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Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Hallmark is Waiting for Me

As evident from this family photo of me and my three siblings, I was a big Christmas lover as a kid. ***Note. Hum Somewhere in My Memory from Home Alone as you read this.

From age three until not quite six, I lived in Taiwan with my parents and younger brother, John, where my mom and dad taught English at Tunghai University. Christmas gifts were hand-me-downs from other Missionary families, which John and I were ecstatic to receive. We knew no better than gently used toys, until our family returned to America and we discovered modern toy stores, television, and were bombarded with commercials. The stupendous merchandise wowed us, and we were ardent believers in everything Christmas.

My grandmother, called Mommom, prepared for the big day all year long and was a devotee of the holiday. She made Christmas a mystical blend of the Nativity and Santa Claus, which worked for me. The generous old guy in the red suit was equally devoted to Christmas and a great boon to a family with limited funds. However, I learned Santa could be touchy and kept a naughty list. I hoped he had absentmindedly omitted my name. Fortunately, I also learned the Christ Child forgave sins, and prayed Jesus gave Santa a heads-up on the forgiving Beth thing. A miracle transpired because I never got switches in my stocking as my ancestral Uncle Gus was said to have done. That horrifying tale struck fear into his descendants, and I was super good those last few days before Saint Nick's timely arrival.

Visiting Mommom and my aunt, uncle, and five cousins at the old Virginia homeplace for Christmas was like being part of a Hallmark movie. Nothing could match the wonder I experienced there as a child. My uncle even reported seeing reindeer hoof prints in the snow on the roof, and one year a jovial neighbor dressed up as Santa--I recognized him-- came to the house to delight us kids. I was concerned this facade might offend the REAL guy, and he'd stay away. But we heard the sleigh bells out in the meadow, as we did each Christmas Eve. The warning jingle sent us scrambling to bed before Santa's arrival, and inspired the title of my holiday romance, Somewhere the Bells Ring. The home in this ghostly time slip Christmas romance was also inspired by the homeplace pictured below. Built in 1816, Chapel Hill, as it's called, has been in the family for generations and is where I spent some magical holidays. 

(Virginia Family homeplace in the Shenandoah Valley)

With such fantastic childhood memories, Christmas as a bigger kid/adult was a bit of a letdown. Maybe it is for everyone. Christmas really belongs to children, but I still cherish it in my heart. As Scrooge says after hard lessons learned, "I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year." And so I do.

My mantle is perpetually decorated with angels and lights. Also a Dalek Supreme and the Tardis...a little random, I suppose. Still, it's festive year round. The holidays can be rather overwhelming. I try to keep our celebration simple but fun, especially for the small people in my life. I truly must love Christmas because I've written three romances with the holiday as a central theme and I'm pondering a fourth. Maybe with an angel in the story...I love angels. But not the weeping kind, thanks to the creepy ones in Doctor Who.
Don't blink.

 (My mantle)

(I especially love angels.)

Several years ago, my mother found a number of vintage Christmas cards in an old trunk. This marvelous find took us on a trip down memory lane, back to people who lived before I was born. I'm terrible about remembering to send cards, but these are great. I may have shared some of them before, but here's another look at a few. 

(Vintage Santa and a Norman Rockwell print on cards among Mom's finds.)

Somewhere the Bells Ring (Somewhere in Time)


December 1968: Caught with pot in her dorm room, Bailey Randolph is exiled to a relative's ancestral home in Virginia to straighten herself out. Banishment to Maple Hill is dismal, until a ghost appears requesting her help. Bailey is frightened but intrigued. Then her girlhood crush, Eric Burke, arrives and suddenly Maple Hill isn't so bad.
To Eric, wounded in Vietnam, his military career shattered, this homecoming feels no less like exile. But when he finds Bailey at Maple Hill, her fairy-like beauty gives him reason to hope--until she tells him about the ghost haunting the house. Then he wonders if her one experiment with pot has made her crazy.
As Bailey and Eric draw closer, he agrees to help her find a long-forgotten Christmas gift the ghost wants. But will the magic of Christmas be enough to make Eric believe--in Bailey and the ghost--before the Christmas bells ring?~
I really think Hallmark is waiting for me with this story.

