Paranormal romance comes in all shapes and sizes. From her Soulgirls series partying in a paranormal Las Vegas to the Fevered Hearts struggling for survival in 1850s Texas, Heather Long loves to build rich worlds populated by colorful characters. April is Heather’s birthday month and she’s celebrating a lot of new releases including A Fistful of Dreams, book four of the epic adventure series featuring the Kane and Morning Star families as well as the audible release of book 2 of her Always a Marine series, Retreat Hell! She Just Got Here. April also marks the month that Taking the Stage went on pre-order.
Don’t miss out on one exciting minute!
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Take a break at the Arcana Royale with Into the Spotlight, available now and pre-order Taking the Stage, coming in August.
Destiny doesn't like to be messed with. And the House doesn't always win.Into the Spotlight
© 2013 Heather
Long
Soulgirls, Book 1
Fifty years ago, Jeannie Williams made her way to Las Vegas seeking fame and fortune. Instead, she lost her soul and wound up performing nightly shows at the Arcana Royale. Every day, she straps on her feathers, her glitter, her stilettos, and she dances. Every day, it’s the same.
Until the day he walks in.
For six centuries, Malcolm Reynolds has been the go-to guy for anything his family needs: warrior, diplomat, wrangler, researcher, and now an attorney. He enters the Arcana Royale Casino, intent on negotiating the release of his cousin’s bad debt, but one look at the golden-skinned showgirl ignites a fire of need that he’s never experienced. When the fantasy come true sits at his table, words he never expected to hear come out of her lush mouth: “I need your help.”
Now he’s in for the toughest battle of his life, because the Overseers own both his cousin’s debt and her soul. And he’s not planning on leaving the Royale without either one.
Warning: Contains high-stakes games, sexy showgirls, and a powerful showdown between a vampire that can’t lose and the House that never does. Spells, slots, sirens and sex, oh my!
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookstrand | Kobo | Samhain Publishing
Fifty years ago, Jeannie Williams made her way to Las Vegas seeking fame and fortune. Instead, she lost her soul and wound up performing nightly shows at the Arcana Royale. Every day, she straps on her feathers, her glitter, her stilettos, and she dances. Every day, it’s the same.
Until the day he walks in.
For six centuries, Malcolm Reynolds has been the go-to guy for anything his family needs: warrior, diplomat, wrangler, researcher, and now an attorney. He enters the Arcana Royale Casino, intent on negotiating the release of his cousin’s bad debt, but one look at the golden-skinned showgirl ignites a fire of need that he’s never experienced. When the fantasy come true sits at his table, words he never expected to hear come out of her lush mouth: “I need your help.”
Now he’s in for the toughest battle of his life, because the Overseers own both his cousin’s debt and her soul. And he’s not planning on leaving the Royale without either one.
Warning: Contains high-stakes games, sexy showgirls, and a powerful showdown between a vampire that can’t lose and the House that never does. Spells, slots, sirens and sex, oh my!
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookstrand | Kobo | Samhain Publishing
Enjoy the following excerpt for Into the Spotlight:
“Ladies! Five minutes. Move your asses!” Heidi swept through the room, slapping bare bottoms as she passed. “Into those costumes. Let’s go.”
Jeannie flicked a glance at the stage manager’s blonde reflection striding toward her in the mirror. It was just another night. Another endless night tagged onto the caboose of an endless string of endless nights.
She didn’t bother even keeping count anymore.
Tiny black lines, ticks counting down the days of her sentence, marked the mirror. Somewhere around one thousand, she’d added a second layer. After three thousand, she’d stopped counting.
What was one more night?
“How you doin’, chere?” Heidi leaned against the side of the mirror, her gaze critical, her mouth pinched and her forehead puckered with frown lines. Their dressmaker-slash-stage manager-slash-backstage mother hen nursed headaches more often than not. The pain rippled across her facial muscles, tightening them in spasms.
But Heidi never commented on them.
Jeannie had long since stopped asking.
