Return to your childhood with a new twist on an old story!

Happy weekend! Happy especially for me because the Oz book is out! Twistered is finally here -- I had a lot of angst about this book because it was all ready for release then suddenly I realized: oops. Better check on the copyright status!

I had a hurried but thorough discussion with a copyright attorney and lo, and behold, I discovered that I am good to go with my book -- I based it on the novels of L. Frank Baum, not the movie(s), so I'm okay.

::whew::

So here's the Oz book for anyone who wants a fast and fun beach read for the weekend. It's out in digital now on Amazon, will be in print very soon (like tomorrow, probably) and it will be on Barnes & Noble, etc. later this summer.

 

This is my own take on the Wizard of Oz books in which Dorothy (our heroine) has to cope with Jack Tinsley (the Tin Man), Drew Strawn (the Scarecrow) and the Wickeds motorcycle gang -- and let's not forget the Wicked Witch (Wanda W. Wickman), the Professor, and Leo, Dorothy's best friend.

They all collide on a crazy Memorial Day weekend -- a perfect time to Get Caught Reading an old childhood classic -- with a new Twist on the story ☺

Have fun!

Guest Mary Campisi Talks About First Drafts and Fish Tacos

Mary Campisi

What do first drafts and fish tacos have in common? Well, they both have a distinctive odor…I mean smell that identifies them…but it’s more than that. First drafts are a lot like an untried recipe…which for me was fish tacos. I’d never made them before but when I received an online recipe from my local grocery store, I decided to give them a try. I printed the recipe and planned to make them Monday but an urgent dry eye issue sent me to the ophthalmologist and two hours of waiting. No fish tacos that night. I proceeded to plan B; tacos for Tuesday. Catchy little ring, isn’t it? Not intended, I assure you.

I must confess, I have a very bad habit of not measuring exactly, substituting at will and maybe a tad bit too liberally. Oh, and not reading the recipe in its entirety before I dive into it. In writing terms, that might be called panstering because I’m making it up as I go along instead of following a well laid plan, step by step. Case in point; the recipe called for mahi-mahi, swordfish or cod. I had none but I figured the white fish in the freezer that started with a B and reminded me of the word ‘baracuda’ would be fine. I did have the plotting foresight to remove it from the freezer in plenty of time to defrost. I spent the rest of the day at my computer, writing away in utter oblivion. At 4:30, I realized I better get moving because I still had to shower and get those fish tacos going before my husband got home. I’ll share a secret – if I’m showered and dinner is at least started, he has no idea I’ve once again been sucked into my writing world and lost track of time. Therefore, the shower wasn’t optional. I scanned the recipe and darn if I wasn’t supposed to chill the fish in a lime juice concoction for 30 minutes. Panster time again; olive oil for vegetable oil, chili powder for ancho chili powder. What the heck is ancho chili powder anyway? I did have a lime or I would’ve substituted a lemon… I mixed up the ingredients, plunked the fish in it and stuck it in the fridge.

Next came the quick shower and minimal makeup – I mean, I can’t wear my contacts anyway and between the steroid drops and the ointment what’s the use? Besides, I was really running late now. I finished up, complete with my 5 minute hair styling and 30 minutes later, I’m dicing onion, tomatoes, and red cabbage for toppings. I also decided we needed black beans and rice—to round out the meal—and a few shrimp thrown into the mix might be good too. I had it all underway and was feeling pretty good about it, when my husband got home. I didn’t admit that I’d just winged most of the meal because then his very logical brain would say maybe I should have followed the recipe….I loaded his taco, the hard shell kind, and waited for his response. He called it good—pause—but bland. Dang! I pulled out Frank’s Hot Sauce. Better. I tried mine—darn but the man was right! I confessed to my panstering the recipe. Honestly, most of the time I can get away with it but not this time. My very honest husband said maybe next time we should try it with chicken and hot sauce! Okay, that would not be fish tacos.

The point of this convoluted story is that first drafts are like that—messy, inconclusive, bland, and unfocused. But you would never know that if you didn’t try them just like I now know I will not use this recipe again until I discover what ancho chili powder really means. First drafts are just that, and even with all the proper ingredients, like total plotting and writing know-how, and great characters, you might still get a bland result which will then require a bit of Frank’s Hot Sauce, or in simple terms, spice and rewrites . . .aka a chicken taco.

