Juror No. 7 is coming soon!

Man in a white shirt holding a gun, stands on courthouse stepsPolice detective Brand Gallagher is bent on revenge against mob boss Giovanni Castellano, the man who ordered his brother’s death. Now undercover within the mob, he’s getting closer to exacting his long-planned vengeance. But when he’s ordered to kill a juror who refused to hang a jury, Brand knows he can’t do it. He has to save Juror No. 7, the lovely Lily Raines, even though it will blow the cover on his three-year mission.

Lily is threatened by thugs to set a killer free, but her father taught her to do the right thing, so she votes to convict. Now her life is in danger and her only hope is a mob hit man named Brand. But Brand seems more like a hero than a thug.

Brand and Lily find themselves on the run, with no one to depend on except each other. Lily trusts Brand with her life, but can she trust him with her heart? By protecting Lily, Brand could lose everything he’s worked for, and gain all he’s ever wanted.

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No Angel, the third book in my Louisiana Lawmen series, is here!
Read below for an excerpt from my newest romantic suspense, No angel, available now.

Alexandra Tyler lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. It rotated slowly, catching the pale light that seeped through the curtains of her apartment in New Orleans’s famous French Quarter. She’d been prescribed sleeping pills but they hadn’t helped, plus the and hangover that came with them were punishing.

She pushed the coverlet away and got up. According to her phone, it was just after two a.m. She’d been trying to sleep since eleven. Setting the phone on the coffee table, she stepped through the casement windows onto her tiny balcony. She sat on a beach chair and breathed the cool night air. The lights from Bourbon Street made a neon rainbow in the sky and even from three blocks away she could hear the shouting and laughter. For a moment, she considered walking over to the infamous street and letting the giddiness of the party that n ever ended distract her from the terrifying memories from two weeks before.

But Bourbon Street was a little more depressing than fun these days. The seedy bars showed their advanced age and the après-prom kids, tourists and drag queens wandering up and down at this hour were either too old or too young to be doing what they were doing.

She sat on her little balcony rubbing the sore places on her wrists, and doing her best not to think about those awful moments when she was grabbed and slammed into the side of a van, then trussed and thrown inside it. It wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t sleep, not when that nightmare haunted her 24/7.

She smiled wryly. She’d come to New Orleans to start over. And she had. She loved her little apartment that looked out over Royal Street. She loved being a window designer. She loved how strong she had become since she’d moved here, both physically and mentally. Most of all, she loved that she no longer lived in fear, at least until two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, she’d escaped an abduction. She’d been bruised and scraped but that was all, physically. Mentally, emotionally, that was a different story. She knew of only one person in her life who would have cooked up such a scheme—her ex-husband. But why? And why now?

The police had been helpful and concerned, especially Detective Gautier, and had promised her they would check out her ex-husband, but she could tell they thought the incident, while serious, had been random.

Through the casement windows, she heard her phone ping, announcing a new text message. She started, her pulse skittering. She was terrified that she knew who was texting her. She’d thought it was over, but she should have known it wasn’t. She was so tired. “Please be an ad from Home Depot,” she whispered.

She went inside, not looking toward the coffee table. With a deep breath, she walked toward the bedroom. She’d ignore the phone and go to bed. But at the bedroom door, she braced herself and turned around. Her hand shook and dread spread through her like a chill as she picked up the phone and swiped the screen.

            “Hi, Sugar Pie. Don’t you love New Orleans? Let’s meet for beignets one morning.”

Her knees buckled and she flopped down on the couch, pressing her hands against her chest, trying to stop the panic that crawled up her throat. This was the third text she’d received, and the most ominous. The first two had been more generic, though still disturbing. She’d told herself it was spam, but she’d decided not to delete them, just in case.

And now she knew. This text was not spam. It was from Gary. Her worst fear was realized. He had found her and he was here.

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