I’m delighted to announce I’ve signed a contract with Ellora’s Cave for GUILTY AS SIN, #4 in the Phoenix Rising series! Wings and tails and a bad-boy thief. Heh, heh, the feathers are gonna fly! No edits as yet, no cover and no release date, but I’ll let you know as soon as I have more information. Keep watching my website for a longer excerpt.

So…

Here’s a little more about the book and a sneak peek. (BTW, Fledge, Mirry and Jan make a couple of appearances and Griff and Fort pop in.)

Michael’s bad, bad, bad - all the way to the bone. A single heated encounter with the master thief and level-headed Liseriel the Gray has never been so furious - so intrigued - in her life.
Neither has Michael. Danger’s always been his drug of choice.
With his huge bronze wings and sweet serious smile, Daxariel the Burnished is everything the thief is not—a shining spirit and an honest soul.
Lise and Dax are both so godsbedamned good, Michael can’t wait to debauch and defile, to make his Aetherii beg. It’s the only way he knows to win—and win he must, because there’s something about wings and tails and trust freely given that has him reeling.
Exquisitely trapped between wicked temptation and steadfast love, everything Lise believed about duty is dust on the wind. How can she crave two men, different as night and day?
When the three are thrown together to rescue a group of slum kids from Hssrda slavers, someone’s going to get caught. Who will it be?

Ah, that Michael, I keep seeing him with a black leather jacket and a big purring motor bike. Shame Phoenix is a sword and sorcery world!

Excerpt:

The Prince’s Palace, Sere

She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a pretty man - or one more accomplished. Vastly entertained, Liseriel the Gray stepped deeper into the shadows and folded her arms, watching him flirt with a plump matron encased in gold-shot velvet while his eyes carried on an entirely different conversation with her bulky, four-square husband.

This was the master thief Jan had spoken of, she was sure of it.

Michael.

That was all they knew of him, his name. And that he’d been an assassin once. Her lip curled. Likely he still was.

Brilliant. Light-fingered. Deadly.

“You’re the most observant person I know,” Jan had said. “All our intelligence indicates he’ll be at the Prince’s birthday celebration tonight. He won’t be able to resist. He has expensive tastes, this Michael.”

His hard mouth had curved without humor.”Find him for me, Lise. The Prince has finally lowered himself to ask the Winged Envoy for help. It’s an important breakthrough in the trade negotiations.”

As Head of Security, Janarnavriel the Noir was the Winged Envoy’s to command, and for his second officer, Jan’s word was law. So Lise had merely nodded in her usual cool manner, concealing her pleasure at the offhand compliment.

Which was why she was currently lurking in a window embrasure in the main ballroom of the Palace, her gray wings furled about her like a cloak of shadows and her tail curled neatly around one booted calf, watching the Grounded flirt and plot and drink themselves insensible at the Prince’s expense. The Aetherii were by nature a spectacular race, still enough of a novelty in the mountain city of Sere to bring passersby to a dead halt in the steep cobbled streets, mouths open, but Lise prided herself on her ability to be unobtrusive. It was as much her stock in trade as her eye for detail and her hard-won warrior skills.

The man appeared to be a gilded youth, the line of his jaw clean and beautiful, his hair a thick golden blond that gleamed with health. Lise narrowed her eyes. A wig, but a very good one. Human hair, she judged. There were rings flashing on his slender fingers, sapphire drops in his ear lobes. He’d spared no expense, she had to give him that. A perfect little lordling, and all in excellent taste. So what if she could see the hard disks of his nipples beneath the ultra-fine silk of his shirt? Or if the merchant was darting discreet glances at the taut ass cupped so lovingly by the satin breeches required by court etiquette?

Michael was wearing makeup, expertly applied - not unusual for men at the Sereian court. Coupled with the classical purity of his features, the fine elegant shape of cheek and nose and skull, it gave him a disturbingly androgynous air. He looked… She had to think about it…

Available. Deliciously, dangerously available.

He was deceptively lean. Lise measured the width of his shoulders and her gaze dropped to consider the muscle in his thigh. Oh yes, there was power there all right, coupled with perfect, almost unnatural control. His purpose kept him on a tight leash, this thief.

Her quarry detached himself from the merchant couple and drifted over to delight a group of half a dozen bright-eyed society ladies. With no little amusement, Lise observed the fluttering of lashes, the imperceptible tilt of their bodies toward him. They made a delightful picture, all youth and firm smooth flesh, colored silks and sparkling stones.

Lise’s brows drew together as Michael offered his arm to a dainty dark-haired piece wearing a small fortune in emeraldas. Green fire dripped from her ear lobes and flashed in her cleavage.

In the minstrels’ gallery, the orchestra struck up a fanfare and the Prince’s party paused in the vaulted entrance to acknowledge the spatter of polite applause. The Prince of Sere was respected, but not greatly loved. Lise watched his thin lips curl the slightest bit as he raised a languid hand in acknowledgement.

Rip the Veil, Michael had disappeared! Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the pale gleam of his golden head, passing through the tall carved doors out onto the dimly lit balcony, his palm resting lightly on the back of the girl’s waist.

By the gods, he was good! But so was she.