“I’m fine. I know. Five minutes.” She painted a line of glitter around each eye. Her stage makeup was heavy, dense stuff, saturating every pore and bleeding away her color for the face of the Midnight Mystery Lounge.
The swathe of glitter, crystals and diamonds decorating her eyelashes reminded her that she wasn’t Jeannie.
She was Pandora.
She was the showstopper.
God, I am so bored.
“Just another set, chere.”
“I know, Heidi. Just another set.” She didn’t even bother to inject enthusiasm into the words. Heidi didn’t care. Jeannie didn’t care. They could not care together. It worked.
“Dearly beloved!” A voice boomed from behind them. Heidi snorted, but Jeannie kept painting lines of glitter on each of her features, thickening the lines around her eyes and her lips. She would sparkle in the smoky darkness.
At least that was the goal.
“Dearly beloved!” Three mirrors down, Roseâtre clapped her hands together over her head, her silver and gold bangles jingling together in musical accompaniment. The chatter in the dressing room died, and all eyes turned toward her. Roseâtre’s real name was Ruthie, but as with Jeannie, no one cared about real names at the Midnight Mystery Lounge, the Arcana Royale’s premier revue. Their audience would only know her as Roseâtre.
“Does she even remember her real name anymore?” Jeannie murmured and Heidi shrugged. Somewhere after a decade, the dancers forgot. Some forgot on purpose, deliberately blotting out memories of a past before the Arcana Royale and whatever mistake landed them in the revue. Others just faded, forgetting that life existed beyond the smoke and the glamour.
And some just stop caring altogether...
Jeannie sighed and set the glitter brush down. Heidi moved on cue to help her don the weighted headdress with its red and white foxtails and diamond beads. It weighed over thirty pounds, and her head and neck would be in brutal pain by the end of the third number.
But she would look spectacular.
“Everyone forgets,” Heidi whispered, as her fingers worked through the headdress. Behind them the girls bounced up, adjusting arm sleeves of foxtails, which drooped to the ground. The golden lamé dresses hugged every curve, chains of crystal, diamond and pale-colored gems peeked out from beneath the fabric. The girls checked each other’s headdresses. Their foxtails were weighty, but only about ten pounds to Jeannie’s thirty.
Kiki danced in place at the head of the line, her hips bumping to a song only she could hear. The gyration warmed her up. She would be the first up the stairs and out onto the stage. She would burst through the door, potential energy unleashed, a payload delivering a megaton of enthusiasm, lift and sensation.
Jeannie sighed.
Heidi adjusted another strap, testing it against pull and murmured. “Two minutes.”
“I know.”
Two minutes to become Pandora.
Two minutes to let go of Jeannie.
She didn’t need two minutes anymore.
“Kiki!” Heidi yelled over her shoulder. “Go!”
“Holla!” Kiki whooped and charged up the steps, graceful in her five-inch heels. Sparks shot in every direction as the twelve bejeweled women bounced up the stairs.
Jeannie followed, but without the click-clack of running on the stairs. She ascended, shedding her humanity with each step. Years of practice shuttered her emotions, smothered her soul and silenced her sense of self.
At the top of the steps, Jeannie vanished.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Arcana Royale and the Midnight Mystery Lounge present Pandora!”
The music, velvet pulsations, squeezed her heart in time to the rhythm, and she surrendered. Across the sea of night, blue eyes blazed in the darkness. Pandora stared at them. Her heart paused, startled, and then the sluggish, ho-hum beat pounded, a descant bass to the sameness of the night.
She barely hit her first mark, waiting almost a full count from the first bars of the music. With every pop of her hips, every twist of her shoulders, every kick of her legs, she sought out those blue eyes, burning like icy flames in the blackness.
Her abdomen cramped, the chill of desperation quieting only when she found those burning eyes in the cold, empty dark.
Maybe tonight wasn’t the same after all.
