This is my second foray into contemporary romance, my first one being WICKED GAMES. I loved writing that book, and I have to admit, I loved this one, too. It was so much fun! The heat level is definitely upped in this book, so if you've read something of mine and thought, "Gee, there wasn't enough sex in this book" then look no further!

Here's the blurb:

It's finally available on Amazon, Smashwords, All Romance Ebooks, and should be up on B&N by the next day or two. Apple will take a bit longer. I'm working on getting the print version up and running. If you buy it, let me know what you think! I loved writing it.

SUCCUBI ARE FOREVER is getting one last proof by another set of eyeballs. It is all copyedited and made pretty, and then I went back and changed a few minor things (as you do) and now it is off to the proofer. She promises to get it back to me by the 18th or so, which means I am hoping to get it up on the Kindle/Nook/All Romance websites by about the 20th (give or take a day).

I'm also loading to Apple but they are a finicky beast. Actually, all my books are sitting there, waiting to be approved before going on sale. And have been for about a month (sorry about the wait).

Print will be coming out a week or two after the ebook hits. If you're not wanting to wait, you can buy a PDF on the All Romance website, or read on a Kindle app.

So, VERY SOON. It is a full length novel (~300 pages) and will be for sale for $3.99. A relatively inexpensive Zane fix for all of you!

My mother says it's AWESOME. My sister says it is the BEST BOOK IN THE SERIES. But I hear they are biased.

CHAPTER ONE...  (behind the cut!)

Like everything else bad that happened in Miranda Hill’s life, rear-ending old Mrs. Doolittle was purely the fault of Dane Croft.

She could have sworn that she’d recognized the broad shoulders, tight ass, and familiar swagger of her nemesis walking into the local coffee house. Her most hated enemy. The man who had ruined her life. In fact, she’d been so busy craning her neck to see if it really was Dane Croft that she hadn’t paid attention to the stoplight . . . and had plowed right into the car in front of her.

Yet another thing she could add to the list of reasons why she hated him.

Miranda put her pickup in park and slid out of the cab to look at the damage she’d caused to the other car. Mrs. Doolittle drove a Buick that was older than Miranda herself, and the thing was built like a tank—a big, powder blue tank. The bumper wasn’t even dinged, not that Mrs. D cared. The old woman crawled from the belly of the tank and scowled at her.

“You hit my car, Miranda.” If Mrs. Doolittle had a cane, she probably would have shaken it in Miranda’s face. “What on earth were you thinking, girl?”

Miranda gave Mrs. D an apologetic look and self-consciously tugged at the high collar of her pink sweater set. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Doolittle. I was just . . . distracted.” She was still distracted, actually. Her gaze strayed to the Kurt’s Koffee on the far side of the street, but the windows were tinted and impossible to see into.

The elderly woman peered at her. “Young lady, were you using the Twitters while you were driving? You know—”

“No Internet,” Miranda blurted, tugging on her collar again. “I just wasn’t paying attention. I thought I saw . . . something.”

Someone.

A car pulled up behind them. No surprise, given that most of the streets in downtown Bluebonnet were single lanes, with just enough room in the city square to park in front of one of the two restaurants. She waved for the driver to go around them, and then continued apologizing to Mrs. D, even as they exchanged insurance information. Anything to get out of the street and appease her curiosity. She kept glancing at the coffee house as she scribbled down her contact numbers.

Finally, Mrs. D was on her way, satisfied. Miranda pulled her truck into a parking space across the street and sprinted toward the coffee shop, but didn’t go inside. Instead, she pressed her hands to the glass and peered in. A few people were seated, but she didn’t see the man she was looking for.

No Dane Croft. Was she crazy? Had she imagined that she saw him? Chewing on her lip, Miranda straightened the front of her sweater set in the reflection and then went inside.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Boobs of Bluebonnet,” said Jimmy Langan from behind the counter. Jimmy was the town rebel, with purple, red, and black Rasta braids, a face that had never seen a tan, and enormous ear gauges that he’d probably regret when he was seventy. He grinned at her, giving Miranda the up-and-down look that she’d become far too accustomed to in the past nine years. “What can I do for you?”

“Shut up, Jimmy,” she said. Three weeks. She could deal with the jokes and the sneaking glances at her breasts for three more weeks. Moving past the counter, she peered down the hallway at the restrooms. No Dane Croft. She resisted the urge to open the door, and instead wandered back to the counter. “Is anyone in there?”

“You want me to go and check under the stalls for feet?” Jimmy said dryly.

“Well, no,” she stammered, her hand going to the collar of her sweater. “Maybe.” She hesitated, reluctant to say the name of the man she was looking for. If she even so much as uttered Dane’s name, the rumors would start flying all over town again.

You know that nice Miranda Hill? She never quite got over Dane Croft. She was asking about him in Kurt’s Koffee. Poor thing.

Remember that man in the photos with Miranda Hill? She’s still sweet on him. I heard she’s still got the hots for him and that’s why she hasn’t married.

The town librarian? She’s a slut. Want to see the pictures? She spent seven minutes in heaven with Casanova Croft back when they were both in high school. They even took photos of it. Just google “Boobs of Bluebonnet” and you’ll see them.

Miranda clutched the collar of her demure sweater even harder. “So what kind of customers have you had today?”