Fading back into the darkness, Lise stepped across the window sill. Half-spreading her wings, she drifted across the courtyard garden, no more than another shadow in the night. Small creatures froze instinctively, trembling with terror, as her shadow passed silently over their heads like a highhunter on the prowl. She glided to a gentle landing on a rustic path behind a thick bush, aware that all the small rustlings and squeakings had stopped.

Michael wasn’t pushing the pace, she noticed. The young woman’s hand rested lightly in the crook of his arm, her skirts frothing over the steps as the couple descended the curving stair down to the short swathe of velvet lawn. They looked pretty together - as if they were meant to be - the blond head bent attentively toward the dark.

He slowed to a halt as they reached the path. “The stars are beautiful tonight,” Lise heard him murmur. “Look.” With gentle fingers, he tilted the girl’s chin up, brushing a cascade of ringlets back behind her ear as he did so.

In that, he was right enough. Lise glanced up at the Veil of the night sky. The single moon of Phoenix shone like the thinnest of sickles, sharpened to a razor’s edge. Over its shoulder, glittered a scatter of pinpricks - what the Grounded liked to call stars. To the Aetherii, they were rents in the Tattered Veil, glimpses of the all-consuming fire that was the primeval cosmos.

Michael indicated a small gazebo, situated a few yards farther on down the path and bowered in an exquisitely perfumed climbing vine. The blooms shone like tiny ghostly faces.

“Come sit with me a moment.” His voice was a light, beguiling tenor, full of warmth and promises unspoken.

The young woman tilted her head back, her profile perfectly presented to his gaze. “Sit?” Her gurgle of laughter was throaty, enticing. “Is that what you call it?”

 Keep well and happy!

It’s been a looong time coming, but The Lone Warrior is finally here! As in - tomorrow, 3rd May. YEEHAH!!!!!!!!!! There’s happy dancin’ at Rossetti Towers. *bwg* The dynamic between Walker and Mehcredi is delicious. I absolutely love it. He’s so deadly and she’s so…oblivious. 

Go in the draw to win a signed copy  by leaving a comment. contest closes midnight, Saturday 7th May, and I’ll announce the winner on this blog and my website.

“In this poignant story about the rise of a young woman who suffered injustice, Rossetti’s heroine is thoroughly captivating.  You’ll want her to get everything in life that she wants and deserves.  And for the paranormal romance lovers who are as serous about worldbuilding and imagination as they are about romance, The Lone Warrior will not disappoint.” ~ Romantic Times

She was dead, gone from him forever. And all for the life of a puny girl child.

“Show me,” said the baron of Lonefell Keep.

Shaking with terror, the midwife placed a small warm bundle in his arms. Reflexively, he tightened his grip and the babe squirmed, mewling. The baron stared down at the skin of her cheek, palest ivory and roses, and examined the slender fingers and long bones. Then he looked for an endless time at the body of the tiny, olive-skinned woman lying twisted among the bloodied sheets. She had been his cousin, and there was a strong resemblance between them.

Finally, he lifted his gaze to the window. Outside, in the barrack square, his sergeant of the guard drilled Lonefell’s soldiers. The man had journeyed an unimaginable distance from the far north to join the baron’s service. A light breeze fondled his long braids, so fair as to be almost white. Sunlight caressed broad shoulders and long, straight limbs.

A film of ice formed over the baron’s heart, for he had been foolish enough to love his pretty young wife.

He thrust the child at the trembling midwife and ripped open the door. His captain stood outside, awaiting his lord’s pleasure. With a jerk of his chin, the baron drew the man to him. “Kill the northern barbarian!”

When the man’s face went slack with shock, he snarled, “Now!”

He strode away without a backward look, dismissing the child from his mind and his life.

After a week, the midwife, nonplussed, named the babe Mehcredi, for that had been her sister’s name. Then she handed the infant over to a passing maidservant and departed. The squalling bundle passed from one exasperated maid to another until one more ruthless than the others set the child aside in a distant storeroom. She considered it a politic move, for after all, hadn’t the baron made his disinterest clear? In any case, the life of a single girl child was a cheap and easy thing.

Mehcredi would have died, save for the merest chance. A few days later, the keep’s laundress was brought to the bed of a stillborn son. That in itself was not such an unusual occurrence, but the loss affected the woman strangely. She fell into a deep melancholy, complicated by milk fever. By the time her best friend bethought herself of the abandoned babe, the child was almost too weak to suck.

But suck she did, with an avid desperation, and the washerwoman recovered. But the melancholy lingered like an evil spell. Mehcredi had reached the toddling stage when the woman drowned herself in one of the deep stone tubs in the laundry, her hair floating like weeds among the baron’s sheets.

The child grew wild and dirty, scavenging like a little animal, her fingers always clawed, ready to snatch, her strange, light eyes stretched wide. As the seasons passed, she shot up like a sturdy sapling, pale as a snow birch seeking the sun. No one spoke to her, save in passing. No one touched her, save for an absentminded buffet if she were underfoot.

Only fat old cook noticed the girl, for he loved to see a body eat and Mehcredi inhaled anything he gave her, in any amount, at any time. She haunted the cavernous kitchen, for there it was warm and she could fill the emptiness inside her. But all she did was grow—and grow and grow—her long limbs straight and true, her shoulders square and well set.