Taking the Stage
© 2013 Heather
Long
Soulgirls, Book 2
Roseâtre takes one look at the white tigers that the stage manager has brought in to shake things up at the Midnight Mystery Lounge, and nearly has a heart attack. It doesn’t matter that the beautiful creatures’ handler raises her pulse and makes her want to purr. The tigers are sure to recognize her—and arouse her need for the hunt.
Pride outcast Anthony diNapoli wasn’t expecting to encounter an Amazon princess when he brought his white tigers to the lounge. The lucrative show will go a long way toward securing his future, but not if he gives in to the urge to make her submit to his dominance, and claim her as his mate.
No matter how desperately her body aches for the sun-kissed stranger and his completely lickable abs, Roseâtre is no man’s prize. Yet she finds herself hungering for Anthony to defeat her and take her for his own.
It’s show time in the Arcana Royale’s Midnight Mystery Lounge and all bets are off.
Warning: Contains sword fights, shackles, sexy showgirls, and a game of dominance between a determined weretiger and an Amazon who refuses to submit. Blades, bliss and battles, oh my!
Releasing August 13! Pre-order now!
Amazon
Enjoy the following excerpt for Taking the Stage:
“Not the toes.” Roseâtre refused to squeal. As lead dancer for the Arcana Royale’s Midnight Mystery Lounge, she would never squeal or scream, but her voice pitched high enough that the syllable at the end of toes cracked.
The great white tiger snuffling her feet through the five-inch strappy black-and-sapphire Louboutins rolled his head away. Instead of obeying, he stroked a whiskered cheek down her bare leg.
“Cut!” Voice booming, the show’s stage manager hustled out from the wings. Heidi was a brisk woman with a quick temper and a stout body, dedicated to creating the best shows. After Pandora’s escape from her contract, she relied on all of her girls to have the same dedication to the performance, Roseâtre more than most.
Pandora. She’d always made the lead look easy. She’d walked out on the stage and owned the audience. Roseâtre believed Pandora could have shared the stage with twelve chimpanzees and it wouldn’t have mattered. Gazes would have been riveted to the tawny nymph.
The white tiger stretched out his neck and yawned, showing off a mouthful of glistening teeth. He flexed his paws, claws scoring the stage. She wasn’t fooled by the sleepy-eyed expression or house-cat similarities. Big cats weren’t pets.
The rest of the dancers relaxed from their poses, some even dropping down to coo and stroke the cats whose arrival had elicited a long round of awws and aren't they sweets. Roseâtre, however, shifted away from the cat with his tickling whiskers and raspy tongue.
“Rose?” Heidi beckoned, a pen behind one ear and a notebook tucked under her arm. She pursed her lips in a you’re-not-in-trouble-yet moue, but the wrinkles knitting her brow told an entirely different story.
“Yes, ma’am?” Roseâtre didn’t drag her feet. One certainly never dragged Louboutins, but she couldn’t quite resist displaying her mutiny with an uplifted chin and wrinkled nose.
Cats.
Her nose twitched. Her sinuses burned. Her eyes threatened tears. But she maintained her composure.
Damn cats.
“Look, I know you’re not thrilled with this idea.” The opening gambit was classic Heidi, softening her up for the too-damn-bad often attached to those statements.
Closeted together at the far end of the stage, Roseâtre was glad to be out of earshot of her shield-sister Cerveau, the other dancers and thankfully, the damn tigers.
The Midnight Mystery Lounge was closed for an entire week so the dancers could learn this new act. She’d woken to the bad news that the diNapoli Tigers—tigers—were joining the show for a three-month trial to drum up business in the magical casino and resort.
“But you’re just going to have to get over it. The apothecary will provide you with a tea for your allergies. We need this show and you’re the headliner. That means you and the tiger will be all over each other on that stage and you’re going to love it.”
And there it was, the verbal slap demanding submission. The command chafed. But a promise was a promise and she was as bound by her oath as her shield-sister Cerveau was by her curse.
“Is there any way we can do this without cats?”