Jimmy shrugged lazily, adjusting the thick black-frame glasses on his pasty, scruffy face. He’d been a stoner back when they’d graduated from high school together, and he was a stoner still. Asking him to remember the customers he’d had that morning might be beyond his pot-riddled memory. “Couple soy lattes, couple double espressos, a venti mocha frap with double Splenda . . .”

Great, just what she needed: a rundown of coffee orders. She feigned interest, her eyes skimming the restaurant as Jimmy rattled off a litany of special requests.

“And a certain someone you might recall,” Jimmy added slowly, his gaze dropping to her breasts. “We went to high school with him.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, doing her best to hide what the underwire minimizer wouldn’t. Her heart was thudding hard in her chest, but she forced herself to be nonchalant about the information. “Oh? Someone from high school? Who’s that?”

To her surprise, he reached behind the counter and pulled out a brown and green pamphlet. “You remember Dane Croft? Casanova Croft? Star of the Las Vegas Flush?”

The guy she’d been making out with in the closet? The one with his hand on her boobs and the other down her pants for all eternity thanks to a few ill-timed photos and the magic of the Internet? Who’d left the next day to be drafted into the NHL and become a star while she’d been stuck in town as her mother had a nervous breakdown? The Casanova Croft who’d been booted out of the NHL six years later for sleeping with the coach’s wife? Life-ruiner and all-around jerk?

Yeah, she knew who he was. “I’m familiar with the guy.”

“He’s moved back to town,” Jimmy said, offering her the pamphlet. “Him and two other guys we went to high school with are starting a business here. Something about survival training classes. They bought the Daughtry Ranch on the outskirts of town.”

“The Daughtry Ranch?” Miranda echoed, taking the pamphlet from him and forcing her shaking fingers to open it. The Daughtry Ranch was ten thousand acres of private property, and when old Mr. Daughtry had died without an heir, the ranch had gone up for auction. No one in town knew who’d ended up buying it. Sure enough, there in the picture on the pamphlet were three men she recognized: Grant Markham, Colt Waggoner, and her nemesis—Dane Croft. The three of them were dressed in black T-shirts and camouflage pants, and the top of the brochure proudly proclaimed, “Wilderness Survival Expeditions: Bushcraft Training for Corporate and Military Groups.”

Survival training? The Dane Croft she remembered was a hard-partying playboy who refused to do anything that didn’t involve beer or girls—or both. She remembered Grant and Colt—one was a jock and one had been the richest guy in her class. Both had moved away when they’d graduated, just like Dane. And now they were back . . . just like Dane.

Could today possibly get any worse?

She tucked the brochure into her pocket, feeling faint. “Thanks, Jimmy. Can I get a green tea latte, please?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said lazily, his gaze sliding to her breasts again. “Venti, grande, or tall? Iced or hot? Two percent, whole, skim, or soy?”

Miranda had her phone out, dialing, and ignored Jimmy. Her other hand fluttered back to her pocket repeatedly, touching the brochure again and again.

“Right. I’ll just make something up,” he drawled, then turned away to make her drink.

Beth Ann picked up the office phone on the second ring. “California Dreamin’,” she answered in a chirpy voice. “We do waxes, haircuts, highlights, and perms. Can I make you an appointment?”

“It’s me,” Miranda hissed into the receiver, covering the phone and turning away in case Jimmy planned on listening in. “You’re never going to believe who’s back in town.”

“Who?”

“Dane Croft,” Miranda gritted.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “The Dane Croft? The Vegas Flush player? The one we went to high school with?”

“That’s him—”

“The one who put his hand down your pants—”

“Beth Ann!”

“I’m clearing my lunch appointments,” Beth Ann declared. “Be here in twenty minutes and we’ll talk.”

For Beth Ann, a “talk” usually involved waxing Miranda’s eyebrows, a trim for Miranda’s split ends, and a manicure. They’d been friends ever since the fifth grade, and if there was one thing that Miranda knew about Beth Ann, it was that she liked her hands busy while she chatted. Her small salon was nearly empty at noon on a Wednesday, and Miranda waited patiently as Beth Ann unlocked the back room that housed a tanning bed and let in a teenage blonde.

“I keep telling Candy that she’s going to look like a handbag by the time she’s thirty, but she won’t listen to me,” Beth Ann said with a shrug, returning to the barber chair Miranda sat in. “And the tanning bed brings in almost as much money as manicures do.” She spun the chair around, turning Miranda toward the mirror, and flung the pink satin styling cape over her clothes. “Now, honey, tell me your problems.”

“My problem is Dane Croft,” Miranda said, digging under the cape and pulling the brochure out. She held it toward Beth Ann. “He’s moved back to town—permanently. And he’s started a survival business with Grant Markham and Colt Waggoner.”

“Survival business?” Beth Ann tucked a lock of perfectly highlighted blond hair behind her ear and gave Miranda an odd look in the mirror. “That doesn’t sound like the Dane Croft we went to high school with.”

“It’s him—look at the picture.” Miranda slumped in the salon chair, wishing this day would start over again.

Beth Ann’s eyebrows rose as she stared at the pamphlet. “Professional survival services? That’s kind of strange.”

“I know,” said Miranda flatly.

“Mmm. Just look at them. They’ve all filled out rather . . . nicely, don’t you think?”

