color of a vintage Bordeaux.

8. “I can make a woman come using just my mouth.”
George Beringer squinted through an alcoholic haze at his friend Damian Hunt, Viscount Atherton, trying to figure out exactly what Damian meant by that remark. They were both much too drunk, but then, what else was there to do on a cold winter’s night tucked away here at the Atherton estate, except discuss horses and politics, and now, obviously, sex?
“What’s so impressive about that — I’ve never met a woman yet who could resist a man’s mouth on her private lips,” George declared.
“Oh, but I’m not talking about using my mouth on her,” Damian said with a slow smile, “I’m talking about making her come using just the power of my words.”
“Balderdash,” George cried, nearly dropping his wineglass, “you may have a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man, you scoundrel, but it’s impossible to make a woman climax using just words.”
“Care to place a small wager on that?” Damian challenged, quirking an eyebrow.
Next to sex, gambling was George’s favorite activity — the night had suddenly gotten much more interesting.
“I’ll place a large wager on it, you arrogant bastard — my London townhouse says you can’t do it!”
“Hmm…I’ve always admired your house in town,” Damian mused, holding up his wineglass in a salute of approval.

9. She’d become nothing more than a common thief.
No, not common – nothing about Egyptologist Katherine Meyer could ever be construed as common, especially when she was legally dead.
Kat checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, took a deep breath to settle the nerves in her stomach and told herself she looked pretty good for a seven-year-old corpse. The black slacks and matching jacket were perfect, nothing fancy, not one thing about them the slightest bit memorable. No one glancing her direction tonight would ever see anything other than the professional assistant she resembled, and that was precisely the way she wanted it. The less attention she drew, the safer she’d be, because being here wasn’t a choice, it was a matter of life and death.
Her stomach rolled as she turned down the long hallway, as her sensible flats clicked along the cement floor. Muffled music from the party out front drifted to her ears; ahead, a security guard looked up from his post at the end of the corridor and gave her the once-over.
She smiled what she hoped was a confident grin as she approached and flashed the ID badge she’d lifted from a Worthington’s employee only days before. The picture had been digitally altered to match her current disguise – dark brown, bob-style wig, blue color contacts, tortoise shell glasses – and as long as the man in front of her didn’t look too closely, she was home free.

10. Through the darkness the child ran, dogging the woman’s heels. Short, angular legs that had never seen an ounce of baby fat, churned through the sweating foliage. The damp heat tightened, stealing her breath as the tropical jungle closed around her.
“Mama,” the child whispered and the faint sound of her own voice was comforting when everything around her breathed death.
She reached for the hand her mother offered, holding with desperate strength to the only person who might save her from the evil lurking in the shrouded Cambodian night.
A monkey screeched, twigs snapped and only her mother’s grip kept her from bolting off the path as what sounded like footsteps ranged through the jungle.
“It is not the Khmer Rouge, little one,” her mother soothed in careful French, the language their captors didn’t understand.
The child bit her lip, the sharp pain making her forget the ache in her side but not what roamed in the dark shadows. She fought the fear, squeezing her mother’s hand, knowing that it would take both their strength to survive, just like it always had.
But the night was long, the fear unrelenting and the child could only endure so much, she stumbled.

11. “Son, you’ve got more metal in you than the Terminator.”
Immobile in a hospital bed with one leg in traction, one arm fractured, and bruises painted on his body like modern art on a canvas, Garrett McCloud found no humor in his doctor’s joke.
Refraining from comment, he watched Dr. Shaw flip open the chart and wrinkle his lips while he studied whatever mysterious gibberish doctors wrote on the things. With his frizzy white hair, the good doctor remarkably resembled Einstein, and Garrett considered him as much a genius as the great scientist, in spite of the quirky, misplaced wit.
Looking up, Dr. Shaw examined Garrett’s face and must have realized his joke flopped because he said, “Here’s the deal, Mr. McCloud, if you keep crashing, I don’t know if we can keep putting you together–even now, I can’t guarantee you’re not going to have a limp.”
When he added, “Your knee resembled Humpty Dumpty after his great fall,” Garrett decided the doctor spent too much time with his grandkids.
“I’m positive I’m paying a fortune for you and all the king’s men to patch me together again,” he growled.
“You are,” the doctor agreed, scribbling notes on the chart before zeroing his gaze on Garrett and saying, “But my point is, racing motorcycles is a young man’s sport–it’s time for you to think about another career. Take my advice,” Dr. Shaw continued, tucking the chart back into place at the foot of the bed, “Blink those baby blues of yours at some beautiful woman, get married, have a family. Put your reckless ways on a shelf with all your trophies.”

12. “Just keep on driving, Mister,” Moxie said as she struggled to keep the gun in her hand from shaking as she aimed it at the man’s head.
He turned to look down the barrel of the gun, his eyes then trailing up her arm to look into her face. She tried to put on a hard, outlawish-looking expression, but it wasn’t working—it’s hard to look evil when you’ve got curly red hair and freckles.
“You’re joking, right?” He gave her a hopeful little smile, while his eye cut over to the gun pointed at his chin.
“Nope, dead serious. Drive on out of here and nobody gets hurt.” She gestured with the gun toward the driveway leading out of the sun baked hotel parking lot.
“Great,” he mumbled, “I’m being abducted by a pixie.”
This fella wasn’t the first one to compare her to some kind of fairyland creature, Moxie realized with a sigh.

13. As much as he’d hoped Lacey McLaren had gained a hundred pounds and sprouted horns in the five years since he’d last seen her, she hadn’t. Noah cursed, unable to pull his gaze away; if anything, she was more beautiful now than when they’d first met. His heart tripped over itself, his gut twisting into knots as he watched her lead the chestnut mare into the middle of the indoor arena and mount up.
Thank God it was too damn hot for chaps today; the image of her ass framed in tight suede was one he really didn’t need to carry with him. Just the thought sent blood rushing south, causing his jeans to grow tighter around the zipper.
“Does Lacey have a clue that it’s me, specifically, who’s come to look at buying her horses?” he asked, casting his half-brother a sidelong glance.
Colin’s sly grin was all the answer he needed.
“She’s expecting my brother,” he explained calmly, not taking his eyes off the horse and rider,”she just doesn’t know that you’re him.”
“Seeing her reaction might just be worth the jetlag,” Noah said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.
During the long flight from Phoenix to Toronto, all the feelings he’d worked so hard to keep buried after she walked out on

14. Who said dying was easy?
Ruby May stepped out the front door of the Delta Funeral Home in what had been her good luck dress–until they buried her in it. She studied her reflection in passing, and realized dying in Delta had a downside; she was a Blue Light Special on heels.
The town slowly receded as Ruby walked the winding Tennessee roads, reliving life moments all strung together like glass beads. Life didn’t come with a damn rulebook–a good thing since ignoring advice had been her personal mantra. She had led an amoral life, impossible to sugarcoat, and there was a high probability her view would be outside those pearly gates her mama talked about.
In the distance, the old homestead sprawled across Cooper Mountain and Ruby ran to it, like a child bolting into a mama’s arms. The heart of the place welcomed her, surprising since she had high-tailed it out of town at the first bump in the road. Leaving a daughter for Syble to raise had shocked the good people of Delta, like every other shenanigan she’d pulled all in the name of Ruby.
She settled on the old porch swing ready to face the music and count the wounded she’d left behind–Ruby expected a few frayed edges–but the panoramic glimpse about killed her…again.