“Not really, no.” The sympathy was real, but from Heidi’s compressed expression, the stage manager was plainly not on Roseâtre’s side. “I’m sorry, Rose. But the diNapoli Tigers were an enormous success in Monaco and Paris. We need them for resurgence of interest or the Overseers may very well break up the show.”
“Really?” Panic drifted under the surface of her skin, sending her heart puttering. The Overseers controlled the Arcana Royale, the sprawling complex where meta-humans of all types were welcome and could be themselves. They controlled the shows, the people and in the case of the dancers, their souls. Breaking up the show meant the dancers with varying leases on their souls could be placed elsewhere at the Overseers’ discretion.
Worse, Roseâtre and Cerveau could be separated. Roseâtre couldn’t allow that to happen. She’d sworn an oath. Pride could be sacrificed. Honor could not.
A shield-borne oath was an oath.
“I’ll try. It’s not just the allergy, though.”
“What is it?”
No simple answer existed. Roseâtre glanced over her shoulder to where the great cats lounged. Some groomed themselves while yet another rolled over on its back, presenting its belly to Peppermint for attention. Of all the dancers, Peppermint was the most gracious, the most loving and the most likely to enjoy gamboling with the tigers on the stage.
“I assure you, nothing is wrong with my cats.” The dark, deep masculine tones teased up her spine. She jerked her attention back to discover a bare-chested, bare-footed blond god had joined them.
Oh my. Who did he kill to get those abs?
She snapped her jaw shut with a flicker of irritation, and forced her gaze up from the hard six-pack of clear-cut muscle to roam over the ripped planes of his chest and shoulders.
Dear gods, does it end?
The cool dislike in his blue eyes slapped her back to the present. Everything about the man seemed larger than life, from his thick thighs, easily three times the size of hers, to his wide hands and square, chiseled jaw.
“Roseâtre, Anthony diNapoli.” Heidi’s snapped introduction rebuked her. “Anthony, this is our headliner, Roseâtre.”
Be professional. She extended her hand and kept her gaze focused above his chin. Despite the five additional inches her designer shoes added to her considerable height, topping at around six foot, the man towered over her.
And he inspected her with an air of detached amusement, his gaze clearly dipping below her chin to where her breasts strained against the confinement of the black leotard.
“Your pleasure, I’m sure.” The bastard smiled and ignored her hand.
“Anthony’s cats are in high demand, and he’s graciously consented to this trial contract so we’re going to do the best we can to make the most of this situation.” Heidi turned to Anthony as though unaware of the icy drop in Roseâtre’s regard. “We’ll add extra rehearsal time so Roseâtre and her cat can get used to each other.”
We will? Incredulous, Roseâtre could barely pull her eyes away from Anthony to look at the stage manager. “More rehearsals?” Tired of holding her hand out to the air, she let it drop.
“Absolutely.” Heidi nodded briskly, clapping her hands and striding away to gather the dancers, completely ignoring the cats with the poise of one who was likely more dangerous than the wild animals. “Ladies!”
Cerveau stood next to Kiki, Peppermint and Amber, the question in her expression obvious, but Roseâtre shook her head, waving her off with one short hand gesture. She didn’t need backup.
“So what’s your problem with cats, princess?” The words shivered up her spine. Anthony’s voice prowled behind her, his body heat brushing against her in challenge and invitation.
“Does it matter?”
She didn’t have to play nice. The bastard couldn’t be bothered to shake her hand.
“It might. You’re going to be riding my tiger every night for the next three months.” The words dripped with mockery and some other indefinable emotion.
Roseâtre shifted away, sparing him a dismissive look. She’d practiced the art of cool disdain for years under her mother’s tutelage. He might call her princess in his low, rolling sexy voice as a jest, but it didn’t make it any less true.
“What’s the problem now, princess?”
“You’re getting sarcasm on my shoes.” She lifted one, taking great care to inspect it.
Anthony threw his head back and laughed, a deep belly-trembling shout of amusement.
