This week we'll be featuring a selection of delicious and delightful excerpts from our books. A lucky commenter at the end of the week will win a set of books from ALL the authors in e-format.
Just leave your email in the RAFFLECOPTER draw below - and you can earn extra entries by leaving a comment on the blogpost, too.
Today's featured author is MAUREEN A. MILLER and her book SHADOW. Please enjoy the excerpt, pop the book on your wishlist if you're tempted, and don't forget to enter the Rafflecopter draw below.
Sophie Diem closed the trunk of her Corolla with her elbow. It popped back open, of course. There had to be a sensor that detected just how many shopping bags she could juggle at once. Throw in a cold October rain and she realized that the free pinky on her left hand did not possess enough power for the deed. With a sigh she dropped three bags down on the wet sidewalk and slammed the trunk shut. Stringing her fingers through the plastic bag handles, she cursed when the paper towels toppled out.
Something made her pause. That keen sense of being watched. It crawled up the back of her neck as surely as if the perpetrator stood behind her with his fingers around her throat.
It was him.
He was watching her again.
She could not see him. She could not prove he was there. She could never prove that he was there. But his eyes bore into her back.
Would he approach her today? He had done so in the past−the tall man with eyes the color of the darkest storm. The man who moved with catlike agility, but looked as if he rarely slept. The man who evoked chills even when she could not see him.
She had told others about him. Under their encouragement she had even approached the police. There was nothing they could or would do, though. She had no name for this man. No identity. Anytime she tried to trap him, he disappeared.
Oh, she had tried. She had even attempted to record him once with the microphone on her cell phone. But what good did a voice do? In the eyes of the police there was no physical threat. There was no name or body for them to go after. And again, the man would slip back into the night.
The deep voice rumbled in the rain. The drops concealed his tread as he crossed the street to stand at her side. Dark rain coat. Dark pants. Gleaming dark hair. A face cast in shadow. He was a manifestation of the street itself−as if the pavement had morphed into this daunting figure.
She did not bolt, though. If she ran as she had done in the past, he would just let her go.
But he would always return.
He would always find her.
And he would always ask the same question−over and over and over…
Where is Nathan Bethard?