15. “Your sorry ass is going to be even sorrier, Jimmy Ray!”
The bat connected with a sickening, satisfying crunch. Jimmy Ray’s pained, horrified expression should have sent a spurt of triumph through Angel, but it didn’t.
“You crazy bitch!”
She tightened her grip on the scarred Louisville Slugger. She had a choice – take another swing at her ex’s ego by hitting him where it would hurt him most or walk away before the cops showed up and she lost what little hard-won dignity she had left.
Too late.
Blue lights flaring in lazy swirls, a Chandler County sheriff’s car pulled into the parking lot. If God were listening to her this one time, Cookie would not be in that car. But, as the Big Guy had a habit of turning His hearing aid off where she was concerned . . . why would this time be any different?

Good luck in the next round!

K*

I thoroughly enjoyed this evening’s performances (well except for two) Lulu was a doll. She really took her mentoring job seriously. Peter was a treat as well. Loved their energy. I also give props to that band. The music tonight was pure music to my ears.

So let us begin with Haley: She looked outstanding—what a pair of legs! I am sooo jealous. I still think she needs to break out more—but wow—her best performance to date. Randy was right on. Perfect song choice and he agreed with me, this was her best performance. I love Simon and the way he says naughty. I want him to call me naughty. Hmm, maybe if he reads one of my books…

Chris R: Before he sang I had a feeling he was going to come off lame. For the first time since the competition began, I think we actually got to hear the real Chris’ voice. I loved the guitar and the backup music. Of all of Chris’ performances this was the best. I was happy to see Randy and Simon both agreed.

Stephanie: Loved the song choice; You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me—the band rocked. Steph seemed nervous to me when she began to sing. I kept waiting for her vocals to pick up. Hmmm, not the performance I had hoped for. The audience seemed to give lackluster applause. Randy was spot on, Paula was a ding dong, and Simon was spot on as well. Steph needs to go back to what she is passionate about.

Blake: Okay, as I watched Blake with Peter I kept thinking, knock off the damn beat boxing and just sing the song! I almost got up to pee, because I was sure he would ruin the song. But the music stopped me. Then his voice sat me back down. I thought the song choice was perfect. I really really really enjoyed the song and his performance. Total Yo factor!

LaKisha: Diamonds are Forever. The way she sang it made me think of a James Bond movie. Oh, wait a minute…:) There is no question, LaKisha has a set of pipes and can sing anything and sing it well. But, I didn’t connect this song with her. She should have listened to Lulu and sang the other song. I was glad to see Randy agreed with me. Paula is a dope and Simon was also right on. I guess sometimes newbies should listen to the pros?

Phil: Ugh. I was not looking forward to his performance and I was not disappointed. As I was listening and watching I kept thinking, the judges are gonna tear him up. So I was surprised Randy and even Paula liked it. Of course Simon, a judge after my own heart, nailed it. Phil needs more grit. But here’s the thing. It’s not in him. It isn’t who he is. If he goes this week instead of Sanjaya (who I have not seen as of writing these notes), I will not be upset.

Jordin: Loved how Lulu worked with her. Loved the song. Loved how she looked. Loved the band and loved Jordin’s performance. Best yet!

Sanjaya: O. M.G.!!!!!! I take it back. This kid has gotta go! I couldn’t bear to watch him. Would someone please put him out of his misery? Please!! No please put US out of our misery. When the camera panned to that little girl in the audience crying, I cried. We have not seen the last of Sanjaya. Ok, taking a big cleansing breath here. That was the most horrible performance I have seen in all the years I have watched AI.

Gina: Paint it Black. I wasn’t buying what she was selling. Then Paula’s digs to Simon just make it worse. She really looks dumb when she does that crap. The digs are so childish. If she’s gonna dig, make it grown up play. Sheesh.

Chris S: She’s Not There. Love the song. I enjoyed his performance. He did a good job.

Melinda: The torch song kind of threw a wringer into the energy of the night. I’m not saying it was bad—I don’t think Melinda is capable of a bad performance. I mean Melinda is an old soul with oodles of talent. That said, I don’t disagree with the judges.

So, my two fave performance tonight were Jordin and Blake. I predict Phil, Stephanie and please, god please, Sanjaya will be in the bottom three. I also predict Sanjya will not get voted off. Grrrrrrr.

Oh, oh, and I did catch the last 30 minutes of Dancing with the Stars last night. Apollo Ono is a doll. Heater Mills has the personality of an old maid. And even though I cannot stand her, I did not want to see her screw up. Frankly, I was amazed she did as well as she did, considering the extent of her disability. I had no idea it was so difficult to maneuver even the simplest of actions, like walking. She sure does set the example of what you can do if you put your mind to it. So kudos Heather. Now, please next week put your mind to finding a dress less horrible then the one you wore this week.

So thoughts on AI and DWS? Who are your bottom three? Who did you love? I won’t ask who y’all didn’t love. I think we are all on the same page there. Rolling eyes…

K*

My judge this week loved all of the entries! As judges past she had great difficulty. I felt her pain. It really is getting beyond difficult to cull any entry.
Congrats to this week’s Terrific 20!! (heh, little play off on March Madness)

1. Death comes to all of us in many ways. It doesn’t consider how it leaves us to the mercy of others who must view our remains.
This time, death had come suddenly and without warning. The young man had been in his prime and died with a look of surprise on his face. There were still poker chips and cards set out for two other players on his table; beer bottles and ash trays covered the scarred laminate, and a bowl of potato chips were left uneaten.
He sat in his chair with a .22 slug in his forehead, with plenty of gunshot residue around the wound to show that the killer had walked right up to him and shot him. Blood had trailed down his face from the gaping hole in his forehead. He’d dropped his beer bottle on the floor and its golden liquid had pooled by his feet.
The room temperature was about fifty-two degrees.

2. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes tight and turned her face away from the wicked-looking blade. She’d seen what it could do. Knew first hand the destruction it could bring.
The death.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I…I can’t do this.”
Cold steel grazed the skin exposed by her low bodice and she flinched. Her tormentor shifted closer in the confined carriage. “Oh, but you will.