The noise drew the dancers’ attention like children to free chocolate. Cerveau’s face twisted comically, a mixture of censure and curiosity reddening her cheeks. She wouldn’t approve the tone, but she would appreciate the cause.
“You still haven’t told me why you don’t like my cats.”
“They’re cats.”
“Cats are magnificent, bold and affectionate creatures. They are slow to trust, but have unshakable loyalty.”
“Until you’re dead and then they just eat your corpse.” She shuddered.
He laughed again. “You don’t need your body when you’re dead.”
She was missing everything Heidi was saying to the other dancers. Clearly, the stage manager didn’t care because she wasn’t even looking in Roseâtre’s direction, much less shooting her with her optic laser beams of impatience.
“I’d rather my body was undisturbed, thank you very much. The idea of anything feasting after I’m dead is unappealing.” Not to mention sacrilegious. A warrior’s death should be honored with blades and flame, never teeth.
Or, the gods forbid, a hairball. Roseâtre grimaced.
“Would you prefer they do it while you’re alive?” The silken whisper brushed against her ear. Tingles raced over her skin from the sweep of his beard on her cheek.
Heart leaping, Roseâtre barely managed to suppress her startled scream and settled for smacking his chest. The hard muscles didn’t even budge as her hand made contact, leaving a vivid, white mark against the golden tan.
“You really need to stop doing that.” Enough is enough. The man might be here at Heidi's request or the Overseers', but his job was to deal with the damn cats.
“Stop what?” The mock innocence coating his teasing grin reminded her more of the tiger yawning than it did a conciliatory gesture.
“Invading my bubble.” She rolled her hand in the air between them. “You haven’t been invited into my bubble.”
The coolness in his gaze warmed considerably, his grin widened. He was obviously enjoying the hell out of her irritation.
“How does one get invited into your bubble?” He batted the air in front of her, a downright playful gesture that sank its claws into her belly.
Nope. Not going to be turned on.
Roseâtre takes one look at the white tigers that the stage manager has brought in to shake things up at the Midnight Mystery Lounge, and nearly has a heart attack. It doesn’t matter that the beautiful creatures’ handler raises her pulse and makes her want to purr. The tigers are sure to recognize her—and arouse her need for the hunt.
Pride outcast Anthony diNapoli wasn’t expecting to encounter an Amazon princess when he brought his white tigers to the lounge. The lucrative show will go a long way toward securing his future, but not if he gives in to the urge to make her submit to his dominance, and claim her as his mate.
No matter how desperately her body aches for the sun-kissed stranger and his completely lickable abs, Roseâtre is no man’s prize. Yet she finds herself hungering for Anthony to defeat her and take her for his own.
It’s show time in the Arcana Royale’s Midnight Mystery Lounge and all bets are off.
Warning: Contains sword fights, shackles, sexy showgirls, and a game of dominance between a determined weretiger and an Amazon who refuses to submit. Blades, bliss and battles, oh my!
Releasing August 13! Pre-order now!
Amazon
Enjoy the following excerpt for Taking the Stage:
“Not the toes.” Roseâtre refused to squeal. As lead dancer for the Arcana Royale’s Midnight Mystery Lounge, she would never squeal or scream, but her voice pitched high enough that the syllable at the end of toes cracked.
The great white tiger snuffling her feet through the five-inch strappy black-and-sapphire Louboutins rolled his head away. Instead of obeying, he stroked a whiskered cheek down her bare leg.
“Cut!” Voice booming, the show’s stage manager hustled out from the wings. Heidi was a brisk woman with a quick temper and a stout body, dedicated to creating the best shows. After Pandora’s escape from her contract, she relied on all of her girls to have the same dedication to the performance, Roseâtre more than most.
Pandora. She’d always made the lead look easy. She’d walked out on the stage and owned the audience. Roseâtre believed Pandora could have shared the stage with twelve chimpanzees and it wouldn’t have mattered. Gazes would have been riveted to the tawny nymph.
