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Welcome to Loveswept!
Come along with us on a thrilling ride with our next two titles: Sandra Chastain’s RAVEN AND THE COWBOY and THE REDHEAD AND THE PREACHER. Sandra Chastain’s stories are always wonderfully exuberant romances, brimming with adventurous romps, charming humor, and savory sensuality. But I’ll let you discover that for yourself. Enjoy these two delightful reads!
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: In April, we have Linda Cajio’s brilliant novels, ALL IS FAIR and RESCUING DIANA, as well as Debra Dixon’s unforgettable BAD TO THE BONE. In May, we’re really excited to have nine titles on our list! Here’s what we have in store for you that month: Jessica Scott’s vibrant second book in her Coming Home series, BACK TO YOU, Judith E. French’s exciting MORGAN’S WOMAN, and Katie Rose’s enchanting A CASE FOR ROMANCE. We’re also releasing six fantastic books by Debra Dixon: MIDNIGHT HOUR, MOUNTAIN MYSTIC, PLAYING WITH FIRE, SLOW HANDS, HOT AS SIN, and DOC HOLIDAY. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Deborah Harmse’s
In the Arms of the Law
ON
E
Head wounds were invariably bloody.
Detective Mackenzie Hoyle reminded himself of that basic fact a split second after he felt a stream of warm liquid trickle down his forehead. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, then swore at the bright red blood smeared from his wrist to his knuckles.
“Cripes, what a way to start the day,” he muttered, taking two prudent steps back from the shattered schoolroom window before checking for further damage.
Miraculously, his shirt and tie had survived the incident unscathed, as had his black oxfords and charcoal-gray slacks. But the gray herringbone sport coat he’d bought just the week before hadn’t been so lucky, he noticed, more than a little ticked off by the splotch of blood on the cuff of the left sleeve. Damn. He’d worn the thing only twice.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you waiting for me?”
Hoyle turned his head in the direction of the voice, and winced at the sharp pain that shot through his neck and down his arm. A dull ache began to pound inside his head. He forced himself to ignore it, instead focusing his attention on the woman standing in the classroom doorway.
He took in the essential details in one glance: Blond hair, blue eyes, an inch or two over five feet, weighing no more than one hundred pounds. The phrase “cute as a button” sprang to mind.
Hoyle drew his brows together into a frown, immediately vowing that if this was Miss Rebekah de Bieren—the teacher he’d come to talk to about his latest murder case—he’d eat his billfold. And the inspector’s badge inside.
“Actually,” he began, “I was waiting for—”
“Uh-oh,” she said, her eyes widening as her gaze swept from the gaping hole in the classroom window, to the rock lying on the floor near his left foot, to the thin line of blood bisecting his forehead. “Looks like someone scored a bull’s-eye this time.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he replied, and allowed himself a more leisurely inspection of the young woman. He was suddenly very curious to know who she was.
Definitely not a teacher, he decided. She looked too young, too hip, too sweet in a girl-next-door sort of way.
Her cheeks were smooth, wrinkle-free, no doubt soft to the touch. Her short hair was stick straight and cut in a jagged fashion that had been popular sometime in the sixties, uneven spikes feathering across her forehead and framing her face in a haphazard way. And her clothes—neon pink-and-yellow parachute pants with matching T-shirt, separated by an extrawide black belt that made her waist look small, real small—were about as unteacherish as they could get.
“You know, this never should have happened,” she said, shaking her head in obvious disgust as she dumped her armload of books and a red-and-black-plaid thermos on the teacher’s desk.
Teacher’s desk?
Hoyle muttered a disbelieving expletive and reached for his wallet. Then he remembered that no one had witnessed his impulsive vow to lunch on leather and let his hand fall to his side. Lucky break, he thought, more than a little relieved one of his buddies at the precinct hadn’t caught him jumping to conclusions. They’d never let him live it down.
“The taxpayers think they’re so clever,” she continued as she rummaged through her purse, “voting down education measures year after year. Okay, so they pay less in taxes, have a few more dollars to spend going out to the movies or to dinner at some fancy restaurant. But look who suffers—the poor children, that’s who.”
Suffering children? Hoyle thought. At the moment, he was the one suffering, all because one of those “poor” little buggers had heaved a rock through a school window and clobbered him on the head.
“Whoever threw that rock,” she went on, “should be the star pitcher on the school baseball team. But we don’t have a baseball team. And do you know why?” she asked, still digging through her handbag.