From Romancing the Book: "Ms. Trissel captivates her reader from the moment you start reading the first page. She has written a compelling love story that spans some fifty plus years and keeps you entertained every step of the way with the story within a story...I fell in love with her characters and look forward to the next delightful story ready with Kleenex box in hand. A must read for every romance fan." ~Reviewed by Robin

Somewhere the Bells Ring is available in eBook from all online booksellers. Plus a smashing new audio version from Audible is out at Amazon. For the kindle and audio visit:  
(Tag from the earlier 20th century)

Friday, November 24, 2017

Favorite Holiday Cookie - Almond Lace Cookies

by Judy Ann Davis
It's time to think about holiday baking. Below is my very favorite cookies I learned to make in Sweden when I was an exchange student. It is a delicate, crispy but crunchy cookie that is worth the time to make. Many people prefer not to roll the cookies over a round object, but leave them to cool flat.

2/3 cup blanched almonds, ground

½ cup sugar
½ cup butter
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour4               
2 tablespoons milk
confectioners’ sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. 

Grease and flour large cookie sheet. Into a large skillet, measure all ingredients except confectioners’ sugar.

Cook over low heat, stirring, until butter is melted and mixture is blended. Keeping mixture warm over very low heat, drop 4 heaping teaspoonfuls, 2 inches apart, onto cookie sheet. Bake 5 minutes or until golden.

Remove cookie sheet from oven and, with pancake turner, quickly remove cookies, one by one, and roll around handle of a wooden spoon, or drape over a rolling pin. (If cookies get too hard to roll, reheat in oven a minute to soften.) 
Cool. Repeat until all batter is used, greasing and flouring cookie sheet each time. Lightly dust cookies with confectioners’ sugar. Makes about 2 1/2/ dozen cookies.

NOTE: Mixture will be hard to handle on humid days. 
~*~    ~*~   ~*~

Looking for a gift for the holiday season for the person who reads? My collection of eclectic short stories, "Up on the Roof and Other Stories, which was republished recently, might be a great choice. Available in paperback and eBook.

UP ON THE ROOF  Amazon Buy Link: 

                Visit her on: 
The web: 
Facebook: Judy Ann Davis Author 
Twitter: JudyAnnDavis4 
Pinterest: JudyAnnDavis44/ 
Author Page: Amazon Author Page 

Other Judy Ann Davis titles 
SWEET KISS [A Novella]


Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Does it Snow in Portugal During the Holiday Season?

By Josie Riviera

Feliz Natal means Merry Christmas in Portuguese!

I had such fun writing A Portuguese Christmas, my sweet romance contemporary novella. And, in turn, I learned a great deal about Portugal, and the country’s lack of snow during the holiday season.

The story is set in December. Krystal Walters, the heroine, is an American professional surfer, and is competing in Portugal during the holidays in a world-class surfing event. She misses the snow, and envisions returning to her home in wintry Rhode Island to celebrate Christmas with her father.
However, the average temperature in Portugal in December/January boasts a high of 59 degrees, with temperatures dipping to a low 46 degrees. So, snow is very rare, especially in the cities, such as Lisbon.

Through my research, I also learned that Portugal’s climate is diverse. The river Tejo runs through Lisbon, and any regions south are warm and dry, and reportedly it’s only snowed there once in twenty years.
Any regions north of the river are rainy and cold in winter.

Here’s the first cover of A Portuguese Christmas.

The hero, Adolfo, is an olive farmer, and, to me, the above hero didn’t look like a man who farms. Those of you who’ve heard me praise my wonderful cover artist, know I trust her judgement. However, in addition to a hero who didn’t fit my vision, she forgot one important thing. There’s no snow in Portugal!

However, I LOVE the hero on my current cover, which was unanimously approved by my reader’s group!

The moment world-class surfer Krystal disappears under a mountain of sea water, Adolfo’s single-minded focus shifts from running his Portuguese olive farm to keeping the sun-kissed American spitfire safe. But first he’ll have to convince her that spending Feliz Natal with him isn’t the end of the world. Because she’s become the center of his.

Do you like snow during the holiday season, or do you prefer warm, sunny weather?

Snag your copy of A Portuguese Christmas  on Amazon! At other e-retailers.
Also available on Audio and Paperback.