The white tiger stretched out his neck and yawned, showing off a mouthful of glistening teeth. He flexed his paws, claws scoring the stage. She wasn’t fooled by the sleepy-eyed expression or house-cat similarities. Big cats weren’t pets.
The rest of the dancers relaxed from their poses, some even dropping down to coo and stroke the cats whose arrival had elicited a long round of awws and aren't they sweets. Roseâtre, however, shifted away from the cat with his tickling whiskers and raspy tongue.
“Rose?” Heidi beckoned, a pen behind one ear and a notebook tucked under her arm. She pursed her lips in a you’re-not-in-trouble-yet moue, but the wrinkles knitting her brow told an entirely different story.
“Yes, ma’am?” Roseâtre didn’t drag her feet. One certainly never dragged Louboutins, but she couldn’t quite resist displaying her mutiny with an uplifted chin and wrinkled nose.
Cats.
Her nose twitched. Her sinuses burned. Her eyes threatened tears. But she maintained her composure.
Damn cats.
“Look, I know you’re not thrilled with this idea.” The opening gambit was classic Heidi, softening her up for the too-damn-bad often attached to those statements.
Closeted together at the far end of the stage, Roseâtre was glad to be out of earshot of her shield-sister Cerveau, the other dancers and thankfully, the damn tigers.
The Midnight Mystery Lounge was closed for an entire week so the dancers could learn this new act. She’d woken to the bad news that the diNapoli Tigers—tigers—were joining the show for a three-month trial to drum up business in the magical casino and resort.
“But you’re just going to have to get over it. The apothecary will provide you with a tea for your allergies. We need this show and you’re the headliner. That means you and the tiger will be all over each other on that stage and you’re going to love it.”
And there it was, the verbal slap demanding submission. The command chafed. But a promise was a promise and she was as bound by her oath as her shield-sister Cerveau was by her curse.
“Is there any way we can do this without cats?”
“Not really, no.” The sympathy was real, but from Heidi’s compressed expression, the stage manager was plainly not on Roseâtre’s side. “I’m sorry, Rose. But the diNapoli Tigers were an enormous success in Monaco and Paris. We need them for resurgence of interest or the Overseers may very well break up the show.”
“Really?” Panic drifted under the surface of her skin, sending her heart puttering. The Overseers controlled the Arcana Royale, the sprawling complex where meta-humans of all types were welcome and could be themselves. They controlled the shows, the people and in the case of the dancers, their souls. Breaking up the show meant the dancers with varying leases on their souls could be placed elsewhere at the Overseers’ discretion.
Worse, Roseâtre and Cerveau could be separated. Roseâtre couldn’t allow that to happen. She’d sworn an oath. Pride could be sacrificed. Honor could not.
A shield-borne oath was an oath.
“I’ll try. It’s not just the allergy, though.”
“What is it?”
No simple answer existed. Roseâtre glanced over her shoulder to where the great cats lounged. Some groomed themselves while yet another rolled over on its back, presenting its belly to Peppermint for attention. Of all the dancers, Peppermint was the most gracious, the most loving and the most likely to enjoy gamboling with the tigers on the stage.
“I assure you, nothing is wrong with my cats.” The dark, deep masculine tones teased up her spine. She jerked her attention back to discover a bare-chested, bare-footed blond god had joined them.
Oh my. Who did he kill to get those abs?
She snapped her jaw shut with a flicker of irritation, and forced her gaze up from the hard six-pack of clear-cut muscle to roam over the ripped planes of his chest and shoulders.
Dear gods, does it end?
The cool dislike in his blue eyes slapped her back to the present. Everything about the man seemed larger than life, from his thick thighs, easily three times the size of hers, to his wide hands and square, chiseled jaw.
“Roseâtre, Anthony diNapoli.” Heidi’s snapped introduction rebuked her. “Anthony, this is our headliner, Roseâtre.”
Be professional. She extended her hand and kept her gaze focused above his chin. Despite the five additional inches her designer shoes added to her considerable height, topping at around six foot, the man towered over her.