Miranda scowled and snatched the pamphlet back, glancing at the photo again. All three men were tall and fit, she supposed. Dane’s arms were especially toned with muscle. He had a dark tan and his black hair was cut incredibly short. The white smile on his face was as familiar as her own. He actually looked like a hunky, Hollywood version of a survival instructor. That made her feel worse. “This is just awful.”

“Why is it awful?” She began to comb out Miranda’s long, dark brown hair and trim the ends. “This is the perfect time for him to come back. You’re leaving for that big job in the city in three weeks, remember? You only have to avoid him until then.” And she sighed.

Miranda ignored Beth Ann’s sigh. She’d heard enough of them to feel permanently guilty about the fact that she wanted to leave Bluebonnet behind for a job in Houston. A job with real benefits and a chance to move up the corporate ladder. A job that could lead anywhere, maybe even chief information officer. Or higher. Miranda Hill, the Boobs of Bluebonnet, would have a fancy title and an even fancier job. She could actually do something with her master’s in Library Science instead of just re-cataloging books and taking complaints from old ladies who wanted the “dirty vampire books” removed from the shelves. “This is my chance to do something, Bethy. To get out of town. To be something other than the Boobs of Bluebonnet.”

“It’s what you’ve always wanted,” agreed Beth Ann. “It doesn’t mean that it won’t make me sad to see you go.”

Miranda regarded her friend through the mirror, watching as Beth Ann clipped her ends with careful, precise fingers. “I know. I’ll come back and visit you all the time.”

In the mirror, Beth Ann gave her a wry smile. “Sure you will.”

Miranda glared down at the pamphlet and the three tanned, attractive men on the cover. “You know, I was hoping for three quiet weeks to relax and get things settled. My last day at the library was yesterday. My apartment in Houston is leased. The house is almost packed. I’ve got nothing to do for the next three weeks except stare at this picture and stew. Except every time I look at this, I see them.”

“Three sexy beasts?”

“Not them. The pictures.”

The images were ingrained into her memory. If she lived to be eighty, she’d never forget one single detail of those grainy, horrible photos—her torso facing the camera, an expression of complete and utter abandon on her face. Her T-shirt pushed up around her neck, her breasts facing the camera. Dane’s mouth on her neck and his hand down the front of her panties. Then the picture of her kneeling in front of him, as if she was about to give him a blow job.

She’d never known that there’d been a camera in the closet. Or that he’d pack up and leave town practically the next day to join the NHL, without a single word to her. Miranda had been forced to pretend that she wasn’t hurt by his abandonment, but abandonment had soon given way to horror as soon as the pictures surfaced.

And with a town as small as Bluebonnet . . . everyone talked. She hadn’t slept with Dane, but that didn’t matter. She’d tried going to the police when the pictures first went up, but her mother had been so upset and sheriff had looked at her like she was trash, and she’d dropped the entire thing rather than acknowledge that the pictures were of her and Dane. At the time, she’d hoped it’ll all just go away. No such luck..  Everyone in town assumed she had slept with Dane, blown him in the closet at a party, and they looked at her like she was dirt. In their eyes, she was dirt. The town slut. It had taken patience, a stiff upper lip, and years of a quiet existence as the town’s librarian before she’d managed to grasp a semblance of her reputation again.

Beth Ann put down the scissors and leaned over the back of the chair, smiling into the mirror at Miranda’s frown. “Well, you’ve got three weeks to burn, and your infamous ex is back in town. You can pretty much do what you want and you won’t be here to suffer the repercussions. So what do you want to do? TP his house? Key his car? I’m sure we can think up something totally juvenile and completely satisfying.”

Miranda stared down at the pamphlet, at Dane’s confident smile. But what she saw was pictures of herself on a webpage, in e-mails forwarded to thousands of people. Tossed up on the Internet and forever linked to her name. Pictures of his hand down her pants, her breasts angled at the camera like twin beacons.

And she stared at Dane’s casual, confident brochure smile again. Professional survival training, the pamphlet read.

Casanova Croft, kicked off of the Las Vegas Flush for sleeping with the owner’s wife.

Professional survival training. Professional.

“I think I want revenge,” Miranda blurted, then turned to stare up at her friend. “I know it’s not rational, and I don’t even care. Is that crazy?”

“Not at all,” soothed Beth Ann. “What did you have in mind?”

Miranda held up the brochure, an idea forming. “I want to ruin his career like he did mine.”

“I’m listening, honey.”

Miranda flipped open the pamphlet. “They’re just starting a business, right? What if pictures of Dane Croft surfaced on the Internet? Naked pictures of him? Naked, compromising pictures of him?” The idea began to grow in her mind, and she jumped out of the chair, almost trembling with excitement. “Naked, compromising pictures of him in a survival situation?”

Her best friend’s blond brows furrowed together. “And where would you get such pictures?”

“I’d take them myself.”

Beth Ann raised an eyebrow. “And just how are you going to do that?”

Miranda held up the brochure triumphantly. “I’m going to sign up for a survival course and use the legendary Boobs of Bluebonnet against him. Casanova Croft won’t stand a chance.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’ve never been wise around Dane Croft,” Miranda said, thinking of the last time she’d seen him.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Chad announced, shoving Miranda and Dane toward his bedroom closet. Giggling teenagers surrounded them, and Miranda felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment, but she didn’t let go of Dane’s hand.