The laughter of the castle children excited her almost unbearably, but they interacted according to unwritten rules she had no hope of understanding. On the rare occasions she was permitted to join in, something always went wrong, though she was never able to pin down what it was. Baffled, angry and hurt, she’d stand like a lump while the little ones pointed and complained and the older children jeered.

Chewing her thumb, she lurked in the shadows, a tall, pale wraith, staring, always staring. More than once, she pushed or kicked a smaller child, so she could watch with greedy eyes when it ran to its mother and was comforted. She had to blink back the tears every time, though she could never work out where they came from or why—or even prevent them in the first place. With a defiant sniff, she’d stamp off to the kitchens and swipe a pastry.

By the time she had breasts and a woman’s hips, Mehcredi was already taller than most men, monosyllabic and sullen. A few years later, when she stood at Cook’s graveside, she was six feet in height, her strange silver eyes shielded by thick, light brown lashes. A tangle of ice-pale hair straggled down her broad back, almost as far as the swell of her buttocks.

Before dawn the following morning, she crept into the baron’s study, levered open the lock on his treasure box and took what she thought she was owed simply for surviving . Without a word, she hauled herself onto one of the castle’s grain wagons, heading for market in Caracole of the Leaves. By first light, she was long gone.

Mehcredi discovered, rather to her surprise, that she liked Caracole, that city of sea canals and shining white towers and smiling vice, a far cry from the silence and cold unyielding stone of Lonefell Keep. When she sat idle, watching the summer breeze play chase and kiss with the blue wavelets in the canals, strange thoughts drifted into her head, tantalizing fragments of meaning hovering just beyond her grasp, eluding her by the smallest of margins. Skiffs and barges floated by, the people on board talking, laughing, arguing, or sitting in comfortable silence with their arms around each other.

She’d hoped it might be different here, away from the keep, but it wasn’t. She didn’t know how to do any of the things other folk did so naturally. When she tried, they looked at her sidelong—or worse, they laughed outright and turned away.

As if life were a cruel game and they had all the pieces, while she’d been robbed of hers before birth.

After a week of increasing frustration, grief and fury, Mehcredi betook herself and the baron’s gold to the House of the Assassins. The Lonefell soldiers made the sign of the Sibling Moons every time the place was mentioned, half in awed admiration, half in horror. If they were impressed, so was she. She thought no more deeply than that, like a child who only comprehends enough of the world to want what it wants.

Those who had the power of life and death controlled the pieces and the board, and therefore the game itself. Or so she reasoned.

CHAPTER ONE

Caracole, Queendom of the Isles
Palimpsest

Death padded in pursuit, slipping through the double shadows without a sound. Like the worst nightmare Mehcredi could imagine, except this was all too horribly real. How much longer she could elude him, the man with the hunter’s face? Panting, she glanced over her shoulder at the dark figure pacing behind. As he drifted from one patch of shadow to the next, something pale gleamed where the light of the Sibling Moons tangled in his black hair. Feathers worked into a long braid, and . . . bones?

Were they finger bones?

The shock thrilled down her nerves, making her head swim and her vision blur, but her long legs carried her away at a swift, stumbling run, lurching down a narrow alley, deeper into the reeking slum the people of Caracole called the Melting Pot. Turning to fight never entered her head. Gods, she’d barely scraped through the First Circle tests as it was, and her first real commission for the Guild of Assassins had been an unqualified disaster. No, she wouldn’t have a chance.

She couldn’t hear his footfall, couldn’t detect any movement, but his presence behind her was a tangible force. Every cell in her body sensed him with the animal instinct of the hunted—his predatory focus, the grim relish with which he anticipated her death. From her left came the frantic click of claws on the cobbles, a soft whining noise. That damn dog! She might as well wave a flaming torch above her head and be done with it.

“Get lost,” she hissed, glancing around for something to throw. “Scat!” But the little animal only skittered aside, continuing to flank her.

Mehcredi twisted and doubled back. One hand pressed to the stitch in her side, she reeled around a corner and inevitably, there he stood, waiting—pitiless. He wasn’t a great deal taller than she was, but much broader. Lithe and strong and graceful, where she was long-boned and clumsy and doomed.

She opened her mouth to shriek, to plead, but long-fingered hands fastened around her throat. As he slowly increased the pressure, digging painfully into the soft flesh under her jaw, the man smiled, lips pulling back from white teeth. The expression gave him an eerie, chilling beauty. He could have been an avenging angel or a handsome demon. Either way, those elegant brutal hands were the sure instruments of her death.

Read the rest of the first chapter…

Amazon | Barnes & Noble
Australian Bookstores

 Keep well and happy!

Here it is - free on my website - a vignette with Griff and Fort from Strongman. Ah, I love those two! What can Griff give Fort as a Natal Day present when he’s already handed the big man his heart and soul? All in one pdf file.

Here’s a taste, followed by the link.

***

Almost a year.

Griff glanced across the interior of the lamplit van as Fort ran a hand through his hair for what had to be the hundredth time. He was glaring down at the papers spread across the table, the end of an ink brush clamped firmly between his teeth. Gods, he had no idea what he looked like, not even now, after Griff had told him Twister knew how many times. Big and tough and oh-so-serious. Not handsome, not by any stretch, but with his own rough beauty.

Griff’s chest went tight. Blinking rapidly, he drained the last of his Aetherian brandy. And all his, since that day in the hidden valley, almost a year ago. Some sort of celebration was definitely in order, but what?

