Addicted to Love (41 page)
Jillian jerked her head around. Saw Keith Whippet, the prosecutor on the next case, waiting to take his place at her table. Whippet was as lean as his name, with mean eyes and a cheap suit.
“Chop, chop.” He slammed his briefcase down on the desk. “I got people to fry.”
“Yes,” Jillian said, but she could barely hear herself. She was a bright kite that had broken loose from its tether, flying high into a cloudless blue sky. Up, up, and away, higher and higher, smaller and smaller. Soon she would disappear, a speck in the air.
What was happening to her?
She looked at Whippet, a weaselly guy who’d asked her out on numerous occasions. She’d shattered his hopes every single time until he’d finally given up. Now he was just rude. Whippet made shooing motions.
Jillian blinked, grabbed her briefcase, darted from the courtroom.
Blake.
She had to talk to her mentor, District Attorney Blake Townsend. He would know what to do. He’d tell her this feeling was completely normal. That it was okay if the joy was gone. She would survive.
Except it wasn’t okay because her job was the only thing that gave her joy. If she’d lost the ability to derive pleasure from putting the bad guys behind bars, what did that leave her?
The thing was, she couldn’t feel happy about jailing Petry because she knew there were thousands more like him. Knew the prisons were overcrowded and Petry would be released on good behavior after he’d served only a fraction of his sentence to make room for a new batch of Petrys.
She realized Petry would eventually be back on the streets to start all over again. The realization wasn’t new. What was startlingly fresh was the idea that her work didn’t matter. She was insignificant. The justice system was a turnstile and her arms were growing weary of holding open the revolving door.
She was so unsettled by the thought she found it difficult to catch her breath.
Blake. She needed to speak to Blake. Other than Delaney, Tish, and Rachael, Blake was the closest thing to family she could claim. He never lied to her, so she desperately needed to hear him say everything was going to be okay.
Anxiety pushing her, she rushed from the courthouse to the district attorney’s office across the street, heels clacking a rapid rhythm against the sidewalk.
By the time she stepped into the DA’s office, she was breathing hard and sweating. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window and saw that her sleek dark hair that she kept pulled back in a loose chignon had slipped from its clasp and was tumbling about her shoulders.
What was happening to her?
The whole room went suddenly silent and everyone stared in her direction.
“Is Blake in his office?” she asked his secretary, Francine Weathers.
Francine blinked. It was only then that Jillian noticed her reddened eyes. The woman had been crying. She stepped closer, the anxiety she’d been feeling morphing into real fear.
She stood there for a moment, panting, terrified, heart rapidly pounding, staring at Francine’s round, middle-aged face. She knew something bad had happened before she even asked the question. “What’s wrong?”
The secretary dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “You haven’t heard?”
A hot rush of apprehension raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “Heard what? I’ve been in court. The Petry case.”
“I . . . ” Francine sniffed. “He . . . ”
Jillian stepped closer and awkwardly put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Francine shook her head and burst into a fresh round of tears. Jillian dropped her hand. She’d never been very good at comforting people. She was the pit bull who went after the accused. Gentleness was foreign.
“This morning, Blake . . . he . . . ” Francine began, hiccuped, sniffled into a tissue, and then finally whispered, “dropped dead in the middle of Starbucks while ordering a grande soy latte.”
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Andrea Pickens
Dear Reader,
As you can imagine, swashbuckling secret agents cannot be distracted by trifling matters, such as the state of their wardrobe. They have much more important things to think about—like swordplay, spying, and seduction. (It goes without saying that they are
lady
spies. Men would have no interest in discussing the cut of their trousers, would they?) However, there are exceptions to the rules of engagement, especially when the spies in question have known one another since childhood. So, when three best friends got together to discuss a recent mission—as documented in THE SCARLET SPY (on sale now)—the conversation went as follows:
Siena
(to her friend Sofia)
: “Nice dress.”
Shannon
(sounding a little jealous)
: “I had to wear pink, rather than that luscious shade of scarlet.”
A sigh
. “Pink is not my best shade.”
Sofia
(with a sardonic smile)
: “Well, it didn’t matter overly much, seeing as how it seemed to come off you rather quickly. Mr. Orlov has very clever hands.”
Shannon
(her face turning red)
: Expletive deleted.
Siena
(tactfully changing the subject)
: “Nice pistol. Is it one of the new turnoff Italian pocket models?”
Sofia
(flashing up the weapon)
: “Yes, isn’t it cute? And it matches the trim on my reticule.”
Shannon
(to Siena)
: “How come we only got daggers?”
Sofia
(with an airy wave of her hand)
: “You two are dangerous enough without gunpowder. Lord Lynsley knew he could trust my ladylike restraint.”
Shannon and Siena
(chortling in unison)
: “You, a lady?”
The sounds of mirth grow louder.
“Ha, don’t make us laugh.”
Sofia
(arching a brow)
: “I might surprise you.”