Dane nudged Chad and grinned. “Do me a favor, bro, and skip the timer.”

Chad smirked.

She could have protested, said she wasn’t that kind of girl, but she said nothing, not even when the door shut behind them. She wanted to be that kind of girl with Dane.

Chad’s closet smelled like sweaty football gear and dirty clothes. It was crammed full of boxes and clothing on hangers, the single flickering lightbulb overhead not offering much in the way of light. She wrinkled her nose at the musty smell of the closet and waited, her breath catching. Would Dane make a move on her tonight? They’d flirted for weeks, held hands for the last one, and kissed under the bleachers. Given time, she knew she wanted him to be the one to take her overdue virginity.

But time was the one thing they didn’t have. They’d graduated earlier that evening and after the cap and gown ceremony, they’d headed to Chad’s for the last senior fling.

It was now or never.

She gestured at the light overhead as it flickered again. “Should we turn that off?”

“Leave it on. I like looking at you.” Dane’s hand gave hers a squeeze and he smiled at her. “You okay?”

Yes, she wanted to say. I’m fine. Did you have a nice time at graduation? But it came out as a whimper, the words lodged in her throat.

Dane chuckled at that. “I guess I should be telling you ‘Happy eighteenth birthday,’” he said. “You’re as old as me now.”

Eighteen, and they’d be going off to college soon. The thought ran through her mind, urgent curls of heat rushing through her. Instead of responding, she pulled him close and began to kiss him instead, her mouth seeking his.

“Whoa,” Dane whispered, but his hands went to her ass and he pulled her against him, grinding his hips against her own. His tongue slid into her mouth, delving deep and tasting her in the sweetest kiss she’d ever had. His mouth pulled away from hers after a long moment and he breathed hard in her ear. “Damn, Miranda.”

Her own breath thrilled at that, and she slid her leg between his . . . and stumbled, landing on him.

He cursed, trying to shift his weight, pinned between a row of jackets and a stack of boxes.

“Sorry,” she whispered meekly, shaking her high-heeled boot. “I think my shoe got caught in his helmet.”

They fumbled in the cramped quarters, and Miranda grabbed onto a shelf and pulled herself up, then turned to remove the football helmet from her boot.

Dane shifted behind her, his hands sliding around her waist. “That’s better,” he whispered against her neck. Something tickled at her waist, where her shirt rode up—his fingers.

Her hand covered his, and she moved it farther up under her shirt, quivering with pleasure. “Touch me, Dane. Please.”

“Love to,” he whispered in her ear, and pressed a kiss against her neck, making her squirm. “You are the hottest damn thing in this town, Miranda Hill.”

“You know it, Dane Croft,” she whispered, craning her neck so his tongue could glide along her throat. Heat pulsed through her body. She didn’t protest when his hands slid to her shirt and pulled it over her head in the near darkness. She even unhooked her own bra, since his fingers fumbled at her back for a long moment. But then his hands were cupping her breasts, his fingers warm against her skin. Fingers teased her nipples and she gasped, lifting her arms and twining them around his bent head.

From behind her, he pressed a kiss against her bare shoulder and she could feel his erection against her jeans. His fingers tweaked her nipples again, and her breath caught in response. “Dane,” she whispered. “God, do that again.”

“I’ll do even better,” he said against her neck. One hand grasping her full breast, his other slid down her belly and undid the button on her jeans. Her entire body tensed, tingles of excitement running through her. Was he going to touch her . . . there?

His fingertips slid into her panties, brushed the curls of her sex, and she let out a whimper of delight. Two seconds later, his fingertips slipped into her panties. One finger swept past the lips of her sex, grazed her clit. Oh yes. His hand squeezed her breast at the same time that he stroked her there, and her entire body stiffened, the anticipation of being in the closet with him rushing her toward an orgasm—

Click.

Miranda froze in place. Dane continued to finger her, biting at her shoulder, and she pulled away from him, sliding his hand out of her panties. “Did you hear that?”

His hands reached for her, brushed against her breasts again. “Didn’t hear anything.”

“I thought I heard a noise,” she said softly, staring at the closet door. It was still shut, and the doorknob didn’t move. Overhead, the light flickered again. Nothing. Maybe she was imagining things. Paranoid at being caught. If she listened hard, she could hear her classmates giggling in the other room, waiting for them to emerge.

She started to protest, but he bit her shoulder and pleasure crashed over her, and she didn’t protest when his hand slid back into her panties once more.

Looking back, she had been so very, very dumb. She should have guessed that Dane would have hidden a camera in that damn closet. Should have guessed that he’d want all his buddies to see that he’d gotten into curvy Miranda Hill’s panties and made her writhe against his hand in a closet. She hadn’t blown him, either, but no one would believe that from looking at the photos.

And she should have guessed that he’d disappear as soon as the NHL came calling. Who was she to him? No one, it seemed, but a quickie in the closet.

You can fill out a bracket yourself and enter to win lots of cool prizes. I think there's an iPad 2 up for grabs, among other cool things. To fill out a bracket, go to this website: http://dabwaha.wordpress.com/  and click on 'Tourney Site'. When you're on the tourney site, add a bracket. If you need help, this post will walk you through it.