3. “Damn loser recruit,” Captain Connors muttered as he sweltered in the alleyway, forced to endure the scents of week-old Chow Mein coming from the Dumpster he leaned against.
A mingle of sweet citrus and coconut strong enough to turn his stomach overpowered even the stench of the restaurant refuse surrounding him as the hairs rose on his arms. It was one of them, had to be, only shape-shifters gave off that cloying scent a recruiter could catch a whiff of a hundred yards away. He inhaled the rancid fumes rising from the pavement to clear the shifter smell from his nostrils.
Connors stayed leaning, body tense, as a gorgeous blonde strolled into the cramped, trash-filled alley like it was a neighborhood park at lunchtime. Shifter females were breath-taking, making you want, until you remembered what they were and worried about going to bed with Sue Ann and waking up with Jim Bob. He pushed out from the metal at his back, spit on the ground, and thought for the umpteenth time, God, he hated when they were female.
He inhaled deeply of her Shifter scent, verifying she was what she appeared to be and said, “Michael or Michelle?”
She reached up and grasped her breasts in two overflowing handfuls, looking him straight in the eye as she uttered in sultry tones, “It seems it is Michelle today.”

4. Joshua shuddered as the massive red door creaked open, allowing the stench of brimstone to steal into the room. Soon he would have to pass through that horrifying door–unless he could come up with some way to evade his fate.
He strode over to the Waiting Room clerk, a fat man whose inadequate wings fluttered anxiously as Joshua banged his fist on the desk. “Pray tell me, am I destined to go through that infernal door, or is there a path to redemption?”
“Geez, Doc, it’s kinda late to be thinking about redeeming yourself.” Eyeing him curiously, the clerk added, “Usually you gotta commit one of the three biggies to get the red-door treatment–rape, murder, or egregious pollution of natural resources–so what’d you do?”
“‘Twas closest to murder,” Joshua said, shame and regret searing him as he considered his wasted life, his great failure, his final disgrace. And yet he’d signed up as a surgeon in the Continental Army with the sole intention of helping his fellow man—including his courageous but reckless younger brother.
“I’m still waitin’ on your orders, but I’ll send up Form A105—Request for Redemption,” the clerk said.

5. Jack Sutton heard a whisper of movement a split second before an arm wrapped around his neck and something sharp plunged into his gut. The shocking reality that he’d just been stabbed registered as he was shoved to the cold, grease-stained concrete floor, his entire midsection on fire. Instinct forced him to his hands and knees before a hard shove sent him crashing back to the floor.
“You should’ve slit his throat,” a croaky, unfamiliar voice complained.
“He’ll be dead in an hour,” a second voice assured the first. “Come on, let’s get the cash register opened—if this don’t look like a robbery, we don’t get paid.”
Jack lay still as death, praying whoever these bastards were they’d hurry the hell up. If he could crawl to the phone and dial 9-1-1, he might have a chance.
Jesus, he was going to puke.

6. Jordan Blake always figured he’d go to hell someday, but he never expected it to be this soon. His first clue was a no-brainer, the sign posted outside the town limits read: Hades, Colorado, population two hundred and six.
He almost hit the second clue as he wheeled his Lexus onto Main Street and immediately swerved to avoid the horse tied to the hitching rail. Swearing under his breath, he parked across the street, then jerked on the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t been seeing things. Yeah, there was a horse tied to a hitching rail, all right.
He stepped out of his car and looked up and down the street, squinting against the fine mist that dampened his face. Not much to look at—a barber shop, some tiny crafty-looking store, a gas station/mini-mart/Laundromat, an old stone church, three houses, and a flat-faced building with a faded *Oleson’s Mercantile and Coffee* sign above the door. Between the name and the horse, he felt like he’d been transported onto the set of *Little House on the Prairie.*
Only the jagged peaks of the Rockies veiled by gloomy clouds weren’t no prairie, and the girl walking out of the mercantile with saddlebags slung over her shoulder wasn’t Laura Ingalls; Half-pint didn’t limp.

7. “Just keep on driving, Mister,” Moxie said as she struggled to keep the gun in her hand from shaking as she aimed it at the man’s head.
He turned to look down the barrel of the gun, his eyes then trailing up her arm to look into her face. She tried to put on a hard, outlawish-looking expression, but it wasn’t working—it’s hard to look evil when you’ve got curly red hair and freckles.
“You’re joking, right?” He gave her a hopeful little smile, while his eye cut over to the gun pointed at his chin.
“Nope, dead serious. Drive on out of here and nobody gets hurt.” She gestured with the gun toward the driveway leading out of the sun baked hotel parking lot.
“Great,” he mumbled, “I’m being abducted by a pixie.”

8. Lord, that man was gorgeous.
Of course, that was why I was standing in his office on a cold, wet Tuesday morning, dressed only in a form-fitting ruby red dress and matching strappy heels.
I was a little cold, but not enough to make me rethink my wardrobe choice – long legs and perky feet were my only real assets, so I had no choice but to show them. It wasn’t as if I could rely on my *breasts* to carry the outfit – nope, left to their own devices, they’d let the team down every time. So I’d worn a push-up bra to maximise their potential and tried to draw attention in a downward, more beneficial direction.
But this man in front of me – I doubted he had a single body part that wasn’t pulling its weight. I sighed in appreciation and allowed myself a moment to stare at the perfection of form that was Matt Malone.
Then, heavenly moment over, I dragged my focus from Mr Sexalicious back to my whole reason for being there. The Plan.

9. “I can make a woman come using just my mouth.”
George Beringer squinted through an alcoholic haze at his friend Damian Hunt, Viscount Atherton, trying to figure out exactly what Damian meant by that remark. They were both much too drunk, but then, what else was there to do on a cold winter’s night tucked away here at the Atherton estate, except discuss horses and politics, and now, obviously, sex?
“What’s so impressive about that — I’ve never met a woman yet who could resist a man’s mouth on her private lips,” George declared.
“Oh, but I’m not talking about using my mouth on her,” Damian said with a slow smile, “I’m talking about making her come using just the power of my words.”
“Balderdash,” George cried, nearly dropping his wineglass, “you may have a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man, you scoundrel, but it’s impossible to make a woman climax using just words.”
“Care to place a small wager on that?” Damian challenged, quirking an eyebrow.
Next to sex, gambling was George’s favorite activity — the night had suddenly gotten much more interesting.
“I’ll place a large wager on it, you arrogant bastard — my London townhouse says you can’t do it!”

