More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  Nick dropped the champagne bottle. “A baby?” he whispered. “I mean. Are you sure? It’s only been two months.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. I can tell.” Grace smiled.

  “After all the chemo and everything. I thought I’d never—”

  “I’d say we can be pretty certain that is not going to be a problem.”

  He held out his hand toward her. “May I?”

  “If you don’t come over here right now and hug me—” She shivered. “That’s another thing that came with this. I can’t stay warm.”

  Nick grabbed the blanket from the ground and tossed it over her shoulders, wrapping his arm around her. “We should go inside. You shouldn’t be out here—”

  “Don’t start. I’m fine.” Grace leaned her head back on his shoulder. “In fact, I’m more than fine for the first time in a long while.”

  He spread his fingers over hers where they rested on her stomach. And Grace closed her eyes and reached in—

  Nick was still full of light and health and wholeness. Not a hint of darkness. And for the first time in two months, she relaxed. Nick was fine. Nick was home.

  Then there was the briefest flash of red-gold and a sensation of warmth. Only a trembling touch, and it was gone.

  Grace opened her eyes in surprise.

  “Did you feel that?” Nick whispered.

  “You felt it?”

  “Yeah.” His voice sounded awestruck.

  “Well, she is a Woodruff and a McKenzie.” Grace sighed, looking up at the vast sweep of stars above them.

  “She?”

  Grace smiled. “Yes, that I’m pretty certain about. Lily Alexandra Woodruff McKenzie, if you approve.”

  “Alexandra,” Nick breathed. “Alex.” Without looking, she could tell he was smiling.

  “Yes. And I apologize in advance. I think our lives are going to be very interesting for a while.”

  “Magic?”

  “Oh, much more than magic.”

  About the Author

  The granddaughter of a coal miner and the great-great-granddaughter of one of the Muscogee people, Donna was raised in the shadows of the Appalachian Mountains, in the beautiful hills of East Tennessee. After getting a couple of college degrees, she was lured away from her mountains by an, admittedly gorgeous, Italian guy, who married her and carried her off to Texas. Donna has made her living doing a little bit of everything, including a stint as an IRS tax auditor, a few years managing a bookstore, and a career in the corporate world.

  Donna enjoys being walked by her Jack Russell Terrier (if you know Jacks, you understand), belly dancing (excellent exercise and lots of shiny costumes), reading (three books at once, at times), and travel (with family in Italy and England, who wouldn’t?) Like any child of the Appalachians, she can’t stay away from “her mountains” for long, and visits as often as she can.

  More information can be found at her website - www.donnajunecooper.com. She can also be reached by email at donnajune.cooper@verizon.net.

  Sins and secrets aren’t the only skeletons in the closet…

  The Shadow and the Night

  © 2014 Lila Dubois

  Glenncailty Castle, Book 3

  London forensic anthropologist Melissa Heavey isn’t anything like the characters in her grandmother’s beloved television crime dramas. Especially since an accident left her crippled and weary. While in Dublin to rest and recuperate, she’s asked to help the local Garda Síochána identify bones found in a rural luxury hotel.

  Curiosity-seeking bone gawkers were not the clients Tristan Fontaine anticipated when he took over the Glenncailty Castle restaurant. And a scientist taking over part of his kitchen for her lab? He’s having none of it. Yet she’s not backing down…and his pulse won’t stop speeding up when she’s near.

  As their attraction flares, Melissa soon discovers why Tristan is so dismissive of the bones—he’s been talking to the ghosts themselves. But the bones aren’t Glenncailty’s only secret, and Tristan is hiding a tragedy in his past more frightening than what’s lurking inside the castle walls.

  Warning: Contains a sexy French chef whose gifts aren’t limited to his hands, and a dry-witted scientist with intellect as sharp as scalpels. Delicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Shadow and the Night:

  Out of the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kris slide down one of the busy kitchen aisles. The maître d’s mouth was pursed, which was as close as the elegant man came to having a tantrum.

  He turned away from the salmon fillets en papillote they were preparing for that night’s special.

  “Kris,” he called out, and the other man turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked in French.

  Kris shrugged. That wasn’t a good sign. With a curse, Tristan put a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel over the dough he was working with, heading to a quieter corner of the kitchen where Kris met him.

  “There’s a woman in the restaurant,” Kris said.

  “We’re not open. Throw her out.”

  “I cannot. Sorcha brought her here, and the woman, she says she needed a quiet place to work.”

  “Then she can go to the library.” Tristan liked and respected the guest relations manager, but the restaurant and the kitchen were his domain.

  “I think she came about the bones.”