INNOCENT BETRAYAL, my latest Regency historical romance with The Wild Rose Press has lots of spice, rewrites, and not a hint of fish taco!  

Love & Betrayal…Regency style…

English noblewoman, Emily St. Simon wants nothing more than to escape the constraints of a society that demands she turn in her breeches and secure a husband. She cares nothing about men or love until she encounters daring sea captain, Noah Sandleton, a man who steals her heart and her innocence with searing kisses and bold touches.

Noah Sandleton sails the sea avoiding anything that resembles commitment - until he meets the golden-haired temptress with a will to match his own. One night of passion binds them together but a debt of honor forces Noah to abandon his bride. When he discovers Emily is caught in a dangerous game of intrigue, Noah devises a secret plan to return to her side where he will risk his life to protect her and earn the chance to rekindle the greatest love either has ever known.

Excerpt: “I was thinking of a bath myself,” Noah said, turning toward her, his expression unreadable. “Would you mind?”

The thought of him naked made her hot and cold all at once. When she could find her voice, she stammered, “Why no,” with as much matter-of-factness as she could muster. If he could appear so nonchalant about his nakedness, then why couldn’t she? The truth smacked against her bravado; she’d never, in her entire life, seen a man naked. The very idea was petrifying – and intriguing. “I wish I’d known,” she mumbled, grabbing for something to say, “I wouldn’t have put the lilac water in the tub.”

He smiled tightly. “Consider it just one more step in our ruse.”

She looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you? When my men smell your scent on me they’ll have no doubt that we’re lovers. That’s our plan, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice soft as silk. “Pretend to be lovers?” Without waiting for her response, he turned and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Emily hesitated a moment, unable to look away as he pulled off his shirt to reveal a darkly tanned, well muscled back. When he bent to remove his boots, his tightly clad breeches stretched to expose the finely carved muscles of his thighs and buttocks, leaving Emily a vision of what his unclothed body would look like.

She swallowed. He bent his head as he worked the buttons on his breeches. The breath stuck in her lungs as his strong hands worked the fabric over his slim hips. He stopped and jerked his head around, his dark eyes boring into her.

“Unless you’d like to help, you’d better turn around now,” he said gruffly.

Emily gasped and buried her head in the pillow, but no matter how deep she burrowed, she couldn’t block out the rich sound of Noah’s

www.marycampisi.com

mary@marycampisi.com

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link for Innocent Betrayal on Amazon  http://amzn.to/KwCS2p

INNOCENT BETRAYAL is on sale for 99 cents through Sunday!

Needed Gifts from the Garden by Brenda Whiteside

I've had an absolutely unexpected month with sorrow and joy, frustration and accomplishment. I looked at the May topics and realized what's kept me going are Gifts from the Garden. But I need to make that plural - Gardens. My gardens come in several forms. I have a perennial garden, a vegetable garden and one of my publishers considers their authors a garden.

We moved into our home right after the first of the year. The house had been vacant for two years and the work it took to clean the place up has been back breaking. We have two and a half acres with fruit trees and a garden but of course it all had gone to weed.

So, like I said, this month has had its ups and downs. Spring descended on the northern prairie this month and the gifts helped make up for the downs. It's such a surprise to wander outside and discover perennial plants that I didn't labor over. A gift!

In the vegetable garden, asparagus popped up. What a surprise. Asparagus takes three years to get a good crop. How great the former owner planted them and how great Mother Nature was to keep them lurking and happily waiting for water. We have asparagus every other dinner.

And in my final garden, The Wild Rose Press garden, my latest book will release on July 4th. It's part of a series, The Honky Tonk Hearts. Other books in the series from other authors began releasing in April.

In my world, Spring has sprung and gifts abound.

Blurb:

Can there really be love at first sight?

Abigail Martin doesn’t think so. Unless the sexy redheaded stranger she wakes up with the morning after her best friend’s wedding is telling the truth.

Bobby Stockwood fell cowboy-hat-over-boot-heels for the brown-haired beauty, and married her in an impromptu wedding ceremony.  Now he just has to convince his new bride that the morning after can be the first day of the rest of their lives.

But just when Abigail starts believing the fairy-tale is real, she finds out exactly who Bobby is, and the walls of make-believe start crumbling down.

