Here's the way cool cover April Martinez did for the anthology Rae Morgan, Emma Sinclair and I have coming out--I think in the March/April timeframe. Didn't she do a fantastic job?!?
Here's the blurb and an unedited excerpt from my story, Damnation:
Brianna Dempsey is on the run from a hitman. When he tracks her to her house, threatening her and her precious dog Oscar, she's saved by Jack Gerrard, a supernatural Protector. But Jack is something more--a vampire. He breaks all the rules, especially the one about not having carnal relations with his charge. But once he's had a taste of Bree, there's no going back...
Setup of scene: After getting away from the hitman--but leaving her purse with her ID behind-- Brianna has come home to pick up her dog, unwilling to leave him alone where he could be in danger. The hitman barges in and taunts her, swinging her purse from one hand. When he drops her purse, the contents spill on the floor.
~ * ~
Bree watched a tube of lipstick roll across the floor. Her throat felt swollen, tight. She swallowed. Her breath came quickly, her heart pounded a dull, hard thud behind her ribs. She couldn't believe the company had sent a hitman after her. Granted, with what she knew, the authorities could put the owners away for a very long time, but she'd never thought Jeremiah or Matthias Fairchild would stoop to murder.
She was more naïve than she'd realized.
"You..." She cleared her throat. "You were sent by the Fairchilds?"
"Does it matter?" he countered. His gun remained trained on her. His voice was smooth and without inflection of any kind. He was the epitome of the cold, hard killer.
"To me it does."
He shrugged. "I didn't get where I am today by blabbing to my victims, sugar." His dark gaze studied her for a moment, then he shrugged again. "Oh, well. Enough stalling. I have a job to do. Don't take it personally."
Bree blinked.
Don't take it personally? "You've got to be kidding."
The hitman grimaced. "Okay. So, take it personally. I don't give a flying fuck."
A cold breeze wafted over her and she shivered. The man by the door brought his left hand up to steady the gun, and her eyes widened. "Wait!"
He paused, one dark eyebrow raised.
"Don't... Please don't kill Oscar. Please."
His gaze went to the dog by her side. "Doesn't look like he's gonna give me much choice, sister."
Bree knew what he said was true. Oscar strained against her hold, his growls turning more and more into barks and snarls. She bent her head, biting her lip against tears. Her sweet baby... "Ssh." She tried to soothe him, without success.
"That's it." The hitman took a step forward. "That damned mutt's gonna bring people running. Say goodbye to him, sugar."
She shivered again, unsure if it was from the wind coming around the damaged door or the brush of death against her soul. Closing her eyes, she hugged Oscar and waited for the end.
The sound of a shot being fired was muted by the silencer, but it was loud enough and she flinched, expecting to feel the white hot agony of lead slamming into her body. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes to see the gunman looking as bewildered as she felt.
"What the fuck...!" He pulled the trigger, and again the sound of the bullet being forced from the chamber sounded.
And again...nothing else happened. She didn't get shot.
From one blink to the next, another man materialized in front of her, his broad back blocking her view of the hitman. Inky black hair held in a pony tail trailed down his back. In her position on her knees, her eyes were level with his jeans-clad ass. Even as she noted what a fine pair of glutes he had, a part of her--a numbed, shocked part--wondered where he'd come from, how he'd seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
Bree heard a vicious curse from the man who'd been doing his best to kill her, and another gunshot. As the man in front of her jerked from the impact of the bullet plowing into his flesh, she screamed and scuttled backward, dragging Oscar with her. He wriggled in a determined effort to get free, his barks frantic. Finally, with a heave, he freed himself from her hold and lunged forward.
The tall man leapt toward the gunman, but tripped over the bulldog. He swore and staggered sideways. Then, in a movement too fast for her frightened gaze to follow, he righted himself and went after the other man again.
"What the fuck!" The hitman's voice was strained and fearful as he yanked on the front door. The door swung open, bouncing off the wall, falling from its one remaining hinge to crash onto the floor. The footsteps of the fleeing gunman faded, then she heard the screech of tires pulling away.
The tall man in front of her slumped, bracing himself with his hands on his bent thighs as he drew in deep breaths. Oscar went to him, putting one paw on the man's calf and whining softly.
Bree pushed herself to her feet. She clenched her fists and tried to calm her breathing. Having someone pop up in front of her out of thin air wasn't exactly an every day occurrence for her, and she was trying very hard to not freak out.
He brought one hand up to his face as he straightened, then slowly turned to face her.
Her breath hitched in her throat. There was a streak of blood across his right cheek, the gash from the bullet raw and angry looking but, even as she watched, the wound knitted over and healed.
Completely.
She backed up until she slammed against the wall. She held out one hand and motioned to the dog. "Oscar!" When the bulldog ignored her and pranced around the feet of the man who'd saved her from being killed, Bree quavered, "Who are you?"
Perhaps the better question would be
What are you? But she wasn't ready for an answer to that one. Not yet.
He glanced at the dog nattering at his feet and an expression somewhere between disbelief and chagrin passed over his handsome features. When he looked at her, his hazel eyes held warm humor. "Who's my new friend?" he asked, his tone wry and holding a hint of an accent that made her think of dark, sultry Parisian nights.
Copyright ©2007 Sherrill Quinn. All Rights Reserved.Coming this Spring from
Liquid Silver Books!
"I'm no model lady. A model's just an imitation of the real thing." ~Mae West