Josie Riviera is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author of contemporary, inspirational, and historical sweet romances that read like Hallmark movies. She lives in the Charlotte, NC, area with her wonderfully supportive husband. They share their home with an adorable Shih Tzu who constantly needs grooming and live in an old house forever needing renovations.

  Sign up for her blog and subscribe to her newsletter for a free ebook.

Monday, November 20, 2017

Dad's Pear Tree: His Legacy?

By Laurean Brooks

More than 30 years ago Dad transplanted a pear tree in the backyard. He was big on organic gardening, planting trees, bushes, nurturing them to watch them flourish. Ten years after we moved from Hickory Valley, Tennessee, he drove the110 miles back to dig up a fig bush he'd left behind. It now grows near the house in the backyard. The pear tree stands 30 yards away.

Daddy lived long enough to enjoy the figs, but passed away in the summer of 1980, years before the pear tree produced. I remember him fertilizing around it and wondering if his toil was for naught.

In the fall of 2011 during my weekly visit to Mom's, I gathered three large bags of the delicious fruit. Mom also called in friends and neighbors to share in the bounty. Still, innumerable pears hung from the tree and dozens were scattered beneath it.

After gathering the fruit that day, I set the heavy sacks on the table, then turned to my mother and asked,. "Do you think Daddy ever considered he might be leaving a legacy behind when he planted the pear tree? I wonder what he'd say if he knew people from miles around were coming with baskets to gather his pears."

She shrugged. "I don't know, but it has really produced the fruit this year.

"A gift that keeps on giving," to use the cliche'. My dad was a giver. He would be pleased to know he shared pears with his small community. Who can count the jars of preserves that have been made from that one tree?

This gave me food for thought. Does everyone leave a legacy behind? Whether we know it or not, something we say, or some act of kindness we show to another, could become a legacy. Who knows what kind word or deed will change another's life?

My fifth-grade teacher did not live long enough to learn she'd planted a dream in my heart when she announced to the class, "One day, Laurie will become an author."I never forgot her words, but thought it was an elusive dream. Even so, I hid them in my heart while I married, worked at a toilsome job, and raised a child. It took a few decades before I acted on her words. But I finally did.

My desire is for the words I write to become my legacy. My prayer is the something I've written will influence and encourage my readers in a positive way. The best compliment I could receive would be to hear a reader say, "Thank you. Your story helped me through a difficult time."

And I am blessed to have already heard those words from readers.
An update on the tree: The following year, 2012, was another bumper crop for the pears.  In August, before they ripened, we put Mom in an assisted living home. Nevertheless, neighbors and friends were invited to gather the pears when they came in, in October and November.

The mystery to me was, the next year the tree produced nothing. It was as if an unseen hand had watched over the tree throughout the years, providing those pears for Mom and the community. But when Mom went to assisted living, that same hand let the pear tree rest because she no longer needed them.

This cowboy is in for a surprise. So, this is his aunt's domestic help? What was in the ad Aunt Em placed in half a dozen papers? And why would a pretty woman travel from Hope, Arkansas to Abilene, Texas to fill a help wanted ad for household help? What is Carrie Franklin really after?

Saturday, November 18, 2017

A Recipe To Go With The Reads

Every family has a favorite recipe that has to be served on Thanksgiving and Christmas. We are right there with you.  Between the traditional  turkey and dressing or stuffing, depending on what area of the country you're from, there's that one special dish.

One we serve is a chocolate sheet cake with the most delicious icing that's poured over the hot cake. That chocolatey goodness glides over the tongue like butter. It's practically nirvana.

This recipe held a place in my first Christmas short story, A Santa for Christmas. I'm going to share it with you this year. Let me know if you try it and what you think. Wishing you a Happy Thanksgiving!


  2 c. flour
  2 c. sugar
  1/2 c. butter
  4 tbsp. cocoa
  1 c. water
  1/2 c. shortening
  1/2 c. buttermilk, yogurt or sour cream
  2 eggs, beaten
  1 tsp. vanilla
  1 tsp. baking soda
  1 tsp. cinnamon


  1/2 c. butter
  4 tbsp. cocoa
  6 tbsp. milk
  1 tsp. vanilla
  1 lb. box powdered sugar
  1 c. pecans, chopped (optional)

Combine flour and sugar. Bring butter, cocoa, water and
shortening to a boil in a saucepan (do not leave
unattended!) and then pour the mixture over flour and sugar,
beating well all the while.