Fort frowned more ferociously than ever, one big finger running down a column of figures.

“You need spectacles,” said Griff absently.

Fort’s head jerked up. “Nonsense.”

Griff lay back against the pillows and grinned. Fort’s bark was worse than his bite and to be honest, he had no objection to either. “Then why are you squinting?”

“Am not,” said Fort automatically, but his storm-gray gaze skimmed over the other man’s body in the skintight costume, lingering on Griff’s fingers, drumming casually on one muscled thigh.

***

Read it! Celebration: A Strongman Vignette

***

Read the first chapter

Read the Reviews | Read the free Epilogue

Ebook: Ellora’s Cave

 Print: Ellora’s Cave | Australian Bookstores

Remember that the free epilogue (all 30 pages of it) is only available if you subscribe to my monthly newsletter.  Enjoy, my dears!And let me know what you think, okay?  All feedback is welcome.

An era is over. Yes, Rackety Kate and the Pirates has finally come to an end. I know, I can’t believe it either. Kate has been with us since September 2007. More than two years. Wow! That’s a while to wait for your HEA and Kate was never exactly the patient type. *grin*

This last one is a bumper chapter - much longer than normal. I found that once I started I felt even meaner than usual about breaking off on a cliff-hanger. Especially for poor Jack. He’s had a rough time. Aw…

But before you dive in…

THANKS!

Thanks for your taking this journey with Kate and Jack and I, and for challenging my imagination by voting on what happens next. You’ve kept me on my toes! Lord, it’s been fun. *smile*

All the chapters are up on my website, but the complete ebook of Rackety Kate and the Pirates comes in at more than 55,000 words, 29 chapters in all. Not bad for free, hmm? It’s my exclusive gift to newsletter subscribers. Sign up here.

So what will I be doing instead? Writing my socks off, that’s what! Not being tied to a regular episode of Kate frees me up wonderfully. I’m about halfway through Book #3, the ‘Earth” book, in the Four-Sided Pentacle series and having a seriously good time. Mehcredi is currently driving Walker slowly but surely out of his mind. *heh heh*

Plus, I’ll be creating vignettes for you, glimpses of characters you already know, not every month, but about every quarter. I already have half of a Griff and Fort scene, in which Griff is trying to decide how best to celebrate Fort’s natal day - if they can work out when it is. Lots of scope for Griff-type wickedness there. *chuckle* I’ll let you know.

Here you go, my dears. Read on with my love…

Rackety Kate and the Pirates

Chapter 29

Endings and Beginnings

The story so far:
Kate is a surprised but delighted witness to the Comte’s Happy Ending with the Hormone Harlots. Tearing herself away, she rushes back to the boardroom to find…

You can read all of Kate here – http://www.deniserossetti.com/kate.html

From inside the boardroom came the rumble of masculine voices. A man laughed. It wasn’t Jack. God, she wasn’t ready for this. Kate tugged at the jacket of her nicely fitted lawyer suit. She glanced down. Buttons buttoned, shirt points still crisp, skirt smooth over her hips. She was even wearing matching bra and panties - she hoped.

You’re not mad, she told herself. The Comte is real, the Hormone Harlots are real. Her breath caught. Boy, are they ever! Taking a firm grip on her case folder and notebook, she straightened her spine. Therefore, Jack must…

Oh, shit.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound echoed softly down the corridor. Shazelle, of course. Had to be. Tap, tap, tappity…TAP! Or possibly not.

A little reassured, Kate gripped the door handle in sweaty fingers. Now.

She threw the door open and took a single step into the room.

Five heads turned toward her, five pairs of eyes surveyed her trim form with deep masculine appreciation.

Kate stared back, frozen.

Her eyes met Jack’s. He was seated in a large leather chair at the far end of the table, his hands resting on its arms, every inch a corporate pirate. He was clean-shaven now, but the russet brown hair was just the same, expertly cut to showcase its thickness and health. The gold shot hazel of his eyes still reminded her of a tiger’s gaze, intent and predatory. His suit jacket had been tossed aside, his sleeves rolled up to show strong forearms, an expensive looking gold watch on one wrist. His tie was little askew, as if he’d been tugging at it.

STRONGMAN is in print!!! Hallelujah!!! Can you believe it? I cannot tell you how delighted I am. Perhaps you can guess, hmm? *chuckle*

To celebrate, I’m giving away a signed copy. Yep, anyone who subscribes to my newsletter before midnight Sunday 25th April goes in the draw to win. Existing subscribers already have an easy contest to try, so if you subscribe quick, you’ll have two chances.

   Sign up!      Sign up!       Sign up!

Just so you know, I started the year with a completely revamped monthly newsletter. The format is all new and nifty, no more clunky old Yahoo!

Every month in your inbox - giveaways, exclusive sneak peeks at new work, contests and prizes. Not to mention the occasional vignette with characters you know, and hopefully, love.

And because I love you, there are free gifts on joining, among them the complete Epilogue to Strongman - only available to newsletter subscribers.

Read an Excerpt | Read the Reviews
Read the free Epilogue

Ebook: Ellora’s Cave
Print: Ellora’s Cave | Australian Bookstores

Here’s a taste to celebrate. I still think this is one of the best kisses I’ve ever written. I know I enjoyed it anyway.