So fill out a bracket! And when it comes time, VOTE FOR MEEEEEEE.

Here's the blurb I turned in (which might change, of course!) to give you an idea of what the book is about. These characters are introduced in THE GIRL'S GUIDE TO (MAN) HUNTING. Let me know what you think!

Beth Ann needed a hero… 

Beth Ann Williamson has finally had it with her on-and-off fiancé of nine years. The problem? No one in town seems to believe her when she says it’s really over. Now Beth Ann is determined to show the small town of Bluebonnet, Texas, that she can take care of herself.  That means opening her own salon and not taking the help that her ex-fiancé seems determined to offer.

Of course, even the best laid plans go awry when she’s stranded in the woods in the middle of a downpour. Some independent woman she is. She can’t even find her way out of the woods without the help of a handsome but scowling Marine.

She got more than she bargained for…

A die-hard survivalist, Colt Waggoner’s none too pleased when he’s sent to find the town’s pampered princess. He’s even more annoyed when Beth Ann isn’t grateful for the rescue. Fine, then. He’ll just have to teach the sexy blonde a lesson – a weekend of roughing it out in the wild. Just the two of them, alone, in muddy, wet clothing that needs to come off…

But Beth Ann isn’t the spoiled princess he thought. And when she propositions him for a one night stand, he knows he should turn it down. Because this alpha male might need more than just one night in her bed to satisfy him…

 

 

What do you think? I'm SO excited because I loved writing this book, and I loved these characters.

Just a quick note that if you purchase my stories through Smashwords, I am no longer going to be using their service. If you are international and wish to purchase, my books continue to be available at All Romance Ebooks, and the ones that are not up there at the moment will soon be available.

I'm sorry if this is inconvenient for anyone, but I won't do business with a company that does not provide adequate tax records or provide the proper documentation by the correct time frames that all other companies must follow. Their delays in producing required paperwork affect me personally and I won't let it happen again. It's a personal decision, and if you find that it makes my stuff unavailable to you (for whatever reason), drop me an email and let's chat.

Thanks!

Jill

I intended for it to be private, initially (who wants to see my concepts other than me?) but I seem to be acquiring followers, so I thought I'd put it out there for anyone that wants to follow. It's here, and most of the concepts are for unwritten books, or books I'm currently writing. And lots of fantasy art, because someday I'm going to write another fantasy novel.

http://pinterest.com/jillmyles/

As you may not already know, this will be the last book in the Succubus Diaries. My publisher decided not to continue on with the books, so I'm self-publishing it. What this means is that I can bring it to market faster, and in the case of the ebook, cheaper. Once I've finished writing it and revising it, I'm sending it off to my trusty editor to help me knock into shape, and then it's just a matter of formatting the book. So instead of waiting a year after I turn it in, you'll only have to wait a month or so. The target is still spring, but I don't know when in spring it'll be done. If the book runs long, it'll be a bit longer before I bring it out, of course. I'm not going to rush it, and it's going to be fully edited, so it'll be worth the wait.

In the meantime, here's a tease of the first chapter!

Chapter One

 If there was one thing I struggled with, it was being deliberately sexy. Unfortunately for a succubus, if there was one rule of the Afterlife, it was that I could get a lot more by using my boobs than my brain. Sad but true.

With this in mind, I grasped the front of my low-cut black dress and hauled it up a little higher. The bodice of the darn thing was super tight, and angled so that my breasts jutted forward and jiggled like they were trying to make a run for their freedom. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to put someone’s eye out.

“Quit fidgeting.” My best friend Remy slapped my hand as I tugged on the straining spaghetti straps. “You look fine.”

“I look ridiculously busty. Like, tavern wench busty.”

“You’re supposed to, remember?”

Well, sure. Remy was used to all her girly bits hanging out. It still unnerved me – I was far more comfortable in a sweatshirt and jeans. And besides, she was missing the point of this conversation. “Yeah, but I also thought we were supposed to blend. How can I blend if I look more like a pair of torpedoes primed for the launch sequence? That’s not blending.”

She rolled her eyes at me and gave a little bounce in her own tight red dress like a boxer heading in to a fight. It was a move, I realized, that was designed to make the dress slide down and reveal even more of her ample cleavage. “Like anyone’s going to care if you blend or not. They’ll be too busy staring at your tits and ass to think about anything else. Come on. Do you want to get this crappy old book of yours or not?”

With that, Remy put her hands on her hips and sashayed into the crowd. I caught a brief glimpse of her head as she introduced herself to a silver-haired man in a tuxedo, flipped her hair, and gave him a charming smile.

And that was that.

I adjusted my boobs again, smiled at a few people who were nearby, and headed to the back of the room, pretending to head for the bathroom. With Remy gone from my side to be the center of attention, I could move on to my goal. I heard a bright peal of her laughter as I moved to the outskirts of the crowd, watched heads turn in her direction. All part of the plan. I gave my uncomfortable dress one last tug and slipped into the crowd, blending with the dark formalwear of the partygoers and smiling as I stepped past. The ballroom was crowded, but I wasn’t interested in the party itself. It was just an obstacle between me and my goal.

At the far end of the massive ballroom, there was a short hallway cordoned off with a velvet rope, leading to a pair of gilt double doors. The hall was lit with flickering candles in ornate sconces on the wall.

