Wednesday, May 17, 2017


And a Cover Reveal Alert!

Great outlaws lost their lives to Ford.

Ford Illuminati, Prez of the famed Bare Bones MC, is in the crosshairs of Noodlum, a whacked thug recently joined with the Cutlasses.  When Ford’s company steals some highway workers of theirs, Noodlum lashes out with subterfuge, placing fake news stories about the club and stealing their identities to charge Cialis and penis weights.

But the clincher is when Noodlum targets Ford's old lady, Madison.  His twisted obsession with Madison puts Ford on the alert, and Santiago Slayer on his trail.  But things haven't been going well between Ford and Maddy lately.  His two jobsPrez of the MC and his construction companyhave got him working more than double time.  Neglected and feeling unloved, Maddy has a meltdown when a patient of hers dies.  She needs to do something different--something fulfilling.

When she works at a clinic on the Indian Rez, a heartthrob doctor catches her eye.  But he's not the real menace.  Noodlum has come unhinged, targeting the light of his life—Madison Illuminati.  Ford is forced to play along with the whacko's games, step by step.  It will take the combined forces of his club and his company to emerge save his one true love and reclaim their marriage.

Great ladies lost their hearts.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016


I just thought I'd share some new teasers with you for The Emerald Triangle, my new standalone sexy priest book coming November 26.

Monday, October 17, 2016

COVER REVEAL! The Emerald Triangle Book #1

Once again Natasha Snow has come through with an intriguing, sexy, and artsy cover for Book One in my priest saga!

There's Father Truman Burgess, coming all undone when he reunites with his high school flame, Simone Wharton, a murder suspect in the Emerald Triangle town of Cinnabar:

There is a magic about the forbidden
that makes it utterly desirable.

Father Truman Burgess:  I broke my rules for her.
Brought together again after ten years when a suspicious death has gossiping tongues wagging all across town, I don't want to believe what they're saying about Simone Wharton.  She was mine ten years ago and I crave her again now.  My adulterous desire would topple me again from my throne.  I've barely survived one scandal.  Can the citizens of Cinnabar forgive another one?
Simone:  Truman has matured into a fine, mysterious, devoted man.  Unfortunately, he is eminently fuckable.  The white collar he wears is a continuous reminder how out of my reach he is.  I want to scream from the rooftops that he's my man!  But does he only belong to God? 
He broke his rules for me.  It's the most delicious, sensual thing to ever happen to me.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Cover Reveal!!

Phew!  Jewel Graphics came through again with a stunning cover for A WILD WICKED WEEKEND, Bent Zealots #4.

It's stupendous!  Attentive readers will note it's the same model I used on BARE BONES #1 and STAY VERTICAL #2.  I absolutely adore Bruno.  In A WILD WICKED WEEKEND he's playing Ogden Taliwood, Navajo half-breed, hot on the heels of a murderer.  It gets extremely BDSM-y in this book, so look out! 

When they do right, no one remembers.
When they do wrong, no one forgets.

HAVEN:  At forty-five, I was a washed-up racecar driver, a Daddy Dom who had searched the world over for his power bottom, his submissive.  Fuck, I was still a Prospect for the Bent Zealots MC.  That’s how I came to be in the clubhouse while most of them were raising hell at a Vegas rally.  Word came there was a stiff down on the Rez, and the Zealots were getting blamed for it.  My mission included a clownish reject from a rival club name of Mike Drop, and a mysterious half-breed who would change my life forever. 

OGDEN:  I met Haven there in the desert, standing over the disemboweled corpse of a tourist.  After I made a sleazy deal that would help solve the mystery and clear the Zealots’ name, that muscle daddy gave me a tongue-lashing of a lifetime.  Have more self-respect, Haven said.  As the bastard half-Navajo basketballer who had frittered away a scholarship, I was a bad penny.  Haven, with his powerful mastery at training and molding me, gave shape to my form. 

HAVEN:  Ogden is my forever toy, a morsel for me to savor.  He says you can’t see the future with tears in your eyes.  If we make it through this hell together, we’ll see clearly.  The club will know I’ve made my bones when I bring them the killer’s head on a platter.

Publisher’s Note:  This book is not for the faint of heart.  It contains scenes of graphic gay sex, May/December romance, illegal doings, consensual bondage and discipline, sadomasochism, and violence in general.  It’s a full-length novel of 60,000 words rated 18+ due to possible triggers.  There is no cheating or cliffhangers, and HEAs all around for all.

Read Chapter One of SHELTER FROM THE STORM--free!


Nogales, Arizona

“Run! Hijo de puta, run!”
I had to blink and look twice.  Not just because a shower of cocaine was raining down on me from above.  My quarry, El Baño, had shot out a bunch of ceramic chollos stacked over my head.  This turned out to be where they were hiding their coke, as I found out when I painfully tried to rub it out of my eyes.
“I mean it!” said the guy crouched down with me behind the crates of Mexican flowerpots.  “If you run out that door, I’ll distract him.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like that?” I sneered.  I was in no position to sneer, really, but I had no idea who this guy was.  I knew I’d come woefully unprepared for this shootout with members of the Presención cartel.  Thinking I’d just be taking out El Baño, alone in a darkened warehouse at one in the morning, it had suddenly turned into the grand opening of a new Disneyland exhibit, complete with fireworks and exciting, heart-pounding rides.
I’d only brought my Springfield .45 semiautomatic with me.  I could have easily strapped on my assault rifle, but I’d left it behind in my Harley’s custom saddlebags.  I thought I’d go in, pick off El Baño from sixty, maybe eighty yards.  Instead, I must’ve walked into the middle of a major deal.  Guys were popping up right and left.  Like a whack-a-mole game, whenever I hit one guy, two more would spring up in his place.
                Already I was shot in the arm.  Bullets cracked overhead, zinging by me, thumping when they hit a column behind me, or embedding in the eighteen-wheeler parked there.   I’d tried to use a dead beaner as a breastwork, but that guy was soon so riddled with holes it was like hiding behind a sieve.  That’s how I wound up behind these pottery crates with this other guy who also seemed to be aiming at El Baño, so named because he’d once left eight guys for dead stacked up like firewood inside a porta-potty.