Teaser Tusday! The Reforming of Matthew Dunn

It seems only right in honor of the 2013 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart and RITA announcements (yay! congratulations, guys!) to post an excerpt from my 1998 Golden Heart winner. Enjoy!

Matt turned the pickup onto the rundown street he was forced to call home for the next three months. A half-starved cat ran for the bushes alongside an empty house. An old man, well wrapped against the chill, sat motionless on his porch. Three boys hung on the corner, watching with hostile eyes as the Chevy passed.

Matt found himself scanning the lot across from his place for a boyish figure with red hair. She wasn’t there. Pulling into the drive, he told himself he was glad. He didn’t need the hassles. He didn’t want the woman, any woman, even one with sunlight in her hair and the earth’s warmth in her smile and the devil’s own determination. And then he caught his eyes in the rearview mirror taking one last, quick check across the street, and his mouth quirked up.

Liar.

Movement pulled his attention to the front of his house. His cop’s instincts went on alert. Someone crouched on the other side of the concrete steps, half hidden by a screen of bare- branched bushes. Vandal or robber? Matt’s lips compressed. He wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster. His gun was in the house under lock and key.

Stiffly, he got out of the car, never taking his eyes from the kneeling intruder. His boots crunched on the graveled drive. For all his size, he knew how to move quietly, but it was better if his unknown visitor heard him coming. He didn’t want to startle the guy into firing.

The jean-clad rump wiggled. Matt stepped away from the vehicle, arms loose, hands ready, and slammed the car door.

A dark head wearing an Atlanta Braves cap popped into view above the steps.

“Damn,” said Richie Johnson. “You trying to give me a heart attack?”

Matt felt his tension ease even as he tamped down his irritation. “What are you doing here?”

The kid waved a muddy trowel. “Planting.”

“Planting what?”

“Flowers, man.” His tone was defensive.

Matt grinned. So, real men didn’t plant flowers. He approached the porch. Soiled clumps of squiggly roots dotted the ground. A line of holes edged the bush in front of the boy. Tan sticks stuck up like grave markers from mounds by the house.

“I don’t want flowers.”

Richie shrugged. “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

Matt didn’t have to ask who her was. “Where is she?”

“Back of her house. She keeps digging stuff up and bringing it over for me to put in,” he confided, faintly aggrieved.

Matt glanced across the street. Sure enough, here came Tinkerbell, slim arms corded with the weight of the pots she carried, small breasts outlined by her earth first T-shirt. He noticed her nipples. In spite of the sun, the air was chilly. She ought to have on a jacket.

Squashing his involuntary pleasure at the sight of her, he rested his weight on his whole left leg, hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, and waited for her explanation.

THE REFORMING OF MATTHEW DUNN

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Teaser Tuesday! from MAD DOG AND ANNIE

Maddox watched Ann walk away from him—Annie, with her grave, sweet eyes and her small, serious smile and her skin so fine a look could bruise it—feeling like he’d just been socked in the chest. Enjoy his meal? He’d be lucky if he could even taste it.

Hell. He’d stayed away for twelve lousy years, and she was separated.

He slid out from behind the table, overtaking her before she reached the hostess station.

“How long?” he demanded.

She slapped a receipt on the spindle by the cash register, her movements quick and agitated. “What are you talking about?”

He caught her elbow. “How long since you and Rob broke up?”

Broke up. Shit. Now he even sounded like some high school moron.

She turned, her face white. “Let go of my arm.”

He loosened his grip. “Just tell me how long.”

“A year. Let go of me.”

Her eyes were dark and enormous, the pupils nearly swallowing the green. Damn. He was thirty-one years old, a veteran cop, a sergeant, and the sight of the woman could still reduce him to a raging lump of testosterone. He released her abruptly.

Beneath her neat white blouse, her breasts rose and fell with her breath. “I have work to do,” she said clearly. “Customers. Would you please leave me alone?”

Customers. Right. He glanced around the dining room. People were staring. Bag lady Baggett had practically fallen into her plate in her eagerness to eavesdrop. And over by the kitchen door, the Misses Minniton were glaring at him as if he’d firebombed their garage sixteen years ago instead of merely throwing up into their rosebushes after drinking too much beer one hot August night.

“Sure thing, darlin’. You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Oh, now, that was cool. He sauntered back to his table, feeling like an idiot, and sat with his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on the room and on Annie. Gladys Baggett met his gaze and smiled, very tentatively. He stared back until she reddened beneath her makeup and looked away.

“Catfish sandwich,” the waitress said, sliding it expertly in front of him. “Will there be anything else?”

Her smile, wide and white against her honey-gold skin, suggested there could be. Not everybody in Cutler remembered him as the town screw-up. Of course, the waitress probably didn’t remember him at all. She must have been skipping rope on the playground when he’d left home.

“No. Thanks.”

He picked up the sandwich, looking over the thick sliced bread at Annie seating guests on the other side of the room. From a distance, she looked sixteen again, too skinny and so pretty with her quick, neat movements and shy smile. Her smooth light brown hair still brushed her shoulders when she walked, and she still had the nervous habit of tucking it behind one ear. From a distance, he couldn’t see the faint lines bracketing her mouth or the wariness in her eyes.