Shannon
(narrowing her eyes)
: “What’s that supposed to mean? We are sisters-in-arms and have been for years. There are no secrets between us.”
Siena
(after a slight pause)
: “Are there, Fifi?”
Sofia
(fluttering her lashes)
: “Sorry, girls, you will just have to read my story . . .”
No matter how hard they tried, her friends could pry out no further information. I, on the other hand, managed to learn a few more tidbits about Sofia’s scarlet secrets. They involve a trip to London, where she encounters the sinfully sexy Lord Osborne as well as a devilishly dangerous adversary, who . . .
Well, it’s a long story, and I’m running out of space here. You will just have to visit
www.andrea pickensonline.com
for a more tantalizing peek at THE SCARLET SPY and her adventures.
Happy reading!
From the desk of Shannon K. Butcher
Dear Reader,
I’m a planner. I like to schedule things, make lists, and keep my life in nice, neat, organized bundles so I know what I’m going to be doing for the next two years or eighteen months.
Needless to say, it doesn’t always work.
For instance, as careful a planner as I am, I never planned for Grant, my hero in NO ESCAPE (on sale now). I never even saw him coming until he was there on the page, making me grin.
When I wrote NO REGRETS, Grant was just a buddy—a sidekick created to add a bit of comic relief. By the time I’d finished NO CONTROL, I knew Grant was destined for his very own book. He kept popping up in my head, demanding a happy ending of his own.
Even though I didn’t realize it at the time, Grant was born years before I’d even decided to give writing a shot. It was the day my husband taught our then five-year-old son a lesson he called “drive-thru justice.” The two of them had picked up fast food on the way home, and when they got back with our feast, the toy was missing from the kid’s meal. It didn’t matter that our son didn’t really need the toy or that there were likely five more like it in his room. What mattered was that he’d been looking forward to that toy all day, he’d been really good in school, they’d ordered and paid for it, and it wasn’t in the sack. That toy was important to our son, so my husband declared they would get drive-thru justice. They drove all the way back to the restaurant and demanded the toy. And got it.
In the end, I think my husband spent more time playing with the toy than our son, but that lesson of justice—of righting even a small wrong on the behalf of someone who couldn’t—always stuck in my head. It came out in the form of Grant—a man who refused to let people smaller and more helpless than him be mistreated in any way.
That trait nearly landed Grant in prison when he was a teen. Now, years later, Grant is back in the last place on earth he wants to be—his hometown—to check on an old friend who left him an odd phone message he couldn’t ignore. But he finds out that Isabelle is not okay. She’s afraid, and Grant has never been able to ignore her fear. Not fourteen years ago when he killed the man who tried to rape her, and not now. It doesn’t matter that she’s a grown woman and perfectly capable of taking care of herself or that she never really intended for Grant to get caught up in this mess.
Of course, fixing it isn’t going to be easy. Someone is killing people from their past and staging the deaths as suicides, and bodies are piling up fast. Grant and Isabelle must work together to convince the police that Isabelle’s suspicion of murder is right before the next person falls victim.
This book was without question the hardest one I’ve ever written. Not only does it deal with some really tough issues, but also when I was outlining the story, it was nearly impossible to create a woman who was able to make Grant give up his womanizing ways. I mean, the man has it all—looks, brains, courage . . . stamina. Luckily, Isabelle is more than up to the task of taming Grant and giving him the life he so richly deserves.
Enjoy!
From the desk of Lori Wilde
Dear Reader,
Starry-eyed Rachael Henderson from ADDICTED TO LOVE (on sale now) is mad as heck, and she’s not going to take it anymore. After being stood up at the altar—
twice!
—on the very same day, she learns her parents are getting divorced after twenty-seven years, and it’s the last straw. Born on Valentine’s Day in Valentine, Texas, she’s convinced she’s been fed a line of bull about love. She’s a romanceaholic, but no more! She’s drawing a line in the sand. Determined to stomp out unrealistic ideas about love, she starts Romanceaholics Anonymous.
Except she never counted on one very sexy sheriff with a heart as big as Texas.
Take Rachael’s test to see if you, too, might be a romanceaholic. And visit Rachael’s Web site at
www.romanceaholicsanonymous.com
.
You might be a romanceaholic if:
• You replace the heroine’s name with yours when reading a romance novel;
• You knock down bridesmaids to catch the bouquet;
• You go to the rodeo just to watch the wranglers in their Wranglers;
• You wear nothing but a black silk teddy and stilettos while cooking dinner;
• You have a wedding planner on speed dial;
• Your everyday dishes are Royal Doulton’s ALLURE bone china;
• You purchase rose-colored prescription eyeglasses;
• Your voice mail says, “Leave a message, hug, hug, kiss, kiss”;
• You’ve placed your phone number inside fortune cookies and passed them out to handsome single men;
• And, last but not least, you spray lavender on your sheets at night.
Hope you enjoy ADDICTED TO LOVE!