10. Through the darkness the child ran, dogging the woman’s heels. Short, angular legs that had never seen an ounce of baby fat, churned through the sweating foliage. The damp heat tightened, stealing her breath as the tropical jungle closed around her.
“Mama,” the child whispered and the faint sound of her own voice was comforting when everything around her breathed death. She reached for the hand her mother offered, holding with desperate strength to the only person who might save her from the evil lurking in the shrouded Cambodian night.
A monkey screeched, twigs snapped and only her mother’s grip kept her from bolting off the path as what sounded like footsteps ranged through the jungle.
“It is not the Khmer Rouge, little one,” her mother soothed in careful French, the language their captors didn’t understand.
The child bit her lip, the sharp pain making her forget the ache in her side but not what roamed in the dark shadows. She fought the fear, squeezing her mother’s hand, knowing that it would take both their strength to survive, just like it always had.

11. The man lay face-up in a pool of his own blood. Kyra Walsh recoiled but not in terror, she’d seen dead bodies before. In her other life, not here.
Recognition flashed – even in death the curly, black hair now tinged by a dull, reddish-brown, the bushy uni-brow, and the pointy nose all combined to give Larry Jones a look of cruelty. What had the bastard been up to at her construction site?
Her heart jerked like the rev of a jackhammer. Here’s one problem the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program sure doesn’t cover with mentors–how to tell your “little sister” her uncle is dead in ten easy steps. Poor Lani, between her mother’s emotional abandonment and her cousins’ harassment, how much could one kid take? Larry wasn’t her favorite person but she wouldn’t wish him dead, well maybe . . .

12. “Maybe I should become a lesbian for a week,” I blurted.
Carol choked on what was left of her watered down frozen strawberry daiquiri.
I intended to pat her back, but she had become a blur – three too many daiquiris for me – so even the beige walls of my den seemed to move.
Where the hell did that come from?” Carol asked, staring at me as if I’d grown two heads.
I gulped the rest of my drink and said in a voice I knew sounded like a whine, “Don’t
know what else to do.”
“Spill, right now, Margo,” Carol ordered as she banged her glass on the magazine-covered, white coffee table.
I hiccuped, then answered, “Jay’s coming back to town.”
I scratched my head, but could barely feel it.
Carol’s eyes didn’t look so clear when she asked, “And you want to become a lesbian why?”

13. Like a snake, coiled and ready to strike, it’d been waiting for him when he’d arrived at work. And as it had when he’d first read it, his stomach knotted and cold fear wrapped around him.
He’d stared at the words, reading them but not processing them.
No, that was a damn lie–he’d processed them all right, and what his mind told him was inconceivable.
The paper in his hand crinkled and he turned his gaze to it, smoothing the wrinkles out against his thigh and scanning it again even though he’d memorized it days ago.
*Dear Mr. MacMillan*–not Dear Mac or even Mac, hell, it should have said, Dear John because that’s exactly what it was–a Dear John letter.
Mac closed his eyes, the barrier of numbness that had first descended long gone, leaving enough room for the fear and loneliness and grief to sneak in.
She’d left him.
Up and walked out with nothing but a formal letter thanking him for her career and nothing else.

14. Across the crowded ferry, the little girl looked up and Gabe Moreau ducked his head, praying she’d sit tight and stay the hell away. Blunt fingernails trenched into sweat slicked palms and a phantom tingle in his right palm itched to feel the reassuring weight of his standard issue Glock.
But the Glock was gone.
Along with his badge.
Above him, a green awning blocked the bright July sun, a wayward corner flapping with the ocean’s stiff breeze, but neither noise nor movement distracted his traitorous mind from the waif of a girl or her piercing gaze.
A gaze that left him paralyzed, as if the meanest SOB he’d ever hauled downtown had a boot planted across his throat and the cold blue steel of a barrel pressed against his teeth.
Unbelievable. He’d been rendered useless by the unassuming glance of a mere child.
A nauseating burst of steamed blood pulsed through his arteries and his stomach pitched.

15. She’d become nothing more than a common thief.
No, not common – nothing about Egyptologist Katherine Meyer could ever be construed as common, especially when she was legally dead.
Kat checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, took a deep breath to settle the nerves in her stomach and told herself she looked pretty good for a seven-year-old corpse. The black slacks and matching jacket were perfect, nothing fancy, not one thing about them the slightest bit memorable. No one glancing her direction tonight would ever see anything other than the professional assistant she resembled, and that was precisely the way she wanted it. The less attention she drew, the safer she’d be, because being here wasn’t a choice, it was a matter of life and death.
Her stomach rolled as she turned down the long hallway, as her sensible flats clicked along the cement floor. Muffled music from the party out front drifted to her ears; ahead, a security guard looked up from his post at the end of the corridor and gave her the once-over.
She smiled what she hoped was a confident grin as she approached and flashed the ID badge she’d lifted from a Worthington’s employee only days before.

16. “Your sorry ass is going to be even sorrier, Jimmy Ray!”
The bat connected with a sickening, satisfying crunch. Jimmy Ray’s pained, horrified expression should have sent a spurt of triumph through Angel, but it didn’t.
“You crazy bitch!”
She tightened her grip on the scarred Louisville Slugger. She had a choice – take another swing at her ex’s ego by hitting him where it would hurt him most or walk away before the cops showed up and she lost what little hard-won dignity she had left.
Too late.
Blue lights flaring in lazy swirls, a Chandler County sheriff’s car pulled into the parking lot. If God were listening to her this one time, Cookie would not be in that car.

17. Who said dying was easy?
Ruby May stepped out the front door of the Delta Funeral Home in what had been her good luck dress–until they buried her in it. She studied her reflection in passing, and realized dying in Delta had a downside; she was a Blue Light Special on heels.
The town slowly receded as Ruby walked the winding Tennessee roads, reliving life moments all strung together like glass beads. Life didn’t come with a damn rulebook–a good thing since ignoring advice had been her personal mantra. She had led an amoral life, impossible to sugarcoat, and there was a high probability her view would be outside those pearly gates her mama talked about.
In the distance, the old homestead sprawled across Cooper Mountain and Ruby ran to it, like a child bolting into a mama’s arms. The heart of the place welcomed her, surprising since she had high-tailed it out of town at the first bump in the road. Leaving a daughter for Syble to raise had shocked the good people of Delta, like every other shenanigan she’d pulled all in the name of Ruby.

18. As much as he’d hoped Lacey McLaren had gained a hundred pounds and sprouted horns in the five years since he’d last seen her, she hadn’t. Noah cursed, unable to pull his gaze away; if anything, she was more beautiful now than when they’d first met. His heart tripped over itself, his gut twisting into knots as he watched her lead the chestnut mare into the middle of the indoor arena and mount up.
Thank God it was too damn hot for chaps today; the image of her ass framed in tight suede was one he really didn’t need to carry with him. Just the thought sent blood rushing south, causing his jeans to grow tighter around the zipper.
“Does Lacey have a clue that it’s me, specifically, who’s come to look at buying her horses?” he asked, casting his half-brother a sidelong glance.
Colin’s sly grin was all the answer he needed.
“She’s expecting my brother,” he explained calmly, not taking his eyes off the horse and rider,”she just doesn’t know that you’re him.”
“Seeing her reaction might just be worth the jetlag,” Noah said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone.