She didn’t come near his table again. Well, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t want anything to do with him, any more than she had in high school. His fault, he acknowledged, coming on to her like a gorilla on Viagra. Again.

The catfish tasted like paste in his mouth. He needed a cigarette. Dropping a couple bills on the table, he made his way to the cash register, choosing a moment when Ann was ringing up another customer and couldn’t avoid him.

“Annie.”

She took his receipt and busily punched some buttons on the register. “How was your lunch?”

“Fine. Look, I—”

“I’ll tell Val. She’ll be glad you enjoyed it.” She handed him his change, not quite meeting his gaze.

He was suddenly, unreasonably ticked off. Maybe once upon a time, in a dumb effort to win his father’s notice, he had run wild. But he’d never done anything to make Ann afraid of him. Only that one October night... And he’d stayed away from her after that, hadn’t he?

“Maybe I’ll be back for dinner,” he said.

She looked at him directly then, and her eyes that he remembered as the color of spring grass were cool and sharp as a broken beer bottle. There was a bump in the bridge of her nose he didn’t remember at all.

“We’re closed for dinner Monday through Thursday,” she said. “But I can make a reservation for the weekend if you like.”

“Never mind. I might not be around then.”

Just for a second, her pretty lips parted, and his heart revved in his chest like a dirt-track race car. And then she hit him with her fake, hostessy smile, and he knew he’d been imagining that brief moment of regret.

“That’s too bad,” she said.

“I’ll get over it,” he drawled. So, they both were lying. He wasn’t about to admit his breath still backed up in his lungs every time he looked at her. “Goodbye, Maddox.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice.

* * *

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Teaser Tuesday!

THE COMEBACK OF CONN MACNEILL

MacNeill stayed out of her way. To reward him, she selected the two largest cinnamon buns and dropped them on a plate.

“Anything else?” She smiled at him.

Conn’s sexual response was instant and unwelcome. Holy saints. Val Cutler stood before him in jeans and a soiled cook’s apron, and he reacted as if she were naked. Above the line of the bib, he could make out the name of her restaurant, stenciled over her breast. She was flushed and messy, her braided hair springing loose around her face, a faint sheen of sweat above that full upper lip.

He wanted her mouth.

Dammit, the woman wasn’t even his type. He preferred them sleek and smooth and elegant. And right now, he’d prefer no distractions at all. He needed Edward Cutler’s recommendation more than he wanted his daughter.

“Something to drink?” he suggested levelly.

“Iced tea?”

His mother Bridget sometimes drank tea, Irish Breakfast steeped strong enough to stain the cup. The MacNeill men all drank coffee. The one time Conn had tried the Southern brew—at a rest stop outside Petersburg, where he’d been forced to pour more oil into his thirsty car—it had coated his teeth like flavored corn syrup.

“The sweet stuff?” he asked cautiously.

“No. I use a herbal blend. Raspberry, mostly.”

Worse and worse.

“Fine. I’ll give it a shot.”

She busied herself with a glass and ice. “Here you go. Thirty-five gallons brewed fresh every morning.”

He could see the marks of her warm fingers against the cold, cloudy glass. To test himself, to test her, he deliberately brushed her hand as he took it from her. Her fingers were slim and wet.

She gave him a freezing look. Conn grinned at his own conceit. Apparently his libido was safe with her, after all.

The Comeback of Conn MacNeill, available for Kindle and Nook!

Teaser Tuesday!

Wow, the Labor Day weekend went fast!

Here's a little something to sweeten the start of the work week.

* * *

"How long have you been renting from my mother?” Rachel asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the kitchen.

“Not long,” Sean said easily.

She jingled her keys, hurrying to keep pace with his long stride. “I t’s going to be awkward, negotiating two cars in the driveway.”

“I can live with it.”

“And there’s the problem of space. Bedrooms...”

“Hey, I’m willing to share.”

She dipped her head, letting her hair swing forward to hide her smile. “Very generous of you,” she said dryly. “But it may be...” She swallowed. Go on. Say it. “Maybe now that we’re here, it just won’t work out.”

He stopped, giving her a long, slow once-over from surprisingly shrewd brown eyes. “Maybe. You might want to take that up with your mom. She doesn’t like living alone.”

“She won’t be alone. She has her grandchildren now. She has me.”

“Like I said, you should take that up with her.” Plucking the keys from her hand, he opened the rental truck’s door. His gentlemanly gesture confused her. Put her at a disadvantage. But short of wrestling for the keys, there was nothing she could do.

He handed them back. “Look, I’m not getting in the middle of some family thing. I’ve got family enough of my own. As far as I’m concerned, your mom is just a nice lady with an empty garage.”

“And a cozy house.”

That long-boned, laid-back body tensed. “The garage isn’t livable yet. I only agreed to stay in the house because your mother said it made her feel safe. But I’m not dogging for anybody to feed me or mother me or keep track of my comings and goings, and I’m sure not looking for hassles.” He took a quick, annoyed breath. “Clear?”

“Yes,” said Rachel, a bit breathless herself at his unexpected vehemence. Could she believe him? “Thank you, that’s very clear.”