Excerpt:

A moan.

The man rolled to his back, kicking off covers.

Abigail gasped. Her gentleman visitor wore only a bow tie and black socks.

She crept to the edge of the bed. His face was turned away, further hidden by red curls hanging down the nape of his neck and onto his cheek. A visual sweep of the attractive body brought a smile to her face when she paused on his more than ample endowments. A true redhead. An encounter of this magnitude should be easy to remember.

Abigail smiled in spite of her throbbing temples. Inching closer, she nudged his boots aside with her foot and leaned over to see his face. Mmm. He smelled good, like rich leather and fresh cut wood. As she bent to get a closer look, Kirby, her sixteen-pound Siamese cat, entered her room and announced his hunger.

The visitor stirred, grasped her arm, drawing her down across his hips.

He rose up on his elbows and looked at her. “So, Abby, you’re a morning person, are you?”

Abigail launched off the bed, trying not to come into contact with anymore of the warm body than she already had. Tripping over the boots, she ended up sprawled on the floor. “Who…” She gulped. “Who the hell are you?”

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/brendawhitesid2

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs about prairie life on her personal blog http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

MEMORIAL DAY - LETTER FROM THE TRENCHES

LOVE LETTERS FROM THE TRENCHES - Margaret Tanner

With memorial day coming up on the 28^th May, I thought I might post a letter written by Captain Ross Calvert to his wife Harry. It is written in 1916, from the trenches of France. (Ross and Harry are the hero and heroine from my novel, Daring Masquerade.)

Dear Harry,

I have received several letters from you. Keep up the good work, you can't know how anxiously I wait to receive them. At mail call it is awful not receiving anything. The disappointment is absolutely crushing. I am one of the lucky ones. I don't think there has been a time when I have not received something, although some of the chaps are not so lucky. There are a few in my unit who have received nothing. Must be terribly disheartening for them.

We are in France as you will guess. I spent a couple of weeks in England, or Blighty, as the men call it over here. Didn't see much of it, spent most of my time training at Salisbury Downs.

There is a church called Notre Dame des Brebieres in Albert that was damaged by the German shells in 1915. A golden Madonna lies at an angle across it, looks ready to topple off at any moment, but somehow she still manages to cling on. It is a fascinating sight really, and has caused a lot of superstitious talk. The English soldiers say the war will end when she falls, while the Germans think who ever knocks it down, will win the war.

I did get to see Paris, had a couple of days leave and went to the Moulin Rouge. Saw the can can a very naughty dance where the chorus girls kick their legs up high and lift their skirts up over their heads to show off their fancy knickers. Some of the young soldiers nearly caused a riot, well you can guess, I suppose, how it affected them.

Don't worry, I enjoyed watching them, (what man wouldn't), but that was all.

Give my love to Mrs. Bates and Hughie, tell Jack I'll be writing soon.

All my love. Ross. 

                                        

Ross opened Harry's letter and a few tendrils of dark baby hair almost fell out. A separate sheet of paper displayed a tiny brown handprint with a little note underneath. I mixed some cocoa into a paste and dunked his hand in it. How small it was, and how clever Harry was to think of it.

My darling Ross,

I hope you heard from Andrew about little Gilbert's birth, just a few days after the 'No' vote for conscription. I didn't have too bad a time of it and we are both fit and well now. Elsie was a great help. The doctor was nice. I thought I would be embarrassed about, well you know, but I wasn't. He said he had delivered dozens of babies. He was fairly old. The young doctor has enlisted in the Medical Corps, thank goodness.

Mrs. Bates' arthritis is so bad, she doesn't do anything much. Elsie and I are having a competition to see who can knit the most things for you and Ted. Loser has to do the ironing on their own for a month. My goodness, Ross, I hate ironing, so I am knitting my hardest but I think Elsie will win.

Everything is quiet here, like Jack says, we are just doing the main things; there's only us and Hughie now. Alf is still riding the boundary and Mr. Wu works non-stop in his garden.

They are still taking some timber but are selective in the trees they do chop down, not like you know who, he took everything. The grass has grown back where he burnt it. They use the track, but not as much. Jack planted some fast growing trees on our side of the track to block it off, so it is not really too bad.