Why hello, goal.

I moved toward that velvet rope with single-minded purpose, murmuring excuses to the people I slid past. I smiled and nodded and even cast a flirty look at one man, since I needed to shove past him and he wasn’t moving. I brushed my boobs up against him and slid past with a smile. I kept this up until I had crossed the ballroom and now stood at the rope.

This end of the main hall was quieter than the other end, though in about fifteen minutes, it was going to be the spotlight of the party. I needed to move fast. With a quick glance around to ensure that no one was looking in my direction, I unhooked the rope and stepped on the other side. If anyone asked, I was just looking for the ladies’ room. Or something.

"Can I help you find something, miss?" A waiter paused near me, frowning as I re-buckled the rope back to the pillar.

Oh. Oops. Where was Remy with that distraction? "I'm just running to the ladies' room," I said to him with a bright smile.

He raised an eyebrow, and then his gaze dipped to my too-jiggly cleavage. “That’s not the restroom.”

I put a stupid look on my face. “It’s not?”

"That’s the unveiling room. It’s off limits for party guests. No one should be back there until Mr. Melledin gives the word."

"So it is," I agreed, thinking fast. He was staring at me expectantly and I had frozen like a deer in headlights. “Thank you.”

His gaze dipped to my breasts again.

An idea occurred to me, and I stepped forward, reaching for a glass of champagne. I smiled at him and gave him a very blunt, appraising look. “Is it a private room?”

The waiter stared at me. My boobs. My face. I resisted the urge to snap my fingers in his face.

“Private?” he echoed.

“You know.” I winked at him, then glanced back at the room I was dying to enter. “Private.” When he hesitated, I added, "I'll meet you in the room at the end of the hall in three minutes?"

And to make sure he caught my suggestion, I licked my lips and trailed a finger down my exposed cleavage. If that didn’t convince him, I was going to have to start drawing him pictures.

He swallowed, hard. “The unveiling is in fifteen minutes.”

I bit my lower lip, and gave him a hungry look. “We won’t take long.”

He gave me the dazed, dopey smile of a man that had just been wrapped around my finger. His hands clenched the edge of the tray eagerly. "Three minutes."

I wiggled my fingers at him and moved toward the shadows. "See you soon," I purred. Creep.

The waiter stumbled backward, grinning at me, and then disappeared into the crowd - presumably to dump his drink tray. I continued to smile in his direction until he disappeared from sight, and then bolted down the hallway.

Now to find a good hiding spot to ensure that he wouldn't be able to find me for the rendezvous I had just promised and had zero intention of following through with.

"Nightingale to Robin Red Breast," buzzed a voice in my ear. "Nightingale to Robin Red Breast, do you read me."

I rolled my eyes as I moved further down the hall and touched my finger to the ear-bud in my ear, the headset hidden by my long, thick red hair. So far, despite the crush of the party, no one had noticed me. That was good. "Hello Remy," I replied. "I can hear you."

"Nightingale to Robin Red Breast," she repeated cheerfully, ignoring the fact that I was not using our code names. "The Vulture is heading in your direction. I repeat, Vulture is heading your way."

Who the heck was the Vulture? No one was supposed to be heading in my direction. I tested the double door and found it unlocked, and slipped inside. "Who is heading my way? Remy? We don’t have to use code names. We’re the only ones on this frequency--"

"I have a bogey on my radar," she said, interrupting. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Gotta go." The headset clicked off.

“Isn’t a bogey golf?” I asked, but she was no longer listening.

I sighed, then glanced around the room I’d just entered. A massive sitting area, furnished with what looked like Louis XIV chairs and crystal dishes that probably cost more than I had made at the University last year as an archaeologist. Paintings in gilt frames lined the tall walls, and there was a fresco of fat, naked cherubs on the ceiling. It was all very old money and all very rich.

Well then, they wouldn’t mind if I stole a little something, right? I told myself that, anyhow, and moved into the room, eyeing the heavy red velvet drapes next to each incredibly tall window. It was night, so they were pulled shut. I moved forward and examined it. Wires ran along the windowsill, a light flashing. Alarm system. I peeked out the window pane, wincing at the sight of the security guards walking the grounds outside. Sheesh. It was like our wealthy billionaire host didn’t trust his guests or something.

The handle on the door clicked.

I froze as the door opened, then flattened myself along the wall behind the window curtain. That damn waiter. Ugh. Hopefully he’d assume the room was empty and that I’d bailed on our rendezvous, then quickly leave again. And if not, I’d have to take more drastic action.

The door shut and revealed the person that had just entered. His back was turned to me. I stared at a broad pair of shoulders covered with a long, floor-dusting leather jacket. It might not have been that unusual except for the fact that it was summer, and his beat-up jacket was squarely out of place at the party.

But my heart gave a happy little flip at the sight of it anyhow, and my internal tuning fork thrummed with pleasure. It always stirred when an immortal was around, but the sight of this particular immortal never failed to make me quiver.

The man in the jacket didn’t turn around. As I watched his broad shoulders flex, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, lit it. My body gave a tingled as he glanced over his shoulder, and I saw the beautiful mouth – that kept the cigarette perched firmly in place – edge into a smile.

“You playing hide and seek, princess?”