“Good.” He waited until she climbed up into the cab and then closed the driver’s side door. “You two talk it over. I’m taking delivery on a new table saw, and I’d kind of like to know where to put it.” His wicked grin glimmered. “Don’t go jumping in with suggestions, now, beautiful.”

Her laugh sputtered, surprising them both. His smile broadened. Softened. Got personal.

“That’s right,” he said, though what he was agreeing to or approving of Rachel couldn’t have said.

Ambling forward a few steps, he stooped to grasp the steel T-handle of the garage door. Rachel watched the muscles flex beneath his shirt, and then the old door screeched and lifted, revealing his truck. His bright, new, shiny truck. Red, with Massachusetts plates and a bumper sticker that read, Women Love Me, Fish Fear Me.

She shot him a look, trying not to smile.

He grinned. “A present from my sister-in-law. She has a weird sense of humor.”

The words popped out before she could censor them. “She must, if your brother’s anything like you.”

He laughed. “Nah. My brothers are both respectable now.”

He climbed into his candy-apple-red truck. Rachel concentrated on negotiating her rental vehicle backward along the gravel, as cautious and awkward as a pregnant woman on roller skates. She felt the soft bump as her rear tire ran on grass and then the firm, flat road.

Sean MacNeill gunned his motor. His galvanized, oversize toolbox gleamed as he reversed toward her at twice her speed and cut smoothly onto the road.

Rachel sighed. She had too much at stake here to risk an attraction to some twenty-something carpenter in tight jeans and a kick-ass truck.

Whatever his motives, Sean MacNeill was a complication she didn’t need and a distraction she couldn’t afford.

Whatever her mother said, he would have to go.

From THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MACNEILL

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and Nook

Teaser Tuesday!

from The Comeback of Conn MacNeill

Conn leaned forward out of the deep leather chair. “Look, Miss Cutler... I’ve got a Harvard degree and ten years’ experience. I advise small businesses, I put together plans for them, I help them secure funding and ensure they’re on solid-enough financial footing to succeed. If you’ve got a cash flow problem, odds are I can help you.”

He honestly thought she might be...not grateful, exactly, but...impressed. But the restaurant owner was made of stronger stuff than Conn had given her credit for.

“How nice,” she murmured. “Do you wash dishes, too?”

“Only if you need me to,” he replied.

Startled, she looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since they’d sat down. Slowly, those clear gray depths warmed and filled with amusement. Her pale pink mouth curved in a wry smile. Conn’s breath rushed to his throat and lodged there.

Edward Cutler drummed his fingers on his desk. “My other offer still stands, punkin.”

The girl didn’t blink at the repeated use of the demeaning pet name. Maybe she was used to it. It set Conn’s teeth on edge.

She stood, surprisingly dignified in her flirty skirt and clunky heels. Conn did the same, keeping his hands quiet at his sides, although the tension in the room had him balancing on the balls of his feet like a boxer.

Val Cutler tugged thoughtfully on one of her long silver earrings. “So, my real choice is between the devil I do know, or the qualified devil I don’t, is that it?”

“Unless there’s a door number three nobody’s told me about,” Conn agreed, straight-faced.

Edward stiffened.

His daughter laughed, and the sound loosed something warm in the center of Conn’s chest.

“We open for lunch at eleven,” she told him. “Why don’t you stop by around ten tomorrow and I’ll give you the tour?”

“Ten o’clock,” Conn confirmed.

“You call your mother,” Edward said. “She’s waiting to hear from you.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Conn watched her exit with small, firm steps, her short skirt riding those curvy hips and flirting with the tops of her thighs. She looked even better in the Lady of the Lake getup than she had in jeans.

He was out of his head to even notice such a thing. His interest in her was business, he reminded himself. Strictly business.

In the back of his mind, he could hear his brothers laughing.

Now available for Kindle and Nook

The MacNeills are coming!

I'm having so much fun revising my backlist for release in ebook format. But - gulp - I actually found my hero using a pay phone at one point. Lots of technology tweaks to do! The emotions, though...The emotions still feel fresh and true.

***

He rested one hand on the wall above her, close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating from his body, close enough for his breath to touch her face. She saw his eyes, with their thick, short lashes, his pupils nearly swallowing the blazing blue. Her stomach squeezed into her chest, crowding her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. She felt the warmth of his arm, close by her head. She heard her blood thundering in her ears, and the rasp of his quickly indrawn breath.

He kissed her.

It was over before she could say if she liked it, before she had time to react. He lifted his head, and she felt the absence of his mouth more keenly than she had felt its pressure a moment before.

“Well?”

She lifted her chin. She had to, to meet his gaze. “Well, what?”

His firm, well-shaped lips curved at the corners. “Are you going to object?”

She dug deep for a cool response, her hands pressed flat to the wall behind her. He was probably the most vital, potent man she’d ever met, and she was merely unattractive Katie Sue Sinclair, too smart for her own good and stupid with men. She couldn’t let him see how he got to her, how she was affected by his nearness. He would eat her alive.

Maybe she wanted him to.

--from THE PASSION OF PATRICK MACNEILL