Well, my darling, I know you said don't write about the war or politics because the letter might be censored, so I won't. We will have a quiet Christmas, not much to celebrate with you being away, but next year, hopefully, you will be home and we will have the best Christmas ever.

Baby is starting to cry. I am feeding him on demand. I don't care what people say about four-hourly feeds, he knows when he is hungry. Your son has a good pair of lungs, not that he cries much. I can't stand to hear him so I pick him up, that's if I get there before Jack. He spoils him something dreadful, but it is lovely to see them together.

Oh, if only you could come home to us for Christmas, I would never ask for anything else. It would be the best present ever. The doilies you sent are lovely, I used them straight away. It makes you seem closer somehow. Mrs. Bates and Elsie liked their handkerchiefs.

Well, my darling, I must go. Love and kisses from me and little Gilbert. Harry. She had drawn a circle on the bottom of the page. This is where I kissed the letter, she told him. He closed his eyes and touched his mouth to the spot, trying to pretend he was kissing Harry's soft, sweet mouth.

Daring Masquerade is out on Kindle now.

http://www.amazon.com/Daring-Masquerade-ebook/dp/B0081CJECY/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTG8&qid=13364772888&sr=1-10

Memorial Day is for Every Soldier by Barbara Edwards

The Trail at Minute Man National Park

Memorial Day is for every soldier in every conflict. It’s about more than parades, red poppies and barbeques.  Memorial Day honors sacrifice. So visiting the Minute Man National Park in Lexington-Concord Massachusetts has special meaning.

 The shot heard around the world happened in a tiny village where a handful of men gave to the 350 million Americans alive today their freedom. 

As I followed their path, my heart was in my throat. We don’t appreciate the struggle they endured. They lost their farms and businesses, their men died. Their families went hungry while they fought.

Rebuilt bridge 

The area is charming with a few period houses still open. The park has two visitors’ centers and interpretive guides dressed in period attire. The path followed by those resolute men goes for miles. I’m going back with my younger grandchildren. I want them to know where they got their freedom.

Would you be willing to sacrifice so much? I hope I would.

I came from a family that fought. My Father’s and Mother’s brothers (seven in total) all went overseas in World War Two. They marched through France and Italy, North Africa, Japan and the Pacific Islands. They serve on ships.  My Father built ships at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. My Aunt Edna was a riveter putting airplane wings together.

Interpretive guide 

My daughter and her husband served in the United States Army. Two of my sons and a daughter-in-law served in the United States Navy. My grandson and granddaughter are in the Navy with number three in the early enlistment program for next September.

I am the grandchild of emigrants. My family appreciates the freedoms here. They escaped the religious suppression, forced military service and virtual slavery of a serf type life. 

I love this country.

Minute Man Statue at the Park, with my husband Bill

My husband’s family has been here since the 1600s. One of his ancestors joined the minutemen. A company of armed men journeyed overland from New Haven, Connecticut to Lexington in two days, an incredible feat. My eyes fill with tears as I picture their hardships. It was all for my family and me. And yours

Take the time to visit The Minute Man National Park. Walk where those patriots marched and died. Listen to the lectures and learn why you enjoy the freedom you do.

Salute the flag and stand during the National Anthem. 

Barbara Edwards at monument

Put flowers on the grave of a soldier on Memorial Day. 

Say “Thank You” to our military.

And register to vote. 

Use the greatest privilege they sacrificed for: Vote for a free and responsible government. 

Visit my website: https://www.barbaraedwards.net

New Release - Dancing in a Hurricane

I love it when a new book comes out. It gives me a chance to show off my beautiful cover art. This one features a very steamy picture of Jimmy Thomas. 

Book Blurb: A Seduction as Overpowering as a Hurricane

When her twin sister dies, Bree Prentis moves from Seattle to Miami to inherit a shadowy business, an upscale house, and her sister’s sexy Cuban business partner and housemate, Sixto Doria. She adjusts to the vivid culture of Miami, but constantly bumping into Sixto is straining her hands-off vow. Bree is looking for a man to give her a happily ever after, and Sixto has sworn off relationships. He knows it’s wrong to want her, but she makes him forget why he's not right for her, makes him crave her natural honesty and wholesome beauty.