19. “Son, you’ve got more metal in you than the Terminator.”
Immobile in a hospital bed with one leg in traction, one arm fractured, and bruises painted on his body like modern art on a canvas, Garrett McCloud found no humor in his doctor’s joke.
Refraining from comment, he watched Dr. Shaw flip open the chart and wrinkle his lips while he studied whatever mysterious gibberish doctors wrote on the things. With his frizzy white hair, the good doctor remarkably resembled Einstein, and Garrett considered him as much a genius as the great scientist, in spite of the quirky, misplaced wit.
Looking up, Dr. Shaw examined Garrett’s face and must have realized his joke flopped because he said, “Here’s the deal, Mr. McCloud, if you keep crashing, I don’t know if we can keep putting you together–even now, I can’t guarantee you’re not going to have a limp.”
When he added, “Your knee resembled Humpty Dumpty after his great fall,” Garrett decided the doctor spent too much time with his grandkids.
“I’m positive I’m paying a fortune for you and all the king’s men to patch me together again,” he growled.
“You are,” the doctor agreed, scribbling notes on the chart before zeroing his gaze on Garrett and saying, “But my point is, racing motorcycles is a young man’s sport–it’s time for you to think about another career. Take my advice,” Dr. Shaw continued, tucking the chart back into place at the foot of the bed, “Blink those baby blues of yours at some beautiful woman, get married, have a family.”

20. “Despite what you apparently believe,” Lieutenant Kathryn Glace snapped, the pale skin across her cheeks tightening and tinting peach, “I’ve given this a great deal of thought—the family is legitimate, and their unique. . .talents. . have proven significantly helpful in the past.”
“I know who they are,” Nick said, trying to iron the grit from his voice. He knew what they were too: gypsies, tramps and thieves. Okay, maybe not tramps, but the thievery bit sure as hell fit. The con artist he’d been stuck with on the Riverside kidnapping, had charged the family a bundle for her so called services, only to deliver false hope and additional heartache. Significantly helpful? Hardly.
“This isn’t a request, detective,” the lieutenant said, her blue eyes chilling, “you have no leads, no evidence and no suspects. What you do have, is a maniac terrorizing the cat lovers of Seattle.”

Good luck, everyone!
K*

Here’s the thing. Brandon deserved to get booted off the island early. But before Hairdo-boy? No way. And Sundance got ripped off last week. Sigh. I am at a loss. I think I’ll start Watching Dancing with the Stars Monday night. Who’s with me? I’ll make a prediction. Paul McCarthney’s ex will get the boot first. I think most Americans dislike her as much as her British counterparts. I actually would like see to Apollo Ono take to the floor. Okay, I just talked myself into Dancing with the Stars. Hubby is gonna have a cow.

K*

Wow, I found myself wandering around the house and gasp, doing laundry, I was so not interested in most of the performances tonight.

When I sit down with pen and paper at the beginning of each show, I jot notes as each AI contestant gets up and does their thang. I always write my gut reaction first, then if I feel like it, I’ll mention what a judge has to say. The reason I’m telling y’all this is because I have, much to my surprise, developed quite and ear. I’m seeing and hearing the same things the judges are and am saying it out loud to my husband before the judges give commentary.

I think some of my ear has to do with the fact I’m a writer who is constantly evolving. I understand what the judges are saying. I understand what the contestants are feeling, how badly they want to succeed, to break out and standout. To be the next American Idol. I want to be a New York Times best selling author. To achieve that, I must have an ear for what works.

Now onto the show. I was really hoping Diva Diana would give these kids something really poignant to chew on. She didn’t. Oh, well.

Oh, oh, wait! How funny was it when Ryan and Simon were joking and Simon told Ryan to come out of the closet? LOL and Ryan took it like a trooper. Do you think he’s gay? I’m really not sure. I’m also sure I don’t care, but I find him rather fascinating in an odd way.

Ok, on to the show!

Brandon: Can’t Hurry Love. Hmm he needed to hurry up and make his voice heard! His voice seemed to get lost in the music. Forgetting his lines didn’t help. Oh yeah, and like Simon said, the dancing was horrible. I give him a thumbs down.

Melinda: I didn’t catch the title of her song, but all I can say is as I listened to her I wondered if there was a song she could screw up. I really liked her shoes. After the performance I could have sworn I saw Paula crying! OMG! She was!

Chris Sleigh: Endless Love. Could be his end. Let’s see, no glasses, coiffed curls and a shaky voice. The performance lacked passion to me. If he gets voted off the island I won’t be surprised. Thumbs down.

Gina: Love Child. Okay, if I haven’t mentioned it before, there is something about this girl that rubs me the wrong way. She gets on my nerves. So maybe I am a bit bias in my comments. However, tonight I made a point of just closing my eyes and listening to her song. I thought she did a good job. There were some pitchy screamy moments but over all I enjoyed her energy. I thought she did better than what Simon said. Thumbs up.

Sanjaya: Ewww! His hair! And his song? Ain’t No Mountain High Enough? He’s right, there ain’t no mountain high enough to squash his whimpy voice! Okay, that was mean. And you know what? I bet he is a really sweet guy. In fact I’ll lay money down he is, but I swear, if he is not voted off the island tomorrow night, I. WILL. NOT. watch another episode of AI this year! Thumbs and toes down!

Haley: Missing You. Frankly, it wasn’t very strong. BUT! I think it was her best performance yet—she really needs to project herself, throw herself out there, belt it out. She has the voice. Let loose for crying out loud. Um, and don’t forget the words. I loved what Simon said afterwards. We’ll all remember who Haley is now. I thought she was adorable afterwards. She totally redeemed herself in my eyes. I’m going to vote for her tonight.

Phil: I’m Gonna Make You Love Me. Okay, I don’t mind a guy who shaves his head, but, um Phil’s head looked kind of, well, pornographic to me tonight. As far as his performance tonight, I think it was his best yet. I was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t think he had it in him. Good job and a thumbs up.

LaKisha: God Bless the Child. And she should thank God for the blessing of that voice. You know what it is I love about her? She is not afraid to use her voice.
I loved the dress, didn’t care for the color, and would have used a mike stand.