Add buttermilk (you can substitute 1/2 cup milk with 2
teaspoons white vinegar), eggs, vanilla, soda and cinnamon.

Mix well and pour into greased and floured 9 x 13 pan.

Bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes.

Five minutes before the cake is done, melt together butter,
cocoa, milk and vanilla for icing.

Pour hot mixture over powdered sugar and beat. Stir in

Spread on cake while it is warm, as soon as it is taken from
the oven.

Good to take on picnics and trips. Keeps well and can be
served straight from the pan.
Don't forget to fill your ereader with a yummy story while you're filling your heart and your homes. 

 Buy Here

Tony Medina, star quarterback for a Texas NFL team, is on the brink of making a career changing, life altering decision. It just might take a miracle to get him back in his wife’s good graces and their house.
Karla Masters is a popular morning TV show host in San Antonio. Her personal life however, is lacking on all fronts. After she becomes a foster parent, there’s only one more item needed to bring them all together. If Christmas is the time for wishes and miracles, is there one left for her?


Thursday, November 16, 2017

Dead Heat: What Happens Next by @JoanReeves

My latest book Dead Heat was released Tuesday this week. Now I'm involved in post-release activities that have become a habit.

This "habit" began years ago when I was writing for a big publisher. I had a tight deadline so I did nothing but write for the last month. Everything else took a backseat to making that deadline.

Yikes! What a Mess

After the book was sent in, I breathed a sigh of relief and realized that everything was a mess. My office had stacks of paper all over a long table, mail was piled high, and I won't even go into the crumbs in the keyboard or the coffee rings on my desk.

I spent the next few days cleaning up my office and the rest of the house. Then I embarked on baking and cooking--much to the family's delight. (They also take a backseat when I'm writing under a deadline.)

What I Did Since Submitting Dead Heat

1. Slept 12 hours.

2. Called everyone I know to catch up.

3. Emailed the others I didn't get on the phone.

4. Cleaned up my office.

5. Cleaned the rest of the house.
Home didn't look this bad--but to my eyes, it was close!

6. Sat outside by the lake to decompress in this
gorgeous autumn weather we have in Texas.

7. Baked 2 dozen biscuits for Sunday brunch.

8. Bought one of those Power Pressure Cookers (PPC) you see on TV infomercials.

9. Proceeded to make BBQ Chicken in the PPC for lunch one day. (20 minutes!!!) Delicious.

10. De-constructed my office while hubby de-constructed his. (He's officially retired and has been turning down offers.) He wanted to turn his office into a home gym. Done. He took my desk from my office and set it up in the media room so he'd have a place to think and use his laptop.

11. Made Mac & Cheese in PPC (10 minutes) . Also delicious.

12. Together we cleaned out 3 file cabinets and threw the old papers into big garbage bags which we'll take to a commercial shredder tomorrow.

13. Did the laundry.

So good! Yum.
14. Baked a Pineapple Upside Down Cake.

15. Organized everything to the nth degree in my office after getting hubby's furniture set up.

16. Added all the names from Dead Heat to my Master Lists of Names, Businesses, etc.

17. Registered Copyright for Dead Heat.

18. Watched TV for fun, and also watched a documentary for research for my next book.

Those are just a few of the things I've done. I can look around at my clean home and not cringe now.

By the way, I guess I should mention that Dead Heat is only 99 cents until Nov. 21 so grab a copy today if edgy romantic suspense is your cup of tea. Here's an excerpt so you can sample this story which is Book 2 in the Outlaw Ridge, Texas, series. (Book 1: Heat Lightning will be free Friday, Nov. 17 if you'd like to grab it too.)

Dead Heat by Joan Reeves
Excerpt, Chapter 1

The only thing that saved Sabrina Snow was the too-sensitive car alarm on the twenty-year-old Renault Espace she’d bought when she’d arrived to France. One minute she’d been sound asleep, dreaming about blue skies, sunshine, and babies. The next, the wailing alarm on the old clunker’s ultra-sensitive alarm she’d had installed, split the night.