When he teaches her to dance the Salsa Cubana, then suggests she spend the night in his bed, Bree is shocked—and tempted. In the midst of a hurricane, Bree surrenders to her reckless desire and makes love with Sixto. Could Bree be the one Sixto's been waiting for? If she finds out he’s hiding a nasty truth from her—their company is a façade for a semi-legal business—she will shut it down, and Sixto will lose the income his family depends on. And more frightening for Sixto, he would lose Bree.

When she researches their company’s outrageous revenue, she sees a pattern of untruths leading back to Sixto. The word ‘love’ enters their relationship, and she prays his duplicity is all a misunderstanding, and his seduction is not merely a distraction to keep her from discovering the truth.

~ ~ ~ ~

Picture it, Miami, Florida, a hot, seductive night. Bree and Marisa are at the nightclub where Sixto works as a bartender. Since she's met him, she's tried hard to keep her distance. He's sexy, tempting, and too much for her to handle.

Excerpt: James turned to Sixto. "Your roommate here doesn't think she can dance."

Sixto glanced at Bree. "Anyone can dance."

She couldn't read his mood, but he seemed closed in, somehow.

Marisa and Rico came back to the bar, breathless. She asked Bree, "Why aren't you out there?"

She made a face. "Too fast for a first-timer."

"No it's not." Marisa eased onto her stool. "Sixto, take her out there. Show her how to Salsa Cubana."

He reached down into the beer cooler and opened a fresh one for Rico. "Too busy."

"Busy?" James laughed. "It's dead in here, bro. Go on, I can handle it."

Bree caught Sixto shooting a meaningful look at Rico. Great, not only were Marisa and Rico conspiring, now Sixto and Rico had secrets, too. She shook her head. "I'd rather watch. Thanks anyway, Sixto."

Marisa scowled at her brother. "You leave James alone at the bar all the time to dance with the chicas."

Sixto sighed and stalked away.

Bree released her pent-up breath and took a sip of wine. That was uncomfortable.

Sixto appeared on her side of the bar, right in front of her, his hand out. "Dance?"

Bree considered saying no, but would that give everyone the idea that she was avoiding him? That there was something going on between them?

She set down her glass and put her hand in his. His big, warm hand. The tingling sensation started in her palm and raced up her arm, spiraling through her to end low in her belly.

He led her to the floor. He stood stiffly, put his hand on her waist, and took her other hand in his. The other couples pressed against each other and she waited, breathlessly, for the crush of his body to hers. It didn't come.

He danced slowly, their hips a foot apart. His face seemed pinched, his eyes unreadable. She followed his lead, he told her when to step a different way, or turn under his arm. She forced herself to forget that where he held her hand, her palm warmed at his touch. She tried to ignore where his palm pressed hot and firm against her hip through the thin fabric of her dress. Her hand on his muscular bicep felt every sexy flex of each tempting muscle in his arm. She made herself forget that, too.

In less than a minute, the song ended and she stepped away from him.

They dropped their arms, and Bree sucked in air. Without his touch on her skin, her heart slowed from its manic race, and the heat drained from her cheeks. The next song started. A slower, song with a tantalizing rhythm.

She looked at him, his face looked fierce, his eyes severe.

"One more?" he grumbled.

He wanted her to say no, wanted her to run from him and be her usual cautious, conservative self. Well, she'd had enough wine tonight that her backbone was right where it should be. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying no. She nodded and stepped closer to him.

A muscle in his jaw worked for a moment, as if he considered walking away. Taking her hand in his, he put his other palm on her waist. He taught her the steps. They were easier than the last dance and she didn't have to concentrate as hard. The song grew more intense, the primal beat stirred her soul, made her warm deep inside, made her feel sexy. She watched other women gyrating their hips and she let her body move to the rhythm, taking away her inhibitions.

"Goddamnit, Bree." His eyes burned with passion. "What the hell are you doing to me?" He stared into her eyes, put his hand on her lower back, and pulled her tight against him. Pausing for a moment, he groaned and began moving again, sensually, demanding her response.

She gasped, his hard body pressed along her soft one. Breasts, stomach, thighs. A mudslide of sexual awareness covered her, tingled in her nerve endings. He moved his hips the same way she was grinding and she felt every inch of his hardness against her stomach.

She told herself to move away, but it was too intoxicating for her body to ignore. He spun them to the middle of the floor, away from the prying eyes at the bar. His breath caressed her face, hot and fast. He stared down at her, her gaze collided with his.