Blake: You Keep Me Hanging On. I love this song. Hated what Phil did to it. I like the song moody and deep, less hip. I found Phil’s performance boring. He needs to stop messing with the arrangement and mess with his voice. That said, although I found his performance meh, his voice was clear and consistent. One thumb up the other down.

Stephanie: Sweetest Hangover. She has so much style. I thought she sang really well. The performance though was a little boring. Thumbs up.

Chris R: I forgot the song, and I thought his voice was weak and shaky. No bueno. Thumbs down.

Jordin: If We Hold on Together. She looked great and I thought she sang really well, except for a few of those screechy parts, but again, nothing spectacular. One up, one down.

So, how do you think everyone did? And While it’s a given Sanjaya should be voted off, who do you think actually will be voted off?

K*

Here we go!

1. He’d introduced her to passion in payment for his life. And yet, the woman who would be Captain André Marin’s salvation had closed her mind against him, locking him out of her dreams. A waning moon crawled across a starless sky over the bow of the Trident, the French merchant vessel under his command. He closed his eyes and reached for her with his thoughts, “Caitrina, open to my touch.”
A nothingness as deep as the ocean was his only response.
He glanced down from his perch on the quarterdeck to meet the worried gazes of his crew. Time was the one thing they had too much of, but could not afford to waste.
Trapped aboard his cursed vessel, he was the same man who’d set sail two centuries before, but once his feet left the deck, he was no different than the ghosts guarding the castle walls along the Scottish coast—cursed and alone.
2. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes tight and turned her face away from the wicked-looking blade. She’d seen what it could do. Knew first hand the destruction it could bring.
The death.
“Please,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I…I can’t do this.”
Cold steel grazed the skin exposed by her low bodice and she flinched. Her tormentor shifted closer in the confined carriage.
3. Jordan Blake always figured he’d go to hell someday, but he never expected it to be this soon. His first clue was a no-brainer, the sign posted outside the town limits read: Hades, Colorado, population two hundred and six.
He almost hit the second clue as he wheeled his Lexus onto Main Street and immediately swerved to avoid the horse tied to the hitching rail. Swearing under his breath, he parked across the street, then jerked on the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t been seeing things. Yeah, there was a horse tied to a hitching rail, all right.
He stepped out of his car and looked up and down the street, squinting against the fine mist that dampened his face. Not much to look at—a barber shop, some tiny crafty-looking store, a gas station/mini-mart/Laundromat, an old stone church, three houses, and a flat-faced building with a faded *Oleson’s Mercantile and Coffee* sign above the door. Between the name and the horse, he felt like he’d been transported onto the set of *Little House on the Prairie.*
4. Jack Sutton heard a whisper of movement a split second before an arm wrapped around his neck and something sharp plunged into his gut. The shocking reality that he’d just been stabbed registered as he was shoved to the cold, grease-stained concrete floor, his entire midsection on fire. Instinct forced him to his hands and knees before a hard shove sent him crashing back to the floor.
“You should’ve slit his throat,” a croaky, unfamiliar voice complained.
“He’ll be dead in an hour,” a second voice assured the first. “Come on, let’s get the cash register opened—if this don’t look like a robbery, we don’t get paid.”
Jack lay still as death, praying whoever these bastards were they’d hurry the hell up. If he could crawl to the phone and dial 9-1-1, he might have a chance.
5. “Just keep on driving, Mister,” Moxie said as she struggled to keep the gun in her hand from shaking as she aimed it at the man’s head.
He turned to look down the barrel of the gun, his eyes then trailing up her arm to look into her face. She tried to put on a hard, outlawish-looking expression, but it wasn’t working—it’s hard to look evil when you’ve got curly red hair and freckles.
“You’re joking, right?” He gave her a hopeful little smile, while his eye cut over to the gun pointed at his chin.
“Nope, dead serious. Drive on out of here and nobody gets hurt.” She gestured with the gun toward the driveway leading out of the sun baked hotel parking lot.
6. “Damn, it’s hotter than the devil’s backyard out here.” Castana Castillo took her hands from the steering wheel just long enough to swipe at the river of sweat running down the nape of her neck and to adjust the volume on George Strait’s
“Amarillo by Morning”. The truck and two-horse trailer swerved, and she quickly regained control of the rig, but not before something bounced off the right front fender with a sickening thud.
Oh, no, what now?
Braking as hard as she dared, Castana lurched to a stop, half fell out of the pickup and stumbled back to see what –or who– she’d struck. She stared in disbelief at the crumpled body beside the road. “Oh, God, please don’t be dead,” she prayed, falling to her knees beside a bloodied man who stared unblinking at the Arizona sky.
“I’m alive,” he groaned.
7. Fighting the natural urge to fade away, disappear, and remain in reclusion, Lelandi Wildhaven spied the seedy tavern down the street where she would set up her first night of surveillance.
Why had her sister ended up dead—here, of all the godforsaken places in the States? A pang of anger and regret scraped Lelandi’s insides like a ragged knife. Keep a cool head, she reminded herself; she was in *their* territory now.
Sugar-drained leaves colored in ripe purples, reds, oranges, and yellows danced in the breeze while a haunting sound wound through the Colorado town and mountains like a warning. Determined not to back out now, Lelandi ignored her gut instinct telling her this was a bad idea and pushed open the tavern’s heavy oak door, the rusted hinges squealing, jarring her taut nerves.
Several bearded men and the bartender turned to stare at her and at once she feared the worst—they saw straight through her disguise.
Spying unoccupied tables at the opposite end of the tavern, dark, perfect for her needs, Lelandi headed for the most obscure one, but her skin prickled with unease when the place remained deathly quiet.
8. Joshua shuddered as the massive red door creaked open, allowing the stench of brimstone to steal into the room. Soon he would have to pass through that horrifying door–unless he could come up with some way to evade his fate.
He strode over to the Waiting Room clerk, a fat man whose inadequate wings fluttered anxiously as Joshua banged his fist on the desk. “Pray tell me, am I destined to go through that infernal door, or is there a path to redemption?”
“Geez, Doc, it’s kinda late to be thinking about redeeming yourself.” Eyeing him curiously, the clerk added, “Usually you gotta commit one of the three biggies to get the red-door treatment–rape, murder, or egregious pollution of natural resources–so what’d you do?”
“‘Twas closest to murder,” Joshua said, shame and regret searing him as he considered his wasted life, his great failure, his final disgrace. And yet he’d signed up as a surgeon in the Continental Army with the sole intention of helping his fellow man—including his courageous but reckless younger brother.
9. Death comes to all of us in many ways. It doesn’t consider how it leaves us to the mercy of others who must view our remains.
