(FOR ADULTS ONLY)
Book 1: Devil's Lake
Book 2: Devil's Creek
Book 3: Devil's Spring (coming soon)
Grace may have problems, but Anderson Rockwell loves his sassy, spicy, and slightly unfaithful wife. A recovered heroin addict who's now struggling with sex addiction, Grace tries her best to control her inner demons. She's relapsing less often. And when she does, she always calls, always comes home. Until this time.
The man calls himself Chandler. He found Grace on Facebook under a false name, and lured her away with promises of excitement, danger, and plenty of steam. But when Grace gives in to temptation and follows the trail, she finds herself at the mercy of a monster who knows who she really is, and whose sole obsession is revenge--on Anderson.
Time is running out for Anderson to rescue Grace from deadly danger that’s beyond imagination, before the past drowns them both for good. Because this time, it’s personal.
The itch was back.
Grace stepped out of the tub onto a fluffy pink rug and reached for a towel from the rack, slowly drying herself in front of a full-length mirror. She plugged in the hair dryer and blew her honey-colored hair dry, admiring its luster and bounce. Batting her big blue eyes, she stared at the perfect reflection.
With a giggle, she imagined meeting the stranger tonight. "Why, yes. I'd love a drink. Are you buying?"
Turning to see herself from the back, she nodded approval. She hated to brag, even to herself, but her body still resembled those girls Renoir painted so well. She admired herself openly. High breasts. Firm butt. Rounded hips. Soft, creamy skin. At twenty-six, she had no wrinkles. At least not yet.
She smiled at herself, then powdered and primped and preened, all the while feeling the want grow inside her. She needed to find someone new. Someone big, muscled, and very male. The more hair on his chest, stubble on his chin, and leather on his body, the better.
Just for a few days, of course. Then she'd return to Anderson, as always.
The itch grew. From the inside out, starting in her belly, it spread to her whole body and she felt the tiny whispered thought turn to a roar.
It's time. It's time. It's time.
She had laid out her white slacks and a purple sweater last night, because she was due at the bookstore in an hour. So, the adventure would have to start after work. She pursed her lips and made a kissy face at the mirror. "Hang tight. We'll have fun later."
Anderson poked his head in the bathroom door. "What's that, sweetie?"
Grace stiffened. "Oh. Nothing, baby. Just thinking out loud."
"I'll be late tonight. Remember?" He eyed her with obvious longing and clumsily buttoned his Oxford shirt, tucking it into his Dockers.
She snorted. "Right. That staff meeting thingie?"
"Sort of. It's the final session to discuss scholarships for candidates we really want in the program. You know. The stars. The triple threat kids who can sing, dance, and act. Gotta lure them in somehow."
She hadn't paid attention lately. She couldn't. She just wanted--someone new.
Since they'd moved back to Vermont to be closer to her parents, Dirk and Daisy Lamont, and her sister and new husband, Portia and Boone Hawke, Anderson's job had been a pain. His new job as Dean of the Theater Arts School at The University of Vermont was a lot more demanding than when he was a simple professor. She'd liked the old job much better. Now he had more meetings, more responsibility.
"Want me to bring home Chinese?" he asked, sliding his arms around her waist and kissing her forehead. "That way you don't have to cook."
Her culinary skills weren't much to brag about, she knew that. "Okay. What time do you think you'll be back?"
"Probably seven-thirty." He reached up to caress her cheek. "You are absolutely gorgeous. Do you know that?"
"Thanks, baby." She knew. How could she not? She beamed a smile at him and suddenly pulled him down to kiss him, thrusting her tongue against his. Her hand ran lower, brushing the front of his slacks.
He gasped, and backed up a step. "Gracie." His voice turned husky. "Cripes. You know I've gotta leave in ten minutes."
"Can't you be late this morning?" She turned on the charm now, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. Leaning forward, she pressed her breasts against him. "Let's have a quickie."
He groaned when she stroked him again.
He flicked his wrist to check his watch before lifting her in one swift motion to the counter beside the sink. "Baby. You're killing me."
She quickly unbuckled and unzipped his pants, and in seconds, drew him inside her. She imagined a dark man this time, covered in tattoos. He'd just approached her from the alley behind the bar, and had pushed her up against the wall.
She wanted danger.
She wanted someone new.