Adrenalin dumped into her bloodstream. Her internal timer kicked in.

One, one-thousand.

Sabrina didn’t hesitate or take a second to look out the window to see if a person or an animal had bumped against the car. She thrust her feet into her hiking boots, slapped the Velcro fasteners into place, and grabbed her Glock from the nightstand. Over the ululating siren, she heard men shouting—cursing in Albanian.

Two, one-thousand.

A few seconds is all it would take for someone with the right explosives to breach the old farmhouse’s heavy wooden door. Her combat knife was in its Kydex sheath strapped above her right ankle. A spare knife, along with a double-stack magazine for her Glock, was on a webbing belt around her waist.

Three, one-thousand.

She snagged her thermal coat from the doorknob on her way out of the room. Bare basics for escape and evasion were in the coat pockets even though she had that and more in her go-bag. She shoved her arms in the coat sleeves and zipped it as she raced downstairs.

Six, one-thousand.

She threw open the cellar door, leaped down the short flight of stairs, and headed for the hidden entrance to the tunnel.

Seven, one-thousand.

Desperation gave her strength and speed. She shoved aside the dusty pile of old carpet and broken furniture that hid the opening to the tunnel and crawled inside. The dank smell of earth that hadn’t been disturbed in decades filled her nose and created an anxiety of its own. She didn’t like tunnels or small spaces. She slid the straps of the go-bag she’d placed there—just in case—onto her back.

Ten, one-thousand.

Sabrina pulled the timer from beneath a pile of rags. She knew how much lead time she needed to reach the ladder at the other end. Her hands were steady as she set it to blow the charges she’d placed three feet inside the tunnel then she shoved the timer under the rags.

Twelve, one-thousand.

Her feet wanted to fly, but discipline forced her to replace the carefully-constructed camouflage that hid the tunnel opening. That might buy her another minute. Maybe two if the hit team wasn’t very good.

Fourteen, one-thousand.

The muffled boom of an explosion shook the old house. The front door had been blown. Dust drifted down from the tunnel ceiling. Her internal clock automatically switched to a countdown.

Three minutes to reach the other end of the tunnel and climb out.

With the Glock in her hand—just in case—Sabrina ran flat out, or as near to flat out as she could, given the height of the tunnel wasn’t made to accommodate her five feet ten inches.

When the charges exploded, there’d be nothing left of the ramshackle building, nor the earthen tunnel that had been dug by French resistance fighters in the Second World War, and she would be buried under more metric tons of dirt and rock than she wanted to calculate.

Two minutes and thirty seconds left.

In the past, she’d managed a six-minute mile when she’d been in peak condition. Not bad, considering the Russian woman who held the world record had done it in a bit more than four minutes. But she’d never aspired to breaking records—just staying alive.

Two minutes left.

Sabrina’s breathing was loud and fast. Too fast. She wished she could have tacked on an extra thirty seconds. She wasn’t in peak condition. Hadn’t been for more than two years. Even though the other end of the tunnel wasn’t quite a mile, she was cutting it close. The house wasn’t that large so it wouldn’t take that long for them to search it. She expected the hit team to get to the cellar right about now. Sooner if they were good—or reckless. If she were lucky, it would take seconds more for them to find the camouflaged opening to the tunnel.

Assuming they didn’t already know about it.

Sabrina pushed that thought to the back of her mind and focused on getting to the other end of the dark tunnel.

One minute and thirty seconds left.

She’d walked the tunnel enough times that she didn’t need a flashlight. The last time she’d had to run like this as if her life depended on it—which it did—was the last time Shaitan had sent a hit team for her.

One minute left.

A sharp pain bit into her side. She ignored it, gritted her teeth, and kept running. When she reached the ladder at the other end, she paused for a fraction of a second to draw in a big breath of the musty air. She’d have to increase the intensity of her workouts if she expected to stay alive. She dropped the Glock into her coat pocket and stepped onto the bottom rung of the rusty iron ladder and climbed up.

With her right hand, she groped around the square wooden frame buried in the hard packed dirt, searching for the crude wooden latch that secured the tunnel’s exit cover. A splinter rewarded her fumbling fingers, but she found the six-inch long chunk of wood. She gripped the handle, turned it, and pushed upward. The wooden hatch didn’t budge.