This time, death had come suddenly and without warning. The young man had been in his prime and died with a look of surprise on his face. There were still poker chips and cards set out for two other players on his table; beer bottles and ash trays covered the scarred laminate, and a bowl of potato chips were left uneaten.
He sat in his chair with a .22 slug in his forehead, with plenty of gunshot residue stippled around the wound to show that the killer had walked right up to him and shot him. Blood had trailed down his face from the gaping hole in his forehead. He’d dropped his beer bottle on the floor and its golden liquid had pooled by his feet.
10. “I can make a woman come using just my mouth.”
George Beringer squinted through an alcoholic haze at his friend Damian Hunt, Viscount Atherton, trying to figure out exactly what Damian meant by that remark. They were both much too drunk, but then, what else was there to do on a cold winter’s night tucked away here at the Atherton estate, except discuss horses and politics, and now, obviously, sex?
“What’s so impressive about that — I’ve never met a woman yet who could resist a man’s mouth on her private lips,” George declared.
“Oh, but I’m not talking about using my mouth on her,” Damian said with a slow smile, “I’m talking about making her come using just the power of my words.”
“Balderdash,” George cried, nearly dropping his wineglass, “you may have a well-deserved reputation as a ladies’ man, you scoundrel, but it’s impossible to make a woman climax using just words.”
“Care to place a small wager on that?” Damian challenged, quirking an eyebrow.
Next to sex, gambling was George’s favorite activity — the night had suddenly gotten much more interesting.
11. The man lay face-up in a pool of his own blood. Kyra Walsh recoiled but not in terror, she’d seen dead bodies before. In her other life, not here.
Recognition flashed – even in death the curly, black hair now tinged by a dull, reddish-brown, the bushy uni-brow, and the pointy nose all combined to give Larry Jones a look of cruelty. What had the bastard been up to at her construction site?
Her heart jerked like the rev of a jackhammer. Here’s one problem the Big Brothers/Big Sisters program sure doesn’t cover with mentors–how to tell your “little sister” her uncle is dead in ten easy steps. Poor Lani, between her mother’s emotional abandonment and her cousins’ harassment, how much could one kid take?
12. “Damn loser recruit,” Captain Connors muttered as he sweltered in the alleyway, forced to endure the scents of week-old Chow Mein coming from the Dumpster he leaned against.
A mingle of sweet citrus and coconut strong enough to turn his stomach overpowered even the stench of the restaurant refuse surrounding him as the hairs rose on his arms. It was one of them, had to be, only shape-shifters gave off that cloying scent a recruiter could catch a whiff of a hundred yards away. He inhaled the rancid fumes rising from the pavement to clear the shifter smell from his nostrils.
Connors stayed leaning, body tense, as a gorgeous blonde strolled into the cramped, trash-filled alley like it was a neighborhood park at lunchtime. Shifter females were breath-taking, making you want, until you remembered what they were and worried about going to bed with Sue Ann and waking up with Jim Bob. He pushed out from the metal at his back, spit on the ground, and thought for the umpteenth time, God, he hated when they were female.
He inhaled deeply of her Shifter scent, verifying she was what she appeared to be, and said, “Michael or Michelle?”
13. “Your sorry ass is going to be even sorrier, Jimmy Ray!”
The bat connected with a sickening, satisfying crunch. Jimmy Ray’s pained, horrified expression should have sent a spurt of triumph through Angel, but it didn’t.
“You crazy bitch!”
She tightened her grip on the scarred Louisville Slugger. She had a choice – take another swing at her ex’s ego by hitting him where it would hurt him most or walk away before the cops showed up and she lost what little hard-won dignity she had left.
Too late.
Blue lights flaring in lazy swirls, a Chandler County sheriff’s car pulled into the parking lot.
14. Through the darkness the child ran, dogging the woman’s heels. Short, angular legs that had never seen an ounce of baby fat, churned through the sweating foliage. The damp heat tightened, stealing her breath as the tropical jungle closed around her.
“Mama,” the child whispered and the faint sound of her own voice was comforting when everything around her breathed death. She reached for the hand her mother offered, holding with desperate strength to the only person who might save her from the evil lurking in the shrouded Cambodian night.
A monkey screeched, twigs snapped and only her mother’s grip kept her from bolting off the path as what sounded like footsteps ranged through the jungle.
“It is not the Khmer Rouge, little one,” her mother soothed in careful French, the language their captors didn’t understand.
The child bit her lip, the sharp pain making her forget the ache in her side but not what roamed in the dark shadows.
15. Across the crowded ferry, the little girl looked up and Gabe Moreau ducked his head, praying she’d sit tight and stay the hell away. Blunt fingernails trenched into sweat slicked palms and a phantom tingle in his right palm itched to feel the reassuring weight of his standard issue Glock.
But the Glock was gone.
Along with his badge.
Above him, a green awning blocked the bright July sun, a wayward corner flapping with the ocean’s stiff breeze, but neither noise nor movement distracted his traitorous mind from the waif of a girl or her piercing gaze.
A gaze that left him paralyzed, as if the meanest SOB he’d ever hauled downtown had a boot planted across his throat and the cold blue steel of a barrel pressed against his teeth.
Unbelievable. He’d been rendered useless by the unassuming glance of a mere child.
16. She’d become nothing more than a common thief.
No, not common – nothing about Egyptologist Katherine Meyer could ever be construed as common, especially when she was legally dead.
Kat checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, took a deep breath to settle the nerves in her stomach and told herself she looked pretty good for a seven-year-old corpse. The black slacks and matching jacket were perfect, nothing fancy, not one thing about them the slightest bit memorable. No one glancing her direction tonight would ever see anything other than the professional assistant she resembled, and that was precisely the way she wanted it. The less attention she drew, the safer she’d be, because being here wasn’t a choice, it was a matter of life and death.
Her stomach rolled as she turned down the long hallway, as her sensible flats clicked along the cement floor. Muffled music from the party out front drifted to her ears; ahead, a security guard looked up from his post at the end of the corridor and gave her the once-over.
17. “Some wild animal is going to eat you alive!”
The voice coming through the cell phone had Kia rolling her eyes, as she turned her car off the main road and through the narrow band of dark woods leading to her new home. The gorgeous, one-hundred year old, two-story house came into view, and she gasped, “Oh my God!”
“It *is* a wild animal, isn’t it? I knew it!” her sister’s voice got higher pitched with each word.
“Chill, Sydney. The only animal out here is Dracula,” Kia said, closing the phone over her sister’s protests.
The cell rang again almost immediately, but Kia ignored it as she slid out of her Jeep and motioned for the huge black Labrador to follow her. Her heart kicked into a higher gear as she stood staring at her very own piece of history.
For a moment, she was sure she saw a woman’s face in one of the second floor windows.
18. “Son, you’ve got more metal in you than the Terminator.”
