Blurb:
When you don’t know how the story will end . . .
After years of hard work honing his craft, Blake Edwards is now an international bestselling author. But one thing he never imagined was that his fictional world would become all too real. When a stalker turns Blake’s latest book tour into a treacherous and nearly deadly trap, it’s time for Blake to hire protection. But the body assigned to keep an eye on him is someone he never wants out of his sight . . .
As a bodyguard for Vigilance, the private security agency in Blake’s hometown of Arrowhead Bay, Samantha Quenel has found the perfect outlet for her military experience. But her latest client is also a former high school flame, which might explain her willingness to protect Blake at all costs—even if that means staying in the same room with him, on the same bed, under the same torrid sheets . . .
Excerpt:
I know what you did.
Blake Morgan stared at the piece of paper in his hand, pulse accelerating, a tiny finger of ice slithering down his spine. Again. Someone had left it again. A message with the same words.
Goddamnit!
He looked around to see if he could spot whoever this was, the familiar fear gripping him, his stomach knotting. But he knew he’d see nothing. He never did. Whoever this was moved like a ghost, silent and unseen, leaving his taunting messages. If he wanted to keep Blake on edge, he was doing a damn good job of it. In a fit of anger, Blake crumpled the paper and stuck it in the drink holder of the car. He wasn’t going to let some unknown asshole frighten him. He’d faced worse than this.
He’d found the damn stupid note stuck under his windshield wiper when he went to get his car from the hotel parking garage. Anyone could have done it. Who paid attention to cars in a parking garage, anyway? And why would they? But Jesus. How the hell had someone known which car was his? It was a rental, for crap’s sake.
Wait! Were those footsteps? Was someone running toward him? Away from him? A car door slammed somewhere and an engine turned over. He looked around, wondering if he’d see someone hiding in the shadows, every nerve on high alert.
Okay, get your shit together. You aren’t a character in one of your books.
Anyway, whoever was doing this wouldn’t be quite so obvious. He—or she—would be careful and silent. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm, he told himself. People were waiting for him. His readers. He couldn’t freak out on them.
Crap. Double crap.
Who in the fucking hell was doing this? Who could he have pissed off so much they’d do something like this? A reader he’d offended? Reviewer? Blogger? Not anyone he’d been dating, for sure. He was so busy these days that dates weren’t even on the horizon.
So really. These messages. What the fuck?
He’d blown off the first note as a prank, a harmless joke, although he didn’t think it was very funny. Or maybe even a case of mistaken identity.
Just the one sentence on a plain sheet of paper, typed on someone’s computer.
I know what you did.
He had no idea who it was from. There was no signature, no return address. The postmark was Boston, but he was pretty sure none of the people he knew in that city would be sending him a message like this. He had a lot of readers from that area, but he never gave out his address or phone number. And nothing had been coming in to his public email.
So how the fuck did whoever this was know where he was staying?
Maybe they’d followed him to the hotel, a thought that brought another attack of the creeping chills.
I know what you did.
His agent had made light of it. “The price of fame,” Henry had joked. “It brings the weirdos out of the woodwork. This is your third best seller so you’ve got a lot more eyes focused on you. You’ve had nutty stuff like this happen before. Okay, maybe not quite like this. But eventually, when you don’t make a big deal about it in the media, they give up and move on to someone else. Whoever this is will get tired of the game and disappear.”
But that hadn’t happened. The notes kept coming, showing up in different cities wherever he was signing. Different hotels and venues. Someone was tracking his tour. Not just the cities but also the facilities—bookstores, event centers, wherever.
The police weren’t much help. They were courteous, but the events all happened in different cities, so nobody really had jurisdiction. And, as one overly polite detective told him, he didn’t think this was a case for the FBI.
I know what you did.
Buy Links:
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2GlmE2V
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kobo: http://bit.ly/2G4TUeJ
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Author Bio:
Desiree Holt is the world’s oldest living published author of erotic and spicy romance. A graduate of the University of Michigan with double majors in English and History, her earlier careers include agent and manager in the music industry, public television, associate vice president of university advancement, public relations, and economic development.
She is three times a finalist for an EPIC E-Book Award (and a winner in 2014), a nominee for a Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award, winner of the first 5 Heart Sweetheart of the Year Award at The Romance Studio as well as twice a CAPA Award winner for best BDSM book of the year, a USA Today Bestselling author and winner of the Holt Medallion for Excellence in Romance Literature.
She has been featured on CBS Sunday Morning and in The Village Voice, The Daily Beast, USA Today, The (London) Daily Mail, The New Delhi Times, The Huffington Post and numerous other national and international publications. She is also the Authors After Dark 2014 Author of the Year.
“Desiree Holt is the most amazing erotica author of our time and each story is more fulfilling then the last.” (Romance Junkies)
Learn more about her and read her novels here:
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