Thirty seconds left.

No! Not after all the preparations she’d made. Refusing to believe she was trapped in the tunnel, she pushed harder. Nothing. She removed the go-bag and held it in her right hand while she steadied herself with her left on the ladder. She climbed up another rung, until she was stooped below the hatch. She clung to the cold metal rung, bowed her back, and pushed up. Pain stabbed her back where it met the unyielding wood, but she kept pushing. The hatch shifted a little.

Twenty seconds left.

Despite the cold December night, Sabrina perspired. Something was blocking the exit. Encouraged by the small bit of movement she’d achieved, she stepped down, slung the go-bag on, pulled the straps tight, and repeated the movement, pushing upward with all her strength. She gave it everything she had.

Ten seconds left.

The wood creaked. Frantic now, she shoved even harder, groaning with the effort and ignoring the strain on her back and legs. A sliver of moonlight seeped into the dark space. Encouraged she pushed up, groaning with the effort, and created an opening large enough to get her arm out.

Time’s up.

The world exploded.

Instinctively, she grabbed hold of the ladder with both hands, lowered her head, and curved her body close, clinging to the cold metal ladder with both hands as it shook violently. She prayed that decades of rust hadn’t weakened the metal. Rocks and dirt clods rained down, but the tunnel at her end didn’t collapse.

Coughing, she pushed again at the exit hatch, increasing the size of the opening, providing enough illumination for her to see the dust cloud swirling toward her when she looked behind her. Breathing shallowly, she struggled out of the bag and shoved it through. Lungs burning, she pushed up with her back again and managed to enlarge the opening enough to squeeze through. She collapsed onto the damp forest floor, gulping in the cold fresh air. A paroxysm of coughing followed, stealing her breath away.

A long precious minute later, she steadied her breathing. The air was clean and scented by pine and smelled like freedom. Her arms and legs shook—as much from adrenalin as from the physical exertion. She sat up and leaned over and used both hands to shake the pebbles and dirt from her hair. She coughed and spit and tasted dust. With the hem of her sweater, she wiped her face.

Her ears strained to hear, but all was quiet in the woods. The moon slipped out of the clouds, revealing the scene around her. She saw the fallen tree limb that had blocked the wooden hatch. Even though she wanted nothing more than to lay there and rest, that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She staggered to her feet and closed the hatch then shoved the large limb until the broadest, heaviest part of the oak branch covered the hatch. Just in case someone had been closer to this end of the tunnel when the charges blew and was even now finding the ladder.

A sharp north wind chilled her skin. Sabrina fastened her coat and pulled up the hood. The wind promised snow, maybe before morning, which was to be expected since it was the first week of December. She headed deeper into the woods, moving fast but taking pains to be quiet. If anyone on the hit team had survived—and she had to believe they had—they’d wait until they could look for her remains in the rubble just to make sure they hadn’t screwed up. She knew they were hoping they wouldn’t find any. They wanted her alive.

Shaitan wanted her alive.

Sabrina shuddered at the thought. When they didn’t find any evidence she’d been blown to bits, they’d start searching. She hoped the blown tunnel would give her a head start. They wouldn’t know in which direction she’d escaped so they’d split up and search all directions. That’s what she would do. She planned to be far away from here by the time they did that.

Sabrina had hoped she could get to Shaitan before he got to her, but the man always seemed to know what she’d do next. So she needed to do something completely unexpected. Something Shaitan wouldn’t see coming.

What were her options?

Always have an option. Just in case.

She smiled grimly as Wilson’s voice filled her thoughts. Wilson had drummed those seven words into her head from the beginning. Not for the first time, she wished she could talk to him. Time hadn’t exactly healed that wound, but it had scabbed over. For her at least. In the beginning, she’d been furious when she’d learned Wilson had created her last mission to test her loyalty to him. That was putting a nice face on what he’d done. The ugly face was that he’d set in motion the events that had changed her life to punish her for what he viewed as the ultimate betrayal. When she’d initially refused the job, he’d reminded her that everything she had was because he’d given it to her. What he gave, he could take away.

“Do it, or you’re history,” he’d snarled.