Immobile in a hospital bed with one leg in traction, one arm fractured, and bruises painted on his body like modern art on a canvas, Garrett McCloud found no humor in his doctor’s joke.
Refraining from comment, he watched Dr. Shaw flip open the chart and wrinkle his lips while he studied whatever mysterious gibberish doctors wrote on the things. With his frizzy white hair, the good doctor remarkably resembled Einstein, and Garrett considered him as much a genius as the great scientist, in spite of the quirky, misplaced wit.
Looking up, Dr. Shaw examined Garrett’s face and must have realized his joke flopped because he said, “Here’s the deal, Mr. McCloud, if you keep crashing, I don’t know if we can keep putting you together–even now, I can’t guarantee you’re not going to have a limp.”
When he added, “Your knee resembled Humpty Dumpty after his great fall,” Garrett decided the doctor spent too much time with his grandkids.
“I’m positive I’m paying a fortune for you and all the king’s men to patch me together again,” he growled.
“You are,” the doctor agreed, scribbling notes on the chart before zeroing his gaze on Garrett and saying, “But my point is, racing motorcycles is a young man’s sport–it’s time for you to think about another career.”
19. “Maybe I should become a lesbian for a week,” I blurted.
Carol choked on what was left of her watered down frozen strawberry daiquiri.
I intended to pat her back, but she had become a blur – three too many daiquiris for me – so even the beige walls of my den seemed to move.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Carol asked, staring at me as if I’d grown two heads.
I gulped the rest of my drink and said in a voice I knew sounded like a whine, “Don’t
know what else to do.”
“Spill, right now, Margo,” Carol ordered as she banged her glass on the magazine-covered, white coffee table.
I hiccuped, then answered, “Jay’s coming back to town.”
I scratched my head, but could barely feel it.
20. Who said dying was easy?
Ruby May stepped out the front door of the Delta Funeral Home in what had been her good luck dress–until they buried her in it. She studied her reflection in passing, and realized dying in Delta had a downside; she was a Blue Light Special on heels.
The town slowly receded as Ruby walked the winding Tennessee roads, reliving life moments all strung together like glass beads. Life didn’t come with a damn rulebook–a good thing since ignoring advice had been her personal mantra. She had led an amoral life, impossible to sugarcoat, and there was a high probability her view would be outside those pearly gates her mama talked about.
In the distance, the old homestead sprawled across Cooper Mountain and Ruby ran to it, like a child bolting into a mama’s arms. The heart of the place welcomed her, surprising since she had high-tailed it out of town at the first bump in the road.
21. Like a snake, coiled and ready to strike, it’d been waiting for him when he’d arrived at work. And as it had when he’d first read it, his stomach knotted and cold fear wrapped around him.
He’d stared at the words, reading them but not processing them.
No, that was a damn lie–he’d processed them all right, and what his mind told him was inconceivable.
The paper in his hand crinkled and he turned his gaze to it, smoothing the wrinkles out against his thigh and scanning it again even though he’d memorized it days ago.
*Dear Mr. MacMillan*–not Dear Mac or even Mac, hell, it should have said, Dear John because that’s exactly what it was–a Dear John letter.
Mac closed his eyes, the barrier of numbness that had first descended long gone, leaving enough room for the fear and loneliness and grief to sneak in.
She’d left him.
22. As much as he’d hoped Lacey McLaren had gained a hundred pounds and sprouted horns in the five years since he’d last seen her, she hadn’t. Noah cursed, unable to pull his gaze away; if anything, she was more beautiful now than when they’d first met. His heart tripped over itself, his gut twisting into knots as he watched her lead the chestnut mare into the middle of the indoor arena and mount up.
Thank God it was too damn hot for chaps today; the image of her ass framed in tight suede was one he really didn’t need to carry with him. Just the thought sent blood rushing south, causing his jeans to grow tighter around the zipper.
“Does Lacey have a clue that it’s me, specifically, who’s come to look at buying her horses?” he asked, casting his half-brother a sidelong glance.
Colin’s sly grin was all the answer he needed.
“She’s expecting my brother,” he explained calmly, not taking his eyes off the horse and rider,”she just doesn’t know that you’re him.”
23. Kenzie Summers swiveled on the bar stool, her gaze encompassing every inch of the lively room in an attempt to find someone to ruin her reputation.
Every hormone in her body clicked to attention when she saw him, the epitome of pure sin, weaving through the gyrating couples on the dance floor.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at your engagement party, Kenzie?” her friend Nate, the bartender asked.
“Hardly an engagement, more like a life sentence,” Kenzie scowled, her attention momentarily distracted from the handsome stranger who’d taken a seat three barstools down.
The first she’d even known she was engaged was when her father had shown her the announcement he’d put in the paper and since then, she’d fought with him constantly, telling him she had no intention of becoming a perfect Stepford wife to a man she’d never met.
“Right about now, Mr. Jackson Rockingham the Third is realizing that he’s been stood up,” she told Nate as she glanced to her left, suddenly losing herself in the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Her pulse leapt at the interest in those eyes and accelerated into overdrive when he slid off the barstool and headed her way.
“Is having the night from hell justification for drowning ones sorrows?” he murmured, his husky voice weaving around Kenzie like a lover’s touch.
24. Lord, that man was gorgeous.
Of course, that was why I was standing in his office on a cold, wet Tuesday morning, dressed only in a form-fitting ruby red dress and matching strappy heels.
I was a little cold, but not enough to make me rethink my wardrobe choice – long legs and perky feet were my only real assets, so I had no choice but to show them. It wasn’t as if I could rely on my *breasts* to carry the outfit – nope, left to their own devices, they’d let the team down every time. So I’d worn a push-up bra to maximise their potential and tried to draw attention in a downward, more beneficial direction.
But this man in front of me – I doubted he had a single body part that wasn’t pulling its weight. I sighed in appreciation and allowed myself a moment to stare at the perfection of form that was Matt Malone.
Then, heavenly moment over, I dragged my focus from Mr Sexalicious back to my whole reason for being there.
25. “Despite what you apparently believe,” Lieutenant Kathryn Glace snapped, the pale skin across her cheeks tightening and tinting peach, “I’ve given this a great deal of thought—the family is legitimate, and their unique. . .talents. . have proven significantly helpful in the past.”
“I know who they are,” Nick said, trying to iron the grit from his voice. He knew what they were too: gypsies, tramps and thieves. Okay, maybe not tramps, but the thievery bit sure as hell fit. The con artist he’d been stuck with on the Riverside kidnapping, had charged the family a bundle for her so called services, only to deliver false hope and additional heartache. Significantly helpful? Hardly.
“This isn’t a request, detective,” the lieutenant said, her blue eyes chilling, “you have no leads, no evidence and no suspects.

Congrats! and Good luck!!!

K*