Paranormal
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MARKED BY PASSION—February 2009
"Gabrielle Sansouci Chin?"
I froze. In the twelve years I'd been bartending at The Pour House, no one had ever called me anything but Gabe, much less pronounced Sansouci correctly—sahn-soo-si—with a French accent to boot. But what startled me most was the use of Chin, the last name I'd dropped fifteen years ago.
Eyes narrowed, I stopped stocking the refrigerator behind the bar and turned around. A tall hulk of a man stood on the other side of the counter with a package in his hand.
It had to be the contract—I wasn't expecting any other deliveries. My stomach lurched as I stared at the thin box. Probably nerves.
I looked at the guy again. He was more well-groomed than your typical deliveryman. Custom suit and manicured nails. More like Lloyd's of London than FedEx. Weird for a courier. Gallery 415 must employ a higher quality service than most.
His brow furrowed. "Are you Gabrielle Sansouci Chin?"
"Yeah, I'm Gabrielle." How did the gallery know my real last name? I only went by Sansouci, my mother's maiden name. Whatever. As long as they sold my paintings, they could call me whatever they liked—even Chin.
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CHOSEN BY DESIRE—October 2009
Taking care to hide himself, Max watched the tour group emerge from the archives room. In his seven years there, he'd grown accustomed to the daily onslaught of tourists, but something about the blonde drew him.
She had the face of a cherub with big brown eyes, creamy skin, and rosy cheeks. Her strawberry blond hair made a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. He watched as she undid the ponytail to release a mass of curls that bounced onto her shoulders and into her face. The embodiment of innocence.
Except for her bowed lips. Her lips were pure sin.
But the innocence was a ruse. He stilled, feeling waves of elemental energy emanating from her. The way she clutched her bag to her side like it contained precious treasure confirmed what he already felt.
She'd taken The Book of Water...
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TEMPTED BY FATE—2010
Twenty Years Ago...
A flute shrilled-one sharp note of warning.
Willow looked up from the piece of wood she was carving. Mama's flute. Their danger signal.
Dropping her knife and the half finished tiger, she ran down the dirt lane, back to the little house they'd been living in for the past few months.
They'd lived there before-a long time ago. Mama said Willow couldn't really remember, that she was too young back then. But she remembered. She remembered it because back then Mama used to cry a lot.
She ran faster.