by Jamie Quaid
His wife. That flowing black hair had to be Katerina. What on earth . . . ?
She waved. She actually waved. Tears stung my eyes. I slapped my hands over my mouth to keep from shouting like a maniac. She was alive! Andre’s mother was alive!
She was back from dreamland. As were Bill and Leibowitz.
Realizing I was still jumping up and down and screaming, I stopped to preserve what was left of my dignity, but tears of joy streamed down my face. The Zone—or Saturn—had done something right.
“They all woke up last night,” a familiar amused baritone informed me.
I swung around to see Andre leaning against the burned brick wall of his warehouse, admiring the early-morning parade. He beamed proudly, if with a slight air of bewilderment.
Did I thank Saturn for this blessed turn of events? Was the zombie recovery because my invisible DNA factor had answered my prayers? I might start believing in capricious gods yet, although then I’d have to start thinking of Sarah as a sister.
“Who’s Pretty Boy?” Andre nodded at Ned, who was watching the parade through the window.
“The last thread of the prosecutor’s case against you,” I replied insouciantly, happier with this topic than with that of gods. “I don’t think the state will want to press charges against you once they learn all the other witnesses are hiding in a bog.”
“A bog?”
“That’s your mother up there.” I changed the subject, enjoying my secrets. “Why aren’t you up there with her?”
“We hugged earlier. Right now, I wanted to thank you for whatever in hell you did to bring her back.”
He took my hand and held it as if he meant it. He believed in me.
His trust was overwhelming. I didn’t dare glance down to where his strong brown fingers clasped mine. I didn’t get enough human touches, and a wave of emotion threatened to smash through the floodgates. I let my hormones steer me down a safer path.
I liked Andre’s touch entirely too well. Not as much as kissing, but he was still my client. Not for much longer, though, I bet. Did Andre go comatose after sex?
“I don’t think what I did had anything to do with hell,” I said thoughtfully. I might blame Satan for giving me sexy hair and straight teeth, but I couldn’t believe imps from hell would return the comatose. So maybe there really was an all-powerful Saturn. “Do you think Bill and your mother saw things like you did? Maybe they can warn us of events to come?”
“We can ask when it quiets down,” he agreed, studying me. “Do you think they’ll answer our questions any better than you do mine?”
“Probably not, because it doesn’t make sense. Yet.” I smiled at another sight coming up the street. “Tim has Nancy Rose back. I guess I won’t be making him my secretary.”
Remembering Ned, I turned around. He was catching a fly against the window. I might have to rethink adding frogs to my punishment repertoire. Although . . . I regarded him thoughtfully.
He seemed more the type who’d be interested in pink than his lockjawed buddies.
I leaned in the door and called to him. “Ned, you can apologize to Mr. Legrande now, but I’d appreciate it more if you’d teach a friend of mine how to dress appropriately.”
He came out to join us, and I nodded down the street at Tim, attired today in hot pink flip-flops, purple capris, and a black skull-and-bones T-shirt I think he’d filched from my closet.
Ned held out his hand to Andre. “Sorry, old man. I was wrong to lie.” He cast a glance at Tim. “Will a dozen lessons be sufficient to cover my legal fees?” he asked. “I’m still unemployed.”
Apparently picking up on the newcomer’s oddity, Andre snickered. “Hire him, Clancy. We have a new Zonie.”
Why not? In jubilation, I released Andre so I could rush down the street and throw myself into Bill the Bartender’s arms. “Glad to have you back, soldier,” I whispered in his ear.
Before the big man could react, I jumped down, caught Lieutenant Leo’s arm, and, to the tune of “We Shall Overcome,” danced a jig in the sunlight.
Tomorrow, I’d worry about pink particles and bullfrogs and the gas can in my purse. Today, I celebrated life.
Praise for Boyfriend from Hell
“Unlike many down-on-their-luck heroes who never seem to suffer, Quaid’s characters are genuinely desperate, lending a real sense of danger and urgency. Without a vampire, werewolf, or fallen angel to be seen, this strong debut is a pleasantly fresh take [on the genre].”
—Publishers Weekly
“Quaid jumps into the urban fantasy genre with a bang. . . . She quickly establishes a unique cast of characters, full of flaws and mystery. There is plenty of humor, wild action, and vigilante justice in this truly excellent beginning of the Saturn’s Daughter series.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Fast-paced and action-packed entertainment . . . A fun read . . . wonderfully crafted.”
—Seeing Night Book Reviews
“Engaging and energetic . . . Sexy, fun, and dangerous are perfect words to describe this book.”
—Books, Bones & Buffy
“Action-packed from beginning to end, sparkled with a great dose of humor.”
—Tynga’s Reviews
“A quirky romp of a ride . . . A cute twist on the paranormal genre.”
—Night Owl Sci-Fi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As some of you may already suspect, I am not a gushy person. But even Tina cannot make a book happen by magic. A lot of people put a lot of hard work and brain waves into creating a book, and I’d like to thank them all. Most especially, I would like to thank my agent and her assistant, Robin Rue and Beth Miller; my editor, Adam Wilson; and Pocket’s marvelously talented art department. Without them, this book would never have happened. And the real icing on my cake is the Cauldron, who didn’t laugh me out of the room when I said I wanted to write a book about a heroine who could unwittingly damn people to hell. You all are my rocks!
And my ever-patient husband gets hugs and kisses for understanding that sometimes I just need pizza.
JAMIE QUAID is a pseudonym for the New York Times and USA Today bestselling romance author Patricia Rice. A former CPA, she is a native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, and currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri. A firm believer in happily-ever-after, she is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. She is a member of Romance Writers of America; the Authors Guild; and Novelists, Inc. Boyfriend from Hell was her first novel under the name Jamie Quaid.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Rice
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First Pocket Books paperback edition July 2013
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Cover illustration by Tony Mauro
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ISBN 978-1-4516-5637-4
ISBN 978-1-4516-5638-1 (ebook)
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