"You shouldn't be in my arms." He tightened his hold on her. "Next time I ask you to dance," he said between clenched teeth, "say no."

~ ~ ~ ~

¡Muy Caliente! Hope you like the book!
Laura
LauraBreck.com
Dancing in a Hurricane is available at Amazon

Beginning with a Bang by Jannine Gallant

We're celebrating Creative Beginnings this month, so I thought I'd talk about the beginnings of books. How many of you agonize over the opening scene in your book and rewrite it countless times? It’s the hook that catches the reader’s attention, so it has to be perfect. At least that’s the way I look at it as I revise the first page of my WIP for the 120^th time, changing one word here and one word there… You get the picture, and those of you who write can probably relate. The opening scene does more than you think. It doesn’t just introduce your characters and setting. It sets the tone for the book. It shows off your style.

The first scene in Nothing But Trouble came to me in a flash of inspiration. I could see the setting, a dusty highway in Texas in front of a honky tonk bar. My heroine is stranded by the roadside. She takes one look at the cowboy offering her a ride and knows he’s nothing but trouble. But creating a picture isn’t enough to engage potential readers. As an author, it’s your job to show them what kind of book you’ve written. Is the stranded woman frightened, sad, or spitting mad? Do you get a feeling of danger or one of humor from the situation? By the end of that first page, the reader should have a good sense of your voice.

Now, take everything you want to convey in your opening scene, and condense it into one sentence. The oh so important first line of your book. A daunting task to be certain. I’ll admit I’ve written some less than stellar first lines. But I’ve read some true beauties, both in classic books and new favorites.

From Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell: Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.

From Carnal Innocence by Nora Roberts: The air was raw with February the morning Bobby Lee Fuller found the first body.

From Try Just Once More by Kat Henry Doran: Maggie McGuire didn’t have time to die.

It took me several tries, but I finally wrote a first line for Nothing But Trouble that satisfied me. Chase Paladin slammed on the brakes and prayed.

It may not be the best first line ever written, but I hope it will hook readers and make them ask, “Then what happened?” So, let’s hear your favorite first lines, one’s you’ve read or written.

Opening scene from Nothing But Trouble:

            Chase Paladin slammed on the brakes and prayed. Momentum, and the heavy livestock trailer he was towing, sent his pickup careening toward the red sports car idling in the middle of Route 66. With tires smoking, he rocked to a stop inches from its rear bumper. He peeled his fingers from the steering wheel and spared a glance for Bo, who had slid off the seat onto the floor of the truck. The hound shook himself.

            “What kind of freaking idiot stops in the middle of the road!” he shouted. Pushing his hat to the back of his head with a shaking hand, he leaned out the open window. “Hey, buddy—” The passenger door of the Porsche swung open, and the complaint lodged in his throat.

Long, long tanned legs topped by a pair of frayed denim shorts shot out. He dragged his gaze upward as the woman stood. A green ribbed tank top hugged a slim waist, and thick brown braids dangled over each shoulder. Fists clenched on her hips, she yelled something Chase couldn’t quite hear at the driver.

A pink flowered duffle bag flew through the open door and landed at her feet. She kicked the door shut and flipped the driver the bird. With squealing tires, the car tore off down the highway.

            Bending, the woman grabbed the handle of the duffle. Faded denim cupped a world class ass. Chase let out a low whistle as his pulse picked up speed. She glanced in his direction before dragging the bag toward the side of the road. He edged his pickup forward a couple of yards and lowered the passenger window.

            “Need a ride?”

            Her eyes were hidden by oversized sunglasses with leopard spotted frames. They perched atop a short, straight nose covered with a sprinkling of freckles. Color tinged high cheekbones, and a pink mouth with a full bottom lip drew into a tight line. She bared an even row of white teeth.

            “Not a chance.”

            “You sure? Mornings, there isn’t much traffic along this stretch of highway.”

            Her fist clenched around the canvas handle of the bag. “I’m not in a hurry.”

            “Look, I’m harmless, I swear.”

            She eyed him for a long minute. A warm Texas breeze ruffled tendrils of loose hair, blowing it around her face. She pushed a strand off her cheek. “You look anything but harmless. If I had to guess, I’d say trouble is your middle name.”

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