BIO
J. Paulette lives in a small Ohio town with her husband, a Basset Hound, and a Jack Russell who thinks she owns the place. Her mornings belong to her writing, her days are spent loving her five grandbabies, and her nights belong to her husband, the inspiration for her heroes. An award winning author, she is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Ohio Fiction Writers, Southeastern Ohio Novel Writing Group, Northeast Ohio Romance Writers of America, and the Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal Chapter of RWA. She also writes under the name of Genevieve Delacroix.

 
SPECIAL SNEAK PEEK

EXCERPT FROM SAVAGE BOND – A FALLEN NOVELLA

Thank you so much to RomCon for having me by today! I’ve had lots of fun before with the Reader’s Crown readers, sharing excerpts from my first two Fallen novels: Bond with Me and His Dark Bond. Both of these books feature bad boy fallen angels; stripped of their wings, they were kicked out of the Heavens and exiled to Earth… but with a promise of redemption. Each of the Fallen has one pre-destined mate. Find her and love her—and his soul will be redeemed and his wings restored. Of course, these guys are sensual alphas and warriors… and after three thousand years of failing to find their mates, they’re pretty jaded.

Savage Bond is a novella and part of my Fallen series, although it can certainly be read alone. The novella’s hero is Vkhin, who appears in both of the earlier books. He’s one of the oldest of the Fallen, a cold, merciless warrior-angel who’s perfectly okay with having lost his emotions and his soul when he was exiled from the Heavens. He’s always intrigued me because he’s so cold and emotionless—what would it take to stir him up and get him going? What kind of woman could help him rediscover his lost soul? How about a woman who is lost and running for her life with a set of photos Vkhin desperately needs to get his hands on? (What can I say—I’m a sucker for a good hunt!)

Ria Morgan jumps out of a helicopter and finds herself in the middle of a battlefield—and Vkhin is her only way out… but his help comes with a very sensual price tag.

Vkhin’s headset crackled, coming alive, as the slim figure ejected in slow motion from the open chopper bay. Ten thousand feet up, but his view from the helo was still ringside. The gloved hand hitting the small of the jumper’s back had him growling. That hand had touched her. He knew the body falling free of the chopper. Not as well as he wanted, but he’d been watching her for the last month and Fallen intel said she’d gone up in the plane. One pilot. One ride-along MVD agent. And Ria Morgan.

Ria’s body cleared the chopper and he fought his instinctive reaction. That bird was going down and he didn’t want her anywhere near the wreck. He’d warned Zer and the other Fallen that MVD was getting too bold, making moves that would take the human police division right into Fallen territory. Looked like he was going to have the proof he needed. Unfortunately, his professional responsibilities here were at war with something more feral. Possessive. Ria Morgan was his.

She might be a card-carrying member of MVD and an enemy hostile in his territory, but he wanted her. A rogue dropped away from others going after the chopper, circling back around the protective fire Ria’s human companion was laying down. The gunner laid in counter-fire and the rogue dropped. If Ria was lucky and the other MVD agent was a good shot, Ria just might make it to the ground.

Good. He commed in on his headset. “I’ve got a visual. One jumper. Rest of the crew is staying put. I’m going closer.”

Punching in his new coordinates, he drove the helo towards the chopper without waiting for confirmation from base.

His response to Ria was irrational. She was a backroom operative, a desk jockey. Smart as a whip—he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her brain—but she pulled her nine-to-five and left the dirty stuff to MVD’s field agents. She went into that office building every morning, real punctual. She stopped briefly to pick up a mocha—guilty weakness—and a doughnut, while he knew the same untouched energy bar banged around in the bottom of her over-sized purse every morning. She favored slim pencil skirts and buttoned up white blouses in real soft syn-cotton that clung to her breasts beneath the oversized cardigans she wrapped around herself because she was always cold. A sexy skirt and blouse like that just begged for four-inch heels, but, no, she paired the ensemble with an endless series of black ballerina flats. That mismatch intrigued him. Because, if she wore the flats because they were comfortable or she enjoyed them, what did that say about her taste in skirts? Those skirts cupped her ass, were made from soft fabrics that rubbed against her skin with every step she took, slid temptingly upward when she sat down at that desk of hers, crossed her legs, and leaned forward, going for the joystick controlling her drone. Those skirts were a sensual treat.