Anderson knew her body well, and within a few minutes they?d both exploded in pleasure. Him, panting and still hungrily kissing her. Her, wrapped up in another fantasy, as always.
As much as she loved her big teddy bear husband, she couldn't peak without imagining someone new. Someone a little scary. A real bad boy.
It had always been that way.
She collapsed against him and sighed. "Thank you."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Thank me? Thank you."
She giggled and patted his rear. "Have a great day at work, honey."
He collected himself slowly, fastened his pants, and leaned down for one more kiss. "God, I love you."
She smiled up at him. "Love you, too."
Grace put on her silk robe and raced to the computer. She craned her neck to see Anderson's car turning out of the driveway and clicked into her Facebook account.
Five new messages. All from him.
Her heartbeat quickened and she felt an unbearable yearning fill her again. It spread through her, fast and dark, and she trembled while tapping the keyboard and tracing her fingers across the track pad.
This guy sounded really cool. And sexy as hell.
The first message showed his picture, shirtless and leaning against a fence post.
Chandler. Nice, if it was his real name. But she didn't care. All she wanted was a night or two of wild abandon.
He didn't look bad. Not bad at all. A little older than she had expected. But hell, weren't older guys the best in bed?
He had a square chin, rugged face, and short, spiky black hair. He must live in the gym, because those abs didn't come naturally to anyone.
She imagined walking up to him. Envisioned his big hands. His scent.
Shivering with excitement, she typed an answer to his question. "Yes. Six tonight at the Lone Stallion Inn. Meet me at the bar."
She attached one of her best photos, and signed it, "Candy." Nobody had to know her real name, did they?
With her heart ping-ponging in her chest, she quickly dressed and slicked her hair into a ponytail. Then, she turned to her closet, sliding one dress after another past her critical eye. "No. Too red. Not that one, too long. No, too frilly." Finally, she came upon her black, slinky dress with the scooped neck. "Perfect." She drew it off the hanger and folded it into her canvas bag. "Now. Shoes and jewels." She pawed through her dressy shoes, finally settling on a high-heeled strappy black pair she'd never worn. For jewelry, she chose the ruby earrings and necklace Anderson had given her last Christmas. She felt a little guilty, shrugged it off, and carefully packed them into the bag.
Catching herself in the mirror, she stopped. "What the hell are you doing?"
She frowned. She hadn't pulled the "disappearing act" in well over a year. Since way before the whole Murphy incident.
Stopping, she stared at herself again.
Murphy had been such a prick. He had kidnapped her sister for two long years and had abducted Grace not long after.
Well, she'd shown him, hadn't she? Now he rotted in federal prison and would be there for the rest of his natural life.
Her therapist had told her she might regress, that "it" might come back when things calmed down. Once they'd settled into their new cottage in the woods, once they'd done all the gazillion things necessary to move from one state to another. Once Portia's wedding was over.
That part had been fun, she had to admit. Portia had been so pretty in her lacey white dress. And Boone. God, she'd been hot the whole time, watching him in those nice jeans, boots, white shirt, and a black jacket. He was one helluva specimen, the exact type of man she loved to fantasize about.
On second thought, she really didn't have a "type." She loved them all.
But she had to admit, these days watching Portia get more and more excited every day about her burgeoning belly, about decorating the room for the upcoming little one-- Grace had been getting increasingly ticked off.
It wasn't fair. She and Anderson had been trying to conceive for longer than Portia and Boone. God, Portia had got herself knocked up in the first month.
She checked the clock and snorted. "Shit. I'm gonna be late.? Fuming now, she ran around the bedroom, hastily making the bed and throwing her dirty clothes in the hamper.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she get pregnant? Was it Anderson? Or her? Pretty soon they'd have to go for testing. But deep down inside, she was worried that the drugs she'd done in high school and college might have messed up her ovaries or something.
She'd been a real wreck back then. Addicted to the worst of the worst, heroin, she'd finally kicked that one, won the battle. Except when she did, a new addiction claimed her. Her therapist called it a sex addiction, but she thought of it as a man addiction. Either way, it was time to satisfy the urge.
She stopped her frantic rushing around and smiled into the mirror. "Hey. Screwing strangers isn't as bad as taking drugs, right?" She paused. "Right. Cause I always come home."
Grabbing her keys, she headed out to her powder blue Mustang and put it in gear. If she hurried, she might make it to the bookstore in time.