I stepped out of the curtains and moved forward, drawn toward him. When I reached his side, I ran a hand along the back of Zane’s long leather jacket, feeling the twitch of his wings underneath the coat. “I thought you were waiting in the car in case we had to make a quick getaway?”

Because, you know, a guy in a long trench coat in summer never stood out at all…

“Thought I might come in and make sure everything was ok. You know I don’t trust Remy to have your back.” He shrugged, and the faint scent of tobacco touched my nostrils as I stepped into the smoke of his cigarette.

A momentary twinge of annoyance swept over me. I’d spent the last three months blissfully happy with Zane at my side…that is, blissfully happy unless he and Remy were in the same room. Then it was more like I was stuck between two bickering siblings. I thought we’d gotten past that, though, ever since Zane had helped me free Remy from her master. “Remy has my back just fine–”

“Really? Because I saw her in the main room,” he gestured back at the direction he’d just came, “with a leg wrapped around some guy and her tongue down his throat.”

She worked fast. “She’s providing a distraction for me.”

“I’ll say she’s a distraction. I’m not sure if Ethan saw that he’d approve.” He frowned at me, and more specifically at my low-cut dress. “You know that you can do other things than just manipulate people with your bodies.”

I leaned up and kissed him. “Who are you and what have you done with my Zane?” I teased, grinning.

He gave me a chagrined look and tossed his cigarette down on the Aubusson carpet, then ground it under his boot. “I’m the guy that just had to bite the oversexed waiter in the hallway who was looking for you.”

Aw, that was sweet. “You’re so sexy when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said in a sulky tone that indicated that he was, in fact, very jealous. “I just worry about you.”

“I’m a succubus,” I said, poking him in the chest. “We don’t have super strength, super speed, can’t fly, and can’t charm people or influence them like the fallen. So shoving our boobs under everyone’s noses to distract them? That’s what we do.” It wasn’t like this was a revelation to him – the first time we’d met, I’d been doing something very similar, and he hadn’t disapproved of my tactics then.

“I’m Ethan’s friend. You know if he could see Remy right now, he wouldn’t be pleased.”

Zane did have a point. It was odd to think that Zane and Ethan had been at each other’s throats a few months ago and somewhere along the line, had turned into friendship. Now they were buddies like Remy and I were BFF, and they looked out for each other. And apparently the friendship extended to watching out for the other guy’s girlfriend. This was the reason behind Zane’s grumpiness, then.

Ethan was normally the fourth member of our little troupe, but he was visiting his monastery at the moment. As an enforcer, his job was to handle tasks given to him by the Serim. No one seemed to think that an enforcer could have – or possibly want – a life of his own, and so Ethan’s superiors were mystified by his relationship with Remy. He was there at the monastery now, requesting permission to remain out in ‘the wild’ a bit longer. I didn’t know what Remy would do if his permission was turned down.

But I knew what straight-laced Ethan would think of Remy’s flirty diversions. He would not be happy.

Good thing he wasn’t here.

I glanced at my watch, frowning. Much as I loved seeing Zane here, we only had a few minutes before the unveiling on the book would draw the crowd into the empty antechamber that we currently stood in, and I needed to get to the book before that happened. I grabbed Zane’s arm and turned him toward the door. “I’m going to steal the page. You go find Remy and pry her off of her latest conquest.”

He gave me a mock salute. “Your wish is my command.”

“Tease,” I said to him, and turned away.

Zane grabbed my hand, spinning me around and pulling me back toward him again. My body pressed up against his, and I could feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothing. The Itch spiraled through my body, pulsing with need. “Kiss before you go?” he said, leaning in to me with a smile. “And then I promise I’ll behave.”

“Maybe just a small one.” I slid my hand to the back of his neck and twined my fingers in the short black hair at his nape. Who was I to resist a vampire? Especially such a sexy one.

His eyes flickered red down at my own, and his mouth slanted over mine. I felt his fangs brush against my lower lip before he slid his tongue against my own, giving my mouth a slow, tantalizing lick that made me weak in the knees. Over and over he licked into my mouth, each thrust of his tongue a suggestion that I was more than receptive to. I clung to him as the kiss grew more intense, heat coursing through my body.

Even if we were together a thousand years, I’d never get used to the way Zane kissed me. It was as if he wanted to devour me whole, and every touch was barely leashed, every stroke of his tongue speaking of need and desire and lust.

Just as quickly as he’d begun to kiss me, Zane released me with a grin. His eyes had flared bright red, and he stared down at my dazed face with a hungry gaze. “Hurry up and get your page,” he said in a low growl. “Because you have exactly five minutes before I rip that dress from your body.”

Hot damn. I quivered at that, and melted in his arms. “Five minutes,” I echoed, dreamily. “Got it.”

Zane pressed a kiss to my forehead, made sure I could stand on my own two feet again, and then left the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

In a haze, the Itch pounding through my body, I stared after him until he was out of sight. Then, my senses snapped back into place, and I straightened my dress. Right. The page. Get the page, and then we could be done with this little adventure and go back to our hotel for a few hours of frisky bed-play. I was always game for that.

I touched my finger to the headset. “Remy, Zane’s coming to get you. I’m going to grab the page and then join you two out front. Understand?”