He just wanted to know who she was treating.

He, on the other hand, was a warrior, a hand-to-hand fighter who’d climbed into far too many trenches and done whatever killing needed to be done. He didn’t need to be jonesing after a woman who clearly not only didn’t know the meaning of down and dirty, but had no intentio
Excerpt: The Tarczal Alliance
“You disagree the painting is showy?” He turned the subject back to the painting, and with practiced ease, he returned what he surmised was a compliment from the flush blooming on her cheeks. He indulged himself by allowing his gaze to rake over her. A whine like a mosquito’s settled in his ears.

“The artist captured Kandinsky’s style completely,” she sputtered. Logan didn’t give a damn about the painting or the artist. He wondered if the large, dark purple sweater that hung mid-thigh on her was an attempt to hide her body. If that was her goal, the tight black stretch pants, and thigh-high ebony suede boots were a poor choice. Any movement pulled the sweater tight like a second skin over her compact, lithe body.

“Absolutely. He copied a style. You wouldn’t have, Ms?” She fidgeted, and the movement caused the sweater to pull snug over her breasts making them stand out like ripened fruit and accented her flat stomach. Nice. Bet that stomach quivers when a tongue is run over it. Wonder what she’d do with a tongue in her belly button? She’s probably a giggler. He licked his lips. And a squirmer. It was apparent she had no idea what she did to him. He didn’t mind. Several parts of his anatomy were already stirring in response. Her front equaled the heart-shaped derriere he’d seen earlier while she browsed the competition.

“Weston. Allyson Weston. How did you know I paint?” The tiny frown across her brow made him want to laugh. So this was the estranged wife of his latest hire, Michael Weston. During the job interview Michael had constantly moaned and bitched about his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Guess Michael didn’t grasp he’d let go of an extraordinary woman. Logan let his gaze travel down to her legs, dancer’s legs, long and well-defined. Legs any man would enjoy wrapped around him.

Smoothly, Logan reached down, slipping his hand under hers bringing both up to eye level. “You have paint under your nails.” His thumb brushed the skin of her knuckles.

“Oh.”

Quickly, she withdrew her hand from his. Next, she folded her arms across her mid-section, lifting the orbs and tucking her hands safely under her arms.

Logan’s smile widened. “Do you have family in town?” His attention wandered back to the boots she wore. The way they encased her legs from toe to over the knee were a wonderful enticement, and his imagination flared to a deliciously wicked conclusion when she interrupted his assessment of her intriguing appendages by blurting out. “An STB.”

How fresh, honest, and naive she was. Logan bit back a chuckle. Heroes and bartenders: everyone trusted them, confiding intimate details of their lives they’d never reveal to anyone else, an interesting quirk of human nature. He arched an eyebrow in query, and she clarified. “Soon-to-be-ex-husband.”

He stopped himself before he could lick his lips. At the same time the essence of her blood rose from beneath her skin to mingle with the pungent leather of her boots. He inhaled more deeply, drawing it inside him, and swirled his tongue in his mouth to better experience the bouquet. Sweet, delicate, and exotic. Fit for the gods. He stopped his feeder teeth from slipping into place. A taste of her blood would never be enough, and an ocean too little for a man to quench his thirst. Stunned, he wondered where that thought come from, while trying to wish away the growing arousal in his groin. The whirr in his ears grew a little louder.n of ever leaving the pristine confines of her office. He respected MVD’s field agents because those men and women put it on the line every day. Every weapon they strapped on, every fight they broke up or started—those were acts he could respect. Coffee and a doughnut were a whole different world.

So he shouldn’t have wanted to slide the zipper on her skirt down, peel that the soft fabric away from her even softer skin. She wasn’t his type. She was human. And she was off-limits.

To learn more about the Fallen series, come visit me at http://www.anne-marsh.com/ or on Twitter and Facebook.
One lucky reader who comments on my blog today will be randomly selected to win a copy of either Bond with Me or His Dark Bond – winner’s choice of book and format. Good luck!