About the Book:

A hard-bitten mercenary who’s had a gutful of mud and blood and death, Fortitude McLaren joins the Ten Nations Fair as a roustabout.
Tough, cold and competent, he’s shocked and angered by his hunger for Griff, a circus acrobat. Brought up in the bigoted society of the Straight Church, Fort regards manlove with casual contempt. Not for him. Never for him.
Athletic, cocky and single-minded about he wants, Griff sets about getting it. Fort fights with everything in him, but Griff affects him like no one else. It’s not just his strong, supple body. Fort is irresistibly drawn by the openhearted friendship the other man offers so freely.
Fort may have found a friend, but the cruel memories of his childhood are the greatest enemy of all. When a job for Jan the Aetherii puts Griff in danger, Fort discovers what’s really at risk - everything he is and everything he’s ever believed in. To save Griff’s life and preserve his own sanity, Fort must not only fight the battle in his soul, he must win it.

Excerpt:

Griff wiped his mouth with the damp cloth Fort handed him, careful not to get grease on his costume. Sourly, Fort reflected it had obviously been designed to showcase and flaunt the body, with a standing collar to frame the tumbler’s lively face, the smooth, strong muscles of his shoulders and arms exposed by the singlet-style top. Golden-brown hair curled rakishly over his brow, tumbled over the collar. It needed cutting. A light mat of hair furred his chest, golden down dusted his forearms, glinting in the lamplight.

The tights were so positively, gloriously indecent, Fort had to keep dragging his gaze back to Griff’s knowing eyes. He could swear the other man was laughing at him, completely unabashed by the outline of a more-than-adequate cock stretching the knit fabric, clamped against his flat belly by the material.

“So the deep-fish pie was all right?” inquired Griff politely. “I wasn’t sure, but Ember loves me, so I begged for noodle cakes as well.”

Fort frowned from where he sat on the edge of the bed, the shaving lather drying on his face. He’d bolted the food, made them a cup of hot roberry, keen to finish the job and get rid of Griff’s confusing presence. He tightened his grip on the razor. “She loves you?”

“Sure.” Griff grinned. “All women love me. It’s part of my peculiar charm.” He blew on his roberry.

“Peculiar is right,” grunted Fort, grimacing as he scraped. “Who’s Ember?”

“The glass-blower. Makes all sorts of baubles. And she can cook.” Griff sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Immediately, it tumbled back over his forehead. “She’s a lovely woman, but so sad. And she won’t tell me why.”

“Some people actually have dignity, reserve.” Fort pulled the skin of his cheek taut. “You wouldn’t understand that.” The razor whispered over it, leaving a chill in its wake.

“Mmm. But everyone needs someone to love.” Griff drained his cup.

Fort laid down the razor. “To fuck, you mean.”

“That too.” Griff examined his features so boldly, a wave of heat rolled through Fort’s belly, washing over his aching cock, his balls lifting in automatic response. The tumbler said, “You missed a bit.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Here, hold these. I’ll get it.” Griff thrust the shaving brush into Fort’s left hand and the soap dish into his right. “Lean back a bit.”

“Griff — oompf!” The tumbler clambered onto the bed and knelt across him, Fort’s thighs between his knees. He pushed Fort’s chest with the heel of his hand, and to his own bemusement, Fort felt his shoulders hit the wall behind him.

The chill of the razor iced across his neck. “Lift your chin and don’t move.”

His stomach knotting with apprehension and arousal, Fort did as he was bid. Controlling his problem absorbed his entire attention. So did the heat of the tumbler’s body, his clean scent, of soap and flesh and muscle. Nothing like a woman’s soft feminine smell.

A woman. Desperate for balance, for normalcy, he lassoed a random thought. “Can Katahaya really wrap her ankles around her ears?”

“Don’t know.” Humming under his breath, Griff drew the razor over Fort’s chin, one strong hand cradling his jaw, holding him still. “But she sure wrapped them around mine. Don’t move, I said!”

“You’ve had her? But I thought—”

“I only fuck men?”

This time, the flush felt like a fever. Fort knew he reddened, clear to see without the protection of the whiskers. He made an indeterminate noise in his throat.

“Then you’d be wrong,” said Griff calmly, but a drop of sweat coursed slowly down the side of his neck. “Usually, I prefer women. I’m making an exception for you.” Carefully, he ran the razor under Fort’s chin.

Fort could scarcely believe his ears. Or his reaction. The surge of his blood was so violent, it made him light-headed, stupid. When the other man drew back, running a considering thumb over freshly shaved skin, he said, “Gods, Griff, you’ve got balls.”

As soon as the words were out, he could have taken the razor and sliced his tongue off at the root. “I mean…ah, hell. Get off!” He heaved with his hips, but all that accomplished was to press his hungry cock against the tumbler’s hip.

Griff froze, exhaling in a gusty rush. “Not yet,” he said absently. He plucked the towel from around Fort’s neck and wiped away the last of the foam, taking his time, grinning when Fort swore at him. “There.”

He leaned back a little, his right hand braced on Fort’s shoulder, still holding the razor. “You look…” A slow flush crept over his golden cheek and his sloe eyes narrowed. “Uh, lots better. That’s how you look. Your eyes have gone all dark and smoky.” His hands clenched, closing over muscle and bone. “Fuck, I can’t do this slow anymore.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Remember the razor.”