  The bones. Tristan cursed. He was sick unto death of hearing about these bones. The Irish were so dramatic, getting upset over a few ghosts and bones. They should go to Paris—the whole city sat atop bones and the French weren’t thrown into a tizzy by it. But the police, the Gardaí, had closed the west wing until they were dealt with, and that risked the whole hotel and what he was trying to build here.

  “Then let her stay, put her out of the way.”

  “I did, but she’s hungry.” Kris drew in a long breath through his nose. “She wants to see a menu from the pub.”

  “Non. If she wants to eat pub food, then she will go there.” Tristan suddenly understood Kris’s ire. No one seemed to understand that the ambiance of dining was as important as the food, and that meant a beautiful room with well-appointed tables, candlelight and the aroma of fine wine, truffles and fresh herbs—not the stench of chips and meaty stew.

  “Give that to me.” At his order, Kris handed over the pub menu, a laminated sheet of uninspired—though delicious, because if Tristan had to serve fish and chips, it was the best fish and chips ever cooked—pub fare.

  Tristan stormed out of the kitchen into the restaurant. He took only a moment to appreciate the crystal chandeliers, cozy private areas created by half-walls and high-backed chairs, and headed for the darkest corner, a lost space where Kris seated those who wanted the utmost privacy or who weren’t dressed nicely.

  Tristan’s brows rose in surprise when he saw who was seated there. A pretty blonde woman no older than thirty sat with her head bent over a castle map. She wore a tunic embroidered with geometric shapes in bold earth tones over a simple white turtleneck. A heavy brass medallion hung from a cord around her neck, and she toyed with it as she read. Her hair was straight, falling to just above her shoulder. She was lightly tanned, and when she looked up her eyes were a beautiful hazel rather than the blue he was so used to seeing.

  She studied him, her gaze lingering on his face, but he could tell it wasn’t sexual—it was almost clinical.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. You’re…” She did a second once-over. “…either the head chef or the poissonnier.” She was English and well-educated, from the sound of her accent.

  Tristan stopped, taken by surprise. “I am the chef de cuisine.” He used the proper name for head chef.

  “And you’re French. That explains the western European Caucasian bone structure but Mediterranean coloring.”

  Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?’

  “A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

  “And you are here for the b
ones.”

  “So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”

  “I am not staff. I am the chef.”

  “Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”

  “And that is how you know poissonnier.” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.

  “The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”

  Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”

  “No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”

  Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”

  “I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”

  “Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.

  “I want to eat here.”

  “And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”

  She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”

  “Oui.”

  She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.

  Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the derrière that he got the feeling that under the loose tunic top was a nice body. It had been a long time since he’d been drawn to a woman the way he was drawn to her. And it wasn’t just physical attraction—she was intelligent and strong.

  He was so distracted by her derrière and his unexpected reaction to her that it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t headed for the front door, but deeper into the restaurant.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, jogging a few steps to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m hungry.” She stopped for a moment, looked around and then headed for the kitchen.

  Tristan darted ahead of her, positioning himself in front of the swinging doors. He folded his arms. Pretty or not, intriguing or not, she wasn’t going to interfere with his dinner prep.

  “This is my kitchen.”

  “I can tell. I’m excited to see it.”

  She tried to push past him, and he grabbed her upper arms. She made a little noise, and her eyes widened with pain. The case she carried fell from her hand.

  Tristan released her. He’d barely touched her, yet it seemed he’d caused her pain.

  “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

  “I…have a bruise there.”

  Tristan raised a brow. “From another chef whose kitchen you tried to disrupt?”

  “The result of killing the last man who tried to come between me and my dinner.”

  Her expression was so deadly serious that Tristan had a moment of real worry. Then she smiled and laughed. It changed her whole face, making her seem less serious and disconnected—more warm and approachable.

  “You looked quite alarmed,” she said as her laugh faded.

  “I do not understand English humor.”

  “Too bad, I’m quite funny.” With a smile, she grabbed her case and slid past him into the kitchen.

  Cursing, Tristan followed her.

  “Hello everyone.”

  The busy sounds of the kitchen stopped as everyone looked up at the strange blonde woman standing in the doorway. “My name is Melissa Heavey and I’m hungry. Is there someone here who might be able to—”

  Tristan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back out through the doors.

  “You are…crazy,” he said as he set her down. He was too surprised to be really angry.

  “You’re not the first to mention that.”

  Resigned, Tristan threw his hands in the air, then planted them on his hips. “Fine, I will bring you food. You will have stew, fresh bread, a salad.” That was as far as he was willing to relent.

  “That sounds lovely.” She stooped and picked up her case. “Thank you very much…?”

  “Tristan, Tristan Fontaine.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tristan.” She held out her hand. “As I said, I’m Melissa.”

