The first is Halfbreed Werewolf. You can order it here.
Kurt yearns to tell Daphne he loves her. If only he had something to offer her, if only she weren’t engaged, if only he were’t a werewolf…
Kurt was raised by his father’s werewolf pack after his human mother abandoned him. Or had she been eaten? When he returns to the area from which she came, seeking answers, he does not anticipate falling in love with a woman. But what can he possibly offer her, especially when he realizes she is engaged to an heir of the wealthy family that now occupies the land?
Excerpt
Daphne paused, appeared to listen for a moment, then moved further away from the car. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll walk back.” She slammed the door and turned her back on it, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulders.
Kurt sprang to his feet, trembling. His breath came in huge gasps and his thoughts raced and tangled. Dark desires and instincts rose in him.
The car peeled backward with a squeal of tires, then jerked forward, leaving the scent of burning rubber hanging in the air.
The deer Kurt had noted earlier, startled by the commotion, leapt into the road. The accelerating car slammed into the deer full on, sending it flying back and hurtling back toward where Daphne stood. It careened over the hood, then the roof of the car and hit Daphne.
The car continued down the winding mountain road at breakneck speed.
Both the deer and Daphne collapsed in a heap.
With a few bounds, Kurt landed next to them. Neither moved, though the deer’s sides heaved in death throes.
The smell of fresh blood filled Kurt’s nostrils, driving any human thought from his mind. His ripped the deer’s throat open with his razor teeth and eagerly lapped up the blood that spurted from the opened veins. The deer lay motionless. Kurt tore chunks of warm flesh from its body and swallowed them. His powerful jaws crunched the bones, his strong claws ripped the hide and stuffed pieces into his mouth in an uncontrolled frenzy.
His hunger sated, Kurt sat down and fought to regain his thoughts.
The deer was completely gone. He had eaten the entire thing, hooves, entrails, antlers and all.
Kurt turned to where Daphne lay sprawled on her back, her limbs flung wide. Her long flowing skirt was hiked up over her thighs.
Her dark hair tumbled across her face. Gold earrings and a delicate chain with a locket caught the moonlight and glinted against her pale skin. He saw no obvious injuries, but she didn’t move.
Kurt put his moist nose next to her mouth and sniffed. She was breathing shallowly and her breath smelled of sweet wine. She was alive. His body quivered with desire.
Werewolves usually mated with any available females and then devoured them. Since he had just downed an entire deer, Kurt was not hungry and was not tempted to eat her.
He moved between her spread legs, lifting one of his massive paws to pull her blouse open at the neck. Even if she regained consciousness, she would never be able to fight him off. He touched his sharp teeth to her neck. So easy to tear her throat out.
There was nothing to stop him.
The second is Steeled for Murder. You can order it here.
On parole for a murder conviction, Jesse is the first suspect when Mitch, a forklift driver at work, is killed. Will Jesse be able to figure out what happened, or be sent back to prison?
After nearly twenty years in prison on a murder conviction, Jesse Damon has been released, a home detention monitor strapped to his ankle. Determined to make it and mindful of his parole restrictions, he struggles with life outside prison. He finds a basement apartment, a job on the overnight shift at a steel fabrication plant and a few people who treat him like anybody else. Especially Kelly, a woman who works in the shipping department. He seems to be making it. Until Mitch, forklift driver on the shift, is found murdered in the warehouse. Investigating detective doesn’t want to look any further than Jesse to close the case He’s not fussy about the methods he uses to gather evidence. If Jesse isn’t going down for this, he will have to be the one to figure out who killed Mitch and why.
Excerpt
Taking one of my wrists in his iron grip, he brought my hand behind me, turned the palm outward and snapped on handcuffs. Tighter than necessary. He did the same to my other hand.
“OK, Detective Belkins.” He stepped back.
Detective Belkins eased off the desk and walked around me, eyeing me up and down. “Anything you want to tell us?”
My throat was dry, but I managed to say, “No, sir.”
“On parole?”
“Yes, sir.” I continued to look down at the desk.
“Violated?”
“No, sir.” What had I done that might violate my parole? Nothing I could think of.
“Sure?”
“Yes, sir.” Don’t show doubt.
“What was the charge?”
He knew. He just wanted to hear me say it. “Murder. Possession of a handgun during the commission of a felony. Conspiracy.”
“And you pled guilty?”
“Alford plea.” Copping to an Alford plea—not admitting guilt but agreeing that the state had enough evidence to convict me—had been a problem from the beginning. Anyone who had any say in my future, like counselors and parole board members, wanted to hear me express remorse. Much harder to do when the plea itself denies guilt in the first place.
“Refused to take responsibility, eh?” Det. Belkins said.
I couldn’t think of any reasonable response to that. So I kept quiet.
“No armed robbery?”
“Those charges were dropped,” I said. “Part of the plea bargain.”
“Possession of controlled dangerous substance? With intent to distribute?”
“Dropped.” The convictions would show up on any kind of check. But he knew all my original charges; he’d done his homework. Why had he bothered?
“Part of the plea bargain, too, I suppose?” he said.
I nodded. No point commenting on that.
“Been reporting to your parole officer?” he asked, rubbing his nose with a thick finger.
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced down at my ankle, where the black box made a slight bulge in the leg of my jeans. “Following the terms of home detention?”
“Yes, sir.” What did he think I was going to say?
“Like this job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Getting along with your co-workers?” He came closer. I could smell his sour breath.
“Pretty much, sir.”
“How about one Mitchell Robinson?”
“The forklift driver? He thought I was looking at his wife, but I wasn’t.” Jeez. What had Mitch told them?
“He threaten to call your parole officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Must have worried you. Don’t want to go back to prison where you belong, do you?” He shook his head. “They should never parole these killers.”
He swung back to face me. “You know your Miranda rights.”
He wasn’t even going to read them to me. I wouldn’t complain; I was a parolee and no one would listen anyhow.
I nodded.
“You sure you got nothing to tell me?” Det. Belkins tapped hard me on the chest. I would have a bruise there. I ignored it.
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled. A mean smirk. “Jesse Damon, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mitchell Robinson.”