Griff’s lips came down on his, surprisingly soft and hot. Gods, so hot!

The shock stiffened every muscle in Fort’s body. Especially one. In panic, he tried to jerk his head away, but Griff murmured, “Nu-uh,” into his mouth and something cold pressed under his ear. Shit, the razor! He froze and Griff chuckled.

When he opened his mouth to curse, Griff slipped his tongue inside, humming with delight. Hot chills raced up and down Fort’s spine and then Griff curled his tongue around his and the world went away, lost in some sort of soft red explosion of lust. His fingers relaxed and the soap dish bounced to the floor. The shaving brush followed with a wet splat. Dimly, he heard a clatter as Griff tossed the razor aside, but he was completely preoccupied with the amazing sensations careering through his body. He’d never been kissed like this before, with such strength and ruthless expertise. Griff seemed to read his mind, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull, when to lick, when to suck.

Strong fingers speared into his hair, gripping the back of Fort’s skull, tilting his head for better access. Griff pressed hard into his body, chest to chest, his cock mashed into Fort’s stomach. He shifted his hips, enough that his stiff length rubbed all along Fort’s. The coarse fabric of Fort’s working trews rasped over the sensitive head of his cock, Griff’s shaft throbbing against his, right through two layers of clothing. The other man did it again.

Ruler God!

White-hot instinct obliterated conscious thought. Rearing up, Fort wrapped one arm around Griff’s waist, the other around his shoulders. He took them down to the mattress, rolling so the other man was pinned beneath him, taking advantage of his weight and size. Bracketing Griff’s head between his forearms, he nipped at his lips, ran his tongue over the tumbler’s crooked tooth, growling deep in his throat.

Griff growled back and one hand clamped on Fort’s buttock, the fingers digging in hard.

The sound of it, so deep, so masculine, hit Fort like a shower of cold water. Fuck, fuck! What the hell was he doing?

He wrenched himself away. Panting, they stared at each other.

Fort’s head felt curiously empty, wiped clean of coherent thought. Finally, he said, “You’re shaking.” He’d get up in a minute, of course he would, but Griff had spread his thighs to accommodate his hips and he wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Not physically, anyway.

“That’s because you’re going to kill me. But I’ll die reasonably happy.”

Strangely, Fort had to fight the desire to laugh, though the fact there was no air left in the wagon made it easier. “Only reasonably?”

“One lousy kiss isn’t worth dying for.”

Fort blinked, stung. “It wasn’t lousy!”

“We can do better.” Griff smiled like a hungry fellwolf and ran his hand into the open neck of Fort’s shirt, the pads of his fingers brushing a nipple. Fort could have sworn the tingle coursed all the way from his chest down to his toes, with a significant detour to the groin area. Under him, Griff murmured, “Care to try again?” sworn the tingle coursed all the way from his chest down to his toes, with a significant detour to the groin area. Under him, Griff murmured, “Care to try again?”

Read the first chapter | Read the Reviews
Read the free Epilogue

Ebook: Ellora’s Cave
Print: Ellora’s Cave | Australian Bookstores

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Rackety Kate and the Pirates

Chapter 28

Firm Hands

The story so far:
To Kate’s astonished relief, the Hormone Harlots step in and take control of the entire situation. In fact, they seem to wield an extraordinary degree of control over the wicked Comte de Nothos. Talk about a firm hand!

You can read all of Kate here – http://www.deniserossetti.com

Kate gripped the phone so hard, the plastic creaked. Her head spun. “Jack,” she croaked at the Hormone Harlots. “Jack’s in my office, he’s—”

Ess turned her pretty head. “Do you trust us, Kate?”

Gulping, Kate nodded.

“This won’t take long.” She shot a sideways glance at the Comte’s pale, brutally handsome face and sighed. “Unless we’ve miscalculated. It’ll all be fine, I promise. Tell them you’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“I’m with…with the client, Shazelle,” said Kate into the phone. “Just finishing him off. I mean— Hell, say to Mr Cavanagh, another half hour, okay? Don’t let him leave.”

“I’ll try,” said Shazelle doubtfully. “Hope you know what you’re doing, Kate.” She rang off.

Tess’s grin it looked a little ragged ’round the edges. “So we’re cool. We got our witness. Do it,” she said to her sister.

Ess pushed a stray wisp of hair off her forehead. Her fingers trembled.

What the—?

The Comte frowned down at her, his dark brows knitted.

***

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Rackety Kate and the Pirates

Chapter 27

Punishment Is its Own Reward

The story so far:
To her astonishment, Kate discovers that she’s been retained as counsel by the Comte de Nothos — in an action against Cavanagh Enterprises. Legally, The Comte’s position is untenable, but he’s refusing to budge. If he won’t listen to Kate, who will he listen to?

You can read all of Kate here – http://www.deniserossetti.com/kate.html

Kate leaned back in her chair, putting on her poker face. “You know who,” she said. “The Hormone Harlots.”

The Comte glared. His face, already pale, went the colour of finest alabaster. “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about,” he said in a voice like ice. “I’m instructing you to pursue the action against Jack Cavanagh, Ms O’Reilly.”

Shit, it wasn’t working. Come on, Rossetti, thought Kate. You can write smut for the discerning anytime. I need you right now.

