I wrote torrid historical romances for a living.
I’d be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with ...
I’d be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with imagination---where life ended with that eternal Happily Ever After.
Reality didn't prepare me for the horror I witnessed on a cold September night.
He had died in my arms, the victim of a vicious and brutal crime.
I would never forget his gasping words or the molten gold of his eyes. He held my hand in his icy touch as that final gasp of breath escaped his lips.
Haunted, I left the city soon afterward, tormented by his handsome image.
I had been with him when he died.
Then, why, was he on my doorstep?
Excerpt:
I had been shot.
What I didn't understand was why.
The question lingered in my dazed mind, filling me with a flurry of unanswered queries. I recalled flashes of movement, explosions and sounds, but nothing else. I couldn't remember anything else above the nagging pain.
Come on, damn it! I mentally demanded and winced, feeling the flesh of my forehead tighten. I raised my hand and pressed shaking fingers to my brow, feeling the gaping wounds against the sensitive pads. I should have died and was puzzled why I stood where I did, very obviously alive. As my confusion began to clear, I recognized the room I was in was cold and sterile for a particular reason.
I was in a morgue, awaiting examination by the resident medical examiner.
My fingers fell back to his side and I took an unsteady step forward.
I was alive.
I was one of the damn….
My name was Dom….
Who was I?
I frowned, struggling to pull at the fringes of his memories. Before the flashes of light, the explosions of pain, and the smell of burning flesh, there was nothing. In my mind, I could see the determined face of my assailant, the flutter of dying leaves in the street lamps, the pinkness of the evening sky, and the brightness of a woman’s tear-filled eyes.
The thought gave me pause.
Vividly, I remembered her terrified and tear-filled eyes, warm orbs of chocolate awash with moisture. She had been a voice of compassion in my hour of need. She had risked all to come to my side, to offer me a small bit of human comfort as I had breathed my last. She had held my hand close to her heart, comforting me with soft words, pleading with me to hang onto a world that didn't comprehend my type.
What was my type?
I shook my head at the question, unable to answer. However, as I inhaled, her scent rose into my lungs and empty memory. Vaguely, I recalled she had left me with a name, soft and melodic. Currently, it evaded me. What lingered behind, haunting in its own right, was the aroma of her flesh. The memory of her filled me, bathing me in the whispered aromas of crumpled lilacs.
My dry tongue flicked over my lips, tasting at what was not there. I had to find her. She would tell me of the night, and my name. She would help and bring some sanity to my madness.
I knew I would be capable of finding her. There was some form of absolute determination available in my confusion assuring me I could hunt better than most.
I’d be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with ...
 |  Format : Kindle eBook Author : Tamela Quijas Edition : 2nd Number of Pages : 272 Publisher : Price Publications List Price: |
Product Description
I wrote torrid historical romances for a living.I’d be the first to admit writing was my love. Through the pages of a novel, I could live in a realm clouded by daydreams and fantasy. I preferred to exist in a world filled with imagination---where life ended with that eternal Happily Ever After.
Reality didn't prepare me for the horror I witnessed on a cold September night.
He had died in my arms, the victim of a vicious and brutal crime.
I would never forget his gasping words or the molten gold of his eyes. He held my hand in his icy touch as that final gasp of breath escaped his lips.
Haunted, I left the city soon afterward, tormented by his handsome image.
I had been with him when he died.
Then, why, was he on my doorstep?
Excerpt:
I had been shot.
What I didn't understand was why.
The question lingered in my dazed mind, filling me with a flurry of unanswered queries. I recalled flashes of movement, explosions and sounds, but nothing else. I couldn't remember anything else above the nagging pain.
Come on, damn it! I mentally demanded and winced, feeling the flesh of my forehead tighten. I raised my hand and pressed shaking fingers to my brow, feeling the gaping wounds against the sensitive pads. I should have died and was puzzled why I stood where I did, very obviously alive. As my confusion began to clear, I recognized the room I was in was cold and sterile for a particular reason.
I was in a morgue, awaiting examination by the resident medical examiner.
My fingers fell back to his side and I took an unsteady step forward.
I was alive.
I was one of the damn….
My name was Dom….
Who was I?
I frowned, struggling to pull at the fringes of his memories. Before the flashes of light, the explosions of pain, and the smell of burning flesh, there was nothing. In my mind, I could see the determined face of my assailant, the flutter of dying leaves in the street lamps, the pinkness of the evening sky, and the brightness of a woman’s tear-filled eyes.
The thought gave me pause.
Vividly, I remembered her terrified and tear-filled eyes, warm orbs of chocolate awash with moisture. She had been a voice of compassion in my hour of need. She had risked all to come to my side, to offer me a small bit of human comfort as I had breathed my last. She had held my hand close to her heart, comforting me with soft words, pleading with me to hang onto a world that didn't comprehend my type.
What was my type?
I shook my head at the question, unable to answer. However, as I inhaled, her scent rose into my lungs and empty memory. Vaguely, I recalled she had left me with a name, soft and melodic. Currently, it evaded me. What lingered behind, haunting in its own right, was the aroma of her flesh. The memory of her filled me, bathing me in the whispered aromas of crumpled lilacs.
My dry tongue flicked over my lips, tasting at what was not there. I had to find her. She would tell me of the night, and my name. She would help and bring some sanity to my madness.
I knew I would be capable of finding her. There was some form of absolute determination available in my confusion assuring me I could hunt better than most.
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