And he inspected her with an air of detached amusement, his gaze clearly dipping below her chin to where her breasts strained against the confinement of the black leotard.
“Your pleasure, I’m sure.” The bastard smiled and ignored her hand.
“Anthony’s cats are in high demand, and he’s graciously consented to this trial contract so we’re going to do the best we can to make the most of this situation.” Heidi turned to Anthony as though unaware of the icy drop in Roseâtre’s regard. “We’ll add extra rehearsal time so Roseâtre and her cat can get used to each other.”
We will? Incredulous, Roseâtre could barely pull her eyes away from Anthony to look at the stage manager. “More rehearsals?” Tired of holding her hand out to the air, she let it drop.
“Absolutely.” Heidi nodded briskly, clapping her hands and striding away to gather the dancers, completely ignoring the cats with the poise of one who was likely more dangerous than the wild animals. “Ladies!”
Cerveau stood next to Kiki, Peppermint and Amber, the question in her expression obvious, but Roseâtre shook her head, waving her off with one short hand gesture. She didn’t need backup.
“So what’s your problem with cats, princess?” The words shivered up her spine. Anthony’s voice prowled behind her, his body heat brushing against her in challenge and invitation.
“Does it matter?”
She didn’t have to play nice. The bastard couldn’t be bothered to shake her hand.
“It might. You’re going to be riding my tiger every night for the next three months.” The words dripped with mockery and some other indefinable emotion.
Roseâtre shifted away, sparing him a dismissive look. She’d practiced the art of cool disdain for years under her mother’s tutelage. He might call her princess in his low, rolling sexy voice as a jest, but it didn’t make it any less true.
“What’s the problem now, princess?”
“You’re getting sarcasm on my shoes.” She lifted one, taking great care to inspect it.
Anthony threw his head back and laughed, a deep belly-trembling shout of amusement.
The noise drew the dancers’ attention like children to free chocolate. Cerveau’s face twisted comically, a mixture of censure and curiosity reddening her cheeks. She wouldn’t approve the tone, but she would appreciate the cause.
“You still haven’t told me why you don’t like my cats.”
“They’re cats.”
“Cats are magnificent, bold and affectionate creatures. They are slow to trust, but have unshakable loyalty.”
“Until you’re dead and then they just eat your corpse.” She shuddered.
He laughed again. “You don’t need your body when you’re dead.”
She was missing everything Heidi was saying to the other dancers. Clearly, the stage manager didn’t care because she wasn’t even looking in Roseâtre’s direction, much less shooting her with her optic laser beams of impatience.
“I’d rather my body was undisturbed, thank you very much. The idea of anything feasting after I’m dead is unappealing.” Not to mention sacrilegious. A warrior’s death should be honored with blades and flame, never teeth.
Or, the gods forbid, a hairball. Roseâtre grimaced.
“Would you prefer they do it while you’re alive?” The silken whisper brushed against her ear. Tingles raced over her skin from the sweep of his beard on her cheek.
Heart leaping, Roseâtre barely managed to suppress her startled scream and settled for smacking his chest. The hard muscles didn’t even budge as her hand made contact, leaving a vivid, white mark against the golden tan.
“You really need to stop doing that.” Enough is enough. The man might be here at Heidi's request or the Overseers', but his job was to deal with the damn cats.
“Stop what?” The mock innocence coating his teasing grin reminded her more of the tiger yawning than it did a conciliatory gesture.
“Invading my bubble.” She rolled her hand in the air between them. “You haven’t been invited into my bubble.”
The coolness in his gaze warmed considerably, his grin widened. He was obviously enjoying the hell out of her irritation.
“How does one get invited into your bubble?” He batted the air in front of her, a downright playful gesture that sank its claws into her belly.
Nope. Not going to be turned on.
Thanks to Heather Long for visiting! Love the excerpts (new favorite line--"Oh my. Who did he kill to get those abs?" :) Looking forward to August 13's Taking the Stage release!
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