“You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell,” she said. If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might have missed it, but the Comte’s lashes flickered. Kate leaned forward, intent. “I like to win, Comte,” she said. “Not piss off the judge and waste the court’s time.”

Very faintly, she heard a sound from somewhere deep in the building, or was it in her head? Tap, tap, tap.

Holding the Comte’s fathomless gaze, Kate licked her lips. Her heart hammered. “Did you hear that?”

The Comte shifted slightly in his high-backed chair. “This is an office, people work here.” he said.

In the distance, an elevator made a swooshing sound, then a bright ding! The low murmur of female voices drifted through the door, accompanied by the tap of heels, drawing closer.

A slow flush climbed out of the Comte’s collar, reaching his cheeks. Apart from that, however, he’d gone so still he could have sat for a portrait entitled Sex in a Suit.

“I’ll let them in, shall I?”

“No,” croaked the Comte. “I haven’t… They’ll…”

Ignoring him, Kate rose and flung the door open wide.

Arm in arm, Tess and Ess beamed at her. They looked just as she remembered them, except that Tess had purple and red streaks in her hair and a nose stud, while Ess was tricked out in a silk suit the colour of a dove’s breast, with a cream silk blouse and pearls.

“Heya, babe,” beamed Tess.

“Kate, dear,” smiled Ess.

***

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Welcome to the Laced with Desire cross-blog. 

This is our second ‘corset’ anthology together and we had such a blast with the Unlaced cross-blog, we decided to do it again.

This time, Jaci Burton, Jasmine Haynes, Joey W. Hill and I are talking about clothes - what they do (and don’t do!) for us. Yes, fashion disasters, unwise addictions, sex-kitten outfits - all is revealed. There are even a couple of pictures. Woot! (Possibly.)

Four authors, four blogs - four chances for free books. And it’s easy, just leave a comment. (Photographic evidence not required. heh heh) What’s not to love? Winners announced 9am EST (USA) Wednesday 3rd February.

Visit each of the blogs in turn to check out the giveaways from each author.I’m giving away a set - Unlaced AND Laced with Desire. If you happen to own them both already, I’m sure we can find something else.

I’ve put an easy link for you under each of our responses to the questions about clothes.

Here are the four questions  - 

1. What’s your most appalling shopping weakness, especially when it comes to clothes? Go to Jaci Burton’s blog. Giveaway - an advance review copy of her March release, Bound, Branded and Brazen.

2. What’s your most comfortable outfit and what do you enjoy doing most to relax? Go

to Jasmine Haynes’ blog. Giveaway - autographed copy of Yours for the Night.

 3. What’s your most sexy/naughty-feeling outfit? Go to Joey W. Hill’s blog. Giveaway - a signed copy of Laced with Desire.

4. What’s the outfit that gives you the most confidence? Read on! Giveaway - the set, Unlaced AND Laced with Desire.

Jaci Burton:

I have this sleeveless black dress that I adore. I can dress it up or down, wear a shirt under it if it’s cold outside or put a sweater over it. It’s multifunctional, looks great on me, I can wear heels or boots or flats with it, punk it up or class it up and it still looks great. Everyone should have a basic black dress they can do so many things with. It’ll make you feel great about yourself.

Visit Jaci’s blog for the shopping disasters and Jaci’s giveaway!

Excerpt from Jaci’s story, No Strings Attached.

Jasmine Haynes:

For confidence, I like a suit, feminine lines with a short tailored, form-fitting jacket and a skirt, either calf-length or well above the knee, never knee-length.  Under the suit, of course, very feminine lacy bra and barely there thong panties.  Thigh high stockings top it off.  Professional, feminine, and naughty all rolled into one.

Visit Jasmine’s blog for comfy clothes and Jasmine’s giveaway!

Excerpt from Jasmine’s story, La Petit Mort.

 Joey W. Hill:

That would be this dress. I wore it at the 2009 Romantic Times for the Jungle Party. Typical of an OCD personality type with body image issues, I don’t often feel gorgeous in anything, but I loved this dress. It had sexy lines, and flowed when I walked like I was a romance heroine come out of her chrysalis. It flattered hip line, maximized my minimal cleavage (grin), and had a whimsical flirtiness to it I adored. I found some great Wal-mart White Stag jewelry to go with it for almost nothing, and my mom, who went with me to RT, took this lovely near sunset picture. She was probably trying to commemorate the one time her daughter didn’t look like a bag lady!Of course, on the flip side, sometimes when I’m wearing my most comfortable outfit (see the question on Jasmine’s blog), that’s also when I feel most confident. That’s because it’s the outfit that says “this is the real me”, and there’s always a reassurance to that…as long as I don’t end up in the wrong environment for it. I remember one conference, I brought too many “comfortable clothes”, and when I went to one of the more formal events, I felt far from confident! So matching the setting to the outfit helps. However, when I’m at home and around town, I always feel quite confident in my comfy clothes. Though I think the sexy zebra dress would work anywhere (I plan to wear it to Wal-mart one day for fun – laughter).

Visit Joey’s blog for naughty/sexy outfits and Joey’s giveaway!

Excerpt from Joey’s story, Honor Bound.

Denise Rossetti:

I don’t mind admitting it - clothes are really important to my self-confidence. Feeling over or under dressed, badly groomed or untidy disconcerts me dreadfully. I suspect it’s shallow, but there you go.If I think my day at the Evil Day Job is going to be challenging, I’ll make a point of dressing from the skin out to bolster my confidence.