  Rather than shaking, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  He was both surprised and pleased when she blushed. He’d expected her to laugh.

  “Enchanté, monsieur,” she replied.

  He held her hand for a moment longer than was casual. When she pulled back, he let her go, watching her walk to her table with a smile. Tristan was looking forward to learning more about Dr. Melissa Heavey.

  Logic says wait. Their bodies scream go. And their spirit guides are playing dirty.

  Cougar’s Courage

  © 2013 Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Duals and Donovans: The Different, Book 3

  Toronto cop Cara Many-Winters Mackenzie is still reeling from her fiancé’s murder when her orderly life takes a turn toward the weird, complete with voices in her head and phantom bleeding wounds.

  This violent awakening is the rise of her Different gift—a chaotic, Bugs-Bunny-on-crack magic that she must learn to control before it destroys her. There’s only one place to get help: her mother’s ancestral village, and a mentor who seems to have stepped straight out of the smoke of her erotic dreams.

  Cougar Dual Jack Long-Claw reluctantly agrees to take Cara under his wing, though he’d much rather take the beautiful city girl into his bed. As he guides her through a crash course in shamanic magic, sparks fly—some sexy, some snarky. But when an ancient enemy attacks the village, they must work together to hone a magical weapon against certain destruction.

  Common sense tells them it’s a terrible time to fall in love. Their spirit guides have other ideas. And shamans who don’t listen to their spirit guides are dead shamans…

  Warning: Hot shape-shifting feline hero. Strong but shell-shocked heroine. Snarky, meddling spirit guides. And lots and lots of sex: angry sex, crazy sex, magical sex, and just plain sexy sex.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Cougar’s Courage:

  “Officer Mackenzie?” The voice sounded like her captain’s, but Bell wasn’t known for his stealthy tread. Had Cara been that lost in thought?

  Cara jumped a little and looked up from the incident report she was struggling with, the words dancing behind a rising headache and the pervading sense of anger and uselessness she’d been fighting since Phil’s death five months ago. She expected to see her captain’s bulky, blue-clad form looming over her with that awkward no, I’m not checking up on you expression that was way more annoying than open concern would be—and open concern had gotten annoying sometime before her fiancé’s grave was filled in.

  Instead, she saw a totally unexpected person, a tiny, wiry old woman with long white braids, no taller than most ten-year-olds, who bristled with energy.

  Cara’s rational brain took in a few things. Normally, civilians didn’t get into the squad room without an escort, but the elderly lady was alone. Maybe someone had dropped her off, said something about why she was there, and then left? If that were the case, that was bad even for the mess Cara had been for the past five months.

  The visitor wore a pale buckskin dress ornamented with beads and porcupine quills, not a fashion statement but traditional Native clothing, and no coat despite the frigid February weather. Her silvery
braids were fastened with rawhide strips. Not something you saw every day in Toronto. Maybe the old lady figured serious business like a visit to the police station merited her version of a weddings-and-funerals suit or dress uniform.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” The unusual visitor had roused her curiosity, which could only be good.

  “No, but I can help you, Cara.”

  How did she know Cara’s first name? Her name plate just said Mackenzie.

  The elderly woman extended a small, bony hand, and Cara instinctively took it. She expected it to be icy. Instead, it was hot. As soon as they touched, Cara felt like she was focusing properly on the other woman for the first time. She blinked and recognized her visitor at last. “Grand-mère? Is that you?”

  It couldn’t be. Cara had been ten the last time she’d seen the elder of her mother’s village, and the old lady must have been over eighty then. But the woman nodded and smiled. It was an odd smile, like a tree smiling, serene in a way that you didn’t normally see on a human face. “Of course it is, silly. Who else would I be? It’s time to come home, Cara. Come to Couguar-Caché before it’s too late.”

  Couguar-Caché—“hidden cougar” in French—her mother’s ancestral village. A place so remote Cara had never been able to find it on a map, even though she knew she’d been there as a little girl. Yeah, just where she wanted to visit in the depths of winter.

  As the old woman spoke, the room closed in, leaving only Cara and Grand-mère. The rest of the squad room was still out there—Cara could hear voices, a ringing cell phone—but they were hidden somehow, masked by a fog. Grand-mère had been seated, but suddenly, with no transition Cara noticed, she was standing in an archway made of snow-weighted evergreen boughs. Behind her, where Cara should have seen Dalhousie’s chaotic desk and the captain’s neat one, was forest and snow, woodland twilight and the corner of a log cabin. A cold, bracing wind blew through the archway, smelling of snow and pine and wood smoke. Somewhere in the background, she could make out a tall man with long dark hair. He turned and looked through the weird portal straight at her with intense amber eyes. He was movie-star gorgeous.