In the world she’d inhabited, that could mean anything from you’ll never work in this town again to you’ll be a corpse floating in the Potomac.

So she’d backed down and told him she’d do it. She would have—on her terms and without destroying her soul—but Wilson knew her too well. He’d set it up so she’d have nothing left to come back to except her job. She smiled coldly. Maybe that was the real reason she’d gone off mission. She’d told him it wasn’t her fault the damn job hadn’t gone as planned, but Wilson sure thought it was. All the time he was shouting and cursing, she kept thinking, “Payback is a bitch. Deal with it.”

When he’d finished ranting, he’d told her to get out of his sight until he decided what to do with her. She’d gone straight to her apartment and executed the escape plan she’d designed as soon as she’d been smart enough to know she needed one. Thinking back, she was struck by the realization that her entire life had been one escape plan after another.

Sabrina brought her attention back to tonight’s escape plan and picked up her pace. She’d foiled three attempts to capture her, but how much longer could she keep this up? She had no help. No backup. No all-powerful government agency to run interference. She was one woman against a vicious international criminal who was organized and had plenty of money to buy what he wanted, and he wanted her. Result? She was going to get herself captured and eventually killed if she didn’t get help.

Sabrina could think of only one man she trusted—one man who had the skills to help her. In a lifetime of never owing anyone anything, she owed him—everything. Most of all, she owed him the truth even though she’d resisted sharing that with him. She pictured him as she’d last seen him—a night breeze ruffling his thick brown hair as they’d paused in a small park near the hotel where they were staying in Virginia.

He’d reached for her. His large hands on her waist, he’d drawn her into his arms. In emotional freefall, she’d stiffened, resisted. Then she’d surrendered, wanting to feel his arms around her. Needing to feel his body close to hers. His heartbeat against her breast. The hard evidence of his desire pressed to her belly. Her body had softened and molded to him as if she could embed the heat of his body, his touch, his scent—his strength and courage—into her cellular memory.

He was taller than she. Like most Navy SEALs, John Galloway was muscled and strong and had an attitude that said he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. She’d looked up, into his piercing gray eyes, and wanted to tell him everything. But, she’d been afraid. What would he think if he found out the truth about her? In that moment, she knew whatever she decided about the mission Wilson wanted her to undertake didn’t matter. She knew she was doomed to lose John.

Sabrina arrived at the car she’d hidden beneath camouflage netting. She turned her thoughts from the past to the present. The Rover looked like another old clunker, but its engine contradicted its battered exterior. She removed the netting and stowed it inside the car. When she turned the key, the engine started immediately. She drove out from under the trees and onto a grassy lane, and her focus shifted back to her dilemma. She’d tried to handle the situation herself. She’d been lucky so far, but she never shied from the ugly truth. She really was going to get herself killed if she didn’t get help.

By the time she turned onto the paved road, she’d made a decision. She’d go to John Galloway. Maybe he’d help her. Her mouth twisted in a grim smile. Maybe he’d tell her to go straight to hell. Life was full of irony, and this was the perfect example of that truth. The one man she trusted, the one man who might be able to save her, probably hated her. If he ever thought about her at all.

Her jaw squared. That was okay. She deserved it, but John was a good, decent man. He might help her simply because it was the right thing to do. She didn’t need him to love her. She just needed him to help her stay alive. A pang in the vicinity of her heart revealed that for the lie it was. Her conscience mocked her. Everything else aside, it didn’t matter if John hated her. It didn’t even matter if he refused to help her. What mattered was she had to tell him the truth. As much as she didn’t want to share that information with him, she had to because she might not survive if they kept coming after her.

And they would.

If she were killed—her heart clenched at the thought—John had to know where to look. It was only right. This time she had to do the right thing. Sabrina shivered. If John had hated her before, how would he feel once he knew the depth of her deception?

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Joan Reeves is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Sassy, Sexy Contemporary Romance. Her books are available in audio, ebook, and print. All of her books have the same underlying theme: It's never too late to live happily ever after.

Joan lives her Happily Ever After with her hero, her husband, in the Lone Star State. Visit Joan online: Blog * Website and Follow Her on  Facebook * Twitter * YouTube * Amazon Author Page * BookBub Author Page.