Matching undies first. Beyond that, I absolutely have to feel ‘put together’. I’m not a frilly or froufrou dresser, I like well-cut classics and a close fit. So it might be belted tailored trousers and shirt, with a jacket and discreet jewelry. I combine rich bright colours with neutrals because they give my skin a lift. Anything beige, dusty or muted and I could get work as an extra on Night of the Living Dead. LOL

I always wear my charm bracelet – I have a charm for every book I’ve written – because it reminds me of who I am and what I can do if I put my mind to it. (If you were wondering why the two silver inkpot/quill charms, they’re my Passionate Plume Awards.)

Excerpt from my story, Rhio’s Dancer.

Tell us about the outfit that makes you feel a million dollars. What’s so special about it?

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Rackety Kate and the Pirates

Chapter 26

Devious Plans

The knock came again. Kate glared at the door as if she could eviscerate the idiot on the other side. “For crying out loud, come in!” But all she could produce was a strained whisper, as if she’d been sobbing in her sleep. Which was ridiculous. Really.

Footsteps moved away, a voice murmuring something to the receptionist.

With a muttered oath, she sprang to her feet, knocked her hip on the corner of the desk and cursed even louder. Rubbing the sore spot, she wrenched the door open. At the far end of the corridor, the receptionist was reaching forward to take a pile of documents from a man with long blond hair, confined in a neat pony tail. He wore an elegantly tailored suit in a charcoal gray. Shazelle’s upturned face was a study in feminine appreciation.

Peter had had hair like that.

Ruthlessly, Kate slammed the lid down before the thought could take on a life of its own. She made a mental note to do a background check on the Rossetti woman. There had to be some dirt somewhere. Everyone had a dirty little secret.

“No problem,” Shazelle was saying, heavily mascaraed eyelashes fluttering like centipedes on speed. “I’ll see she gets them.”

The man murmured something in response that made the girl flush with pleasure. Straightening, he turned toward the foyer and the elevators, his lean body moving with compact grace. Fine, very fine, thought Kate, enjoying the scenery. Of course, Armani did tend to have that effect. The elevator swished open, the man entered, pressed the button and about-faced.

Holy shit.

Designer spectacles that magnified glorious sea-blue eyes, a straight nose, sexy mouth.

“Peter.” She thought she’d shouted, but the word got strangled in her throat.

He gave her a quick appreciative glance up and down, all male. But after a second, his grin stalled, a crease appearing between his brows. The doors of the elevator slid closed on his puzzled face.

“No, no!” She pounded at the `up’ button, almost sobbing with frustration. “Come back, come back!”

***

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Rackety Kate and the Pirates

Chapter 25

Bumps and Briefs

The story so far:
Duka and the Duchess, Harley and Chan, all disappear into the night, well-satisfied. Kate’s pretty happy too, cuddling up with Jack and dropping off into a happily exhausted sleep. If it wasn’t for the ominous tap, tap, tapping of the Rossetti woman’s keyboard…

You can read all of Kate here – http://www.deniserossetti.com/kate.html

Sometime during the night, Kate woke, tears streaming down her cheeks – even though she never cried. She couldn’t recall the substance of her dreams, but her arms and legs were twined about Jack’s sleeping form as if he were about to be torn from her. Over the regular soothing boom of the surf, she heard the sound she dreaded - tap, tap, tappity, tap. Stubbornly, she clung even harder.

“No,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I won’t leave him. You can’t make me.”

Tap, tap, tap. The sound sped up, the little clicks running together, merging into a long murmuring rush like tropical rain on the roof. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…

Kate’s eyelids drooped like lead shutters. She struggled. “Jack!” She shook his shoulder.

Jack opened one sleepy hazel eye. “Humpf?” he said.

“Hold onto me! Don’t let me go!”

“‘Course not.” Jack slid a warm, appreciative palm over the curve of Kate’s backside. “Never gonna…let…you…let…you…” His words trailed away and his lashes fluttered down.

“Jack? Jack!” When she tried to rouse him, he simply drew her closer, nuzzling the skin under her ear, mumbling unintelligibly. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was drunk. “Hate you, Rossetti,” she muttered. “Hate—” But she was overtaken by a jaw-cracking yawn. Her head swam, images flashing by beneath her eyelids – Duka, with the Duchess over his knee, her upraised bottom a delightful stinging pink; Peter, stretching up to release Tom Cavanagh’s bonds and Tom flushing brick red as he did it; Harley’s bad boy grin and dark tossing curls; the Comte de Nothos, his pale perfect body and shining pointy teeth. Then there was Jack – his tiger gaze, his body cradling hers as they floated in the jungle pool, his hard length buried as deep inside her as it would go. His kisses – hot and wet and searching, tender and coaxing.

Everyone she’d met on Sweet Sisters Isle had found their happiness, even Ess and Tess, the Hormone Harlots. There was nothing left for her to do – except love Jack for the rest of her life. Oh God. Nothing left to do. Nothing at all.

Each vision pulled her further into the dark velvet of unconsciousness, sleep cushioning her like a soft warm blanket, safe forever in Jack’s arms.

It was a lie. She wasn’t safe at all.

***

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