No answer. Well, it might have been difficult to reply if her tongue was stuck down someone else’s throat like Zane had said. I clicked the headset off, fluffed my hair to hide it again, and set off on my mission.

I’d first heard about the Melledin Manuscript in a magazine. I’d been reading in bed while waiting for Zane to awaken from his nightly hibernation. For months, I’d been buried in research on the haloes, looking for clues in historical data, searching for mentions of miracles and unexplained phenomena that might lead me back. I researched every single name that Zane could give me, looking for immortals that had affected the course of history in oblique fashion.

And when that failed, I just buried myself in research. I loved research, after all. I’d been reading an article that compared a newly-found mysterious manuscript to the Voynich Manuscript. They thought the author of it was John Dee – a famous Elizabethan mystic – except for the fact that it seemed to be hundreds of years older than anyone had thought. Scientists viewed the manuscript as a mystery.

Then, Zane had woken up and distracted me, and I’d forgotten all about the manuscript…

Until I found him reading the same magazine a few days later, a funny expression on his face. It turned out that not only could he read the ancient angelic script that the Melledin Manuscript was lettered with, but it provided the first real clues we’d had toward finding the two missing haloes. The Melledin Manuscript had recently been on a tour in the US, visiting several prominent museums along the way. Now it was back home in Switzerland, and that was why we suddenly found ourselves in Europe.

One page of the manuscript in particular held the key to the information we sought. Unfortunately, the page in the magazine spread had been an extreme close-up and I needed to see the entire thing. Thus we were resorting to…less ethical methods of getting our hands on the page.

So here I was, crashing a charity function all so I could get inside and rip apart a thousand-year-old manuscript that was lauded as one of the most fascinating finds of the last century.

Sure, we could just take a picture of the page instead of ripping it out of the book…but that also meant that the information would be out there for other immortals to discover. I needed that halo to win a boon from the Archangel Gabriel. Something told me that he’d be just as happy giving that boon to someone else. And given that both the Serim and vampires did not play well together…

Well, it was just best if I confiscated the information, even if it hurt my soul to deface a priceless book.

The book wasn’t in the room, though. There was another set of double-doors at the far end of the room, and I headed toward those. I tested the brass handle of the door – not locked, and no alarm. Well, that made things easier. I entered the room and shut the door behind me.

“This room is off limits.” A man in a security guard uniform stood by the lit case where the massive book rested.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I gave him a bright smile and closed the door behind me.

He frowned in my direction, gesturing that I should leave the room. And when I didn’t move, he continued to approach me. “I said, you need to leave–”

I reached out and brushed his cheek with my hand, shutting down his mind and sending him to sleep. Okay, so succubi weren’t completely helpless as I’d intimated toward Zane. But the powers we had weren’t exactly subtle ones, either. With my fingers pressed against the guard’s forehead, I rummaged through the dream I’d forced on him, looking for pass-codes or security keys. Nothing, luckily for me. With a pat to his cheek, I stood and approached the dais.

The book lay spread before me on a pedestal, a lit glass case protecting the valuable object inside from onlookers. It was beautiful, I thought as I stared down through the glass. The pages were thick and yellowed with age, the ink crisp and vivid with color. Scrollwork decorated the edges of the paper with a story that archaeologists hadn’t been able to figure out, but Zane had told me involved the fall of the angels. Not just any angels, but specific ones.

The ones I was looking for.

Biting my lip, I grasped the glass case and pulled it off of the book. My entire body was tense, ready for an alarm to go off, but nothing happened. With relief, I placed the case on the ground at my feet and leaned over the book. I’d normally wear latex gloves to handle a book like this, since the oils on my fingertips were sure to destroy it…but I was just about to rip out a page and stuff it into my bra. Did it even matter if I left fingerprints on the damn thing?

I laid tentative fingers on the thick vellum of the manuscript. It felt sacrilegious and amazing all at once. I was touching something a thousand years old, and it gave me a thrill to do so. With gentle fingers, I turned the page, wincing as the lambskin sheets of parchment felt thin and weak under my fingertips. After a few cautious flips, I found the page I was looking for – nine rings of different colors seemed to be interconnected by golden chains on the page, and surrounded by small, cribbed text in the strange, looping handwriting. This was the page I needed. This one, Zane insisted, would lead us toward a missing halo, maybe both if we were lucky.

Wincing to myself, I gave the page a firm tug, and felt a little bit of my soul shred as I pulled it out of the book.

A priceless, fragile work of art, one of a kind and of holy origin…a book that had lasted a thousand years, and here I was defacing it like some teenager tearing out pages in the library. It felt dirty and wrong, and I couldn’t help but frown to myself as I rolled up the page and then slid the tube of paper down the front of my tight dress, until it nestled deep between my breasts and out of sight.

If skipping out on a dig in Mexico didn’t make me a bad archaeologist, I was pretty sure that defacing a priceless text would do it.

I felt rather than heard the step of soft feet behind me, and tensed.

“Don’t worry honey. We’ve got you now,” an unfamiliar, breathy female voice whispered in my ear. A hand touched my bare arm. Before I could turn, a disconcerting, vague feeling washed over me. My mind fuzzed, then went black, and the last thing I thought before falling into unconsciousness was that I’d been found.

By another succubus.

A bit of a wait, but SUCH a fun book to write.