Excerpt Three, and Feb. 07 Cover Dreams

Okay, enough venting about predictibly nice reviews...let's dream about my Feb. '07 cover today.

You read excerpts of The Perfect Daughter last week. Everyone fell in love with Matt Lebretti, my tough NYPD detective. Wanna know who I had in mind in each and every scene? Who I'd KILL to have on the cover...

Yeah, if you're a regular, it's no big surprise... Peter DeCicco is my cover model dream guy...

Peter, if you're lurking out there, you're the man. Everyone else, is there any doubt he'd sell oodles of books? Start sending in petitions to Harlequin now...we need as much Peter in our lives as we can get ;O)




Just in case you need more incentive to exercise your civic duty and get out the vote... Need I say more!!! Doesn't he just say, "Don't mess with my girl!!!" Grrrrr.







I want a close up of the hero on the cover, like they did for The Runaway Daughter, this time with a shot of Matt's (okay, Peter's) to-die-for blue eyes as he holds Maggie against his chest, cradling her head to his shoulder. Sigh...




Oh, and we have a winner from yesterday's comments... catslady, pick either On Blue Falls Pond, by Susan Crandall, or
Chill of Fear, by Kay Hooper...or I have my author copies of The Prodigal's Return, and I can send you one of those...You'll have yours in time to take part in eHarlequin's book club thread on the book--one of the hosts chose TPR to read and discuss with her online buddies. Email me and let me know your choice.

And speaking of The Prodigal's Return, here's our last excerpt for this week (I can predict it's a tear-jerker ;O).

Come back next week for one more, and a teaser of the upcoming fun in our July launch party!!!

***

Rivermist, Georgia

Jenn Gardner nearly ran over the old man before she saw him wandering down the middle of the road. Screeching to a halt mere inches away, she tracked his unsteady, weaving journey across North Street.

"Critter," he yelled into the evening's darkness. "Where the heck did you get off to this time? Crrritterrrr..."

She glanced from the deserted intersection to the clock on her ancient Civic's dashboard. She'd only been back in Rivermist for three months, and she hadn't yet acclimated to how early things shut down in small southern towns. By nine-thirty, most of Rivermist was already in bed, or at least at home in their pajamas. But there was still enough intermittent traffic on the road that the bum she'd almost made roadkill might walk headfirst into oncoming traffic if he wasn't careful.

Since he looked about a fifth-of-scotch past sober, careful seemed a long shot.

Grateful she was alone, that she'd just dropped her six-year-old, Mandy, off at a sleepover, she locked her doors and lowered her window enough to talk through the crack.

"Sir, do you need some help?" she asked, pulling alongside.

"Gotta find Critter," he mumbled, walking right past her in his search for what sounded like a lost pet.

Something in his voice, something about his threadbare plaid coat, rang oddly familiar.

That in itself was nothing new. Déjà vu moments lurked behind every corner of this place she'd sworn as a teenager never to return to. Living memories that taunted her. Nightmares she refused to relive, just because folks here tossed reminiscing about the good ol' days around as easily as a curious smile and a hearty welcome back.

So why was she rolling forward, lowering the window a little more?

"Are you looking for your dog, mister?"

"No, damn it. Got no use for dogs. Crritterrr..." he groused, stumbling into her fender, then shuffling off again.

Got no use for dogs.

The phrase churned up more unwanted memories. Another man, sitting on a porch swing, had said exactly the same thing to her when she was a little girl. He'd been holding a cat named--

"Critter?" she said out loud. "Mr. Cain?"

It was hard to tell, looking through the darkness and the unkempt hair that partially hid his face. But as she drove closer and set the hand brake, the resemblance was unmistakable.

"Mr. Cain!" She rolled the window the rest of the way down and grabbed him by the arm. Good Lord. " Mr. Cain, Critter's been dead for over ten years."

"What?" He rounded on her. Bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked. "Who are you, and what the hell do you know about my Critter?"

"It's me. Jennifer Gardner."

The man who used to jokingly refer to her as his daughter didn't recognize her. Little wonder. His and her father's friendship hadn't survived the first year after Neal's sentencing. It was like he hadn't been able to look at her anymore, spend time in her home, with her parents. With anyone, really.

"I was there when you and Neal buried Critter, remember?" she prompted.

"What?" A tear trickled down his cheek, breaking her heart. "Critter's dead?"

She pulled to the shoulder and got out. Hurried to his side, the frigid night air blasting away at the lingering warmth from the Honda's rattling heater. "It's freezing out here. Why don't I take you home? You'll feel better in the morning."

"No!" From the smell of his breath, beer had been his best friend tonight, not scotch. He wiped his eyes and looked wildly about. "I've got to find Critter."

She steadied him as he stumbled, steering him toward the car. "Why don't we check your house? Critter's probably waiting at the back door, wondering why you're not there to let her in."

"You think so?" Hope spread like sunshine across his face, pushing away the sick pallor of too much alcohol and years of dissipation. "You think she went home?"

"I bet she's there now, crying for her dinner. Why don't we get her some milk?" Jenn opened the passenger door and turned him until he fell backwards into the car. He cursed when he bumped his head on the way down.

"Critter loves milk. That's what Wanda started giving her when she was just a kitten. Critter was always Wanda's cat." His voice roughened, and his tears made a return appearance at the mention of his long-dead wife. "I've gotta take care of her. I promised Wanda."

Jenn made sure his arms and legs were out of the way and shut the door. Shivering, she slid behind the wheel and reached over to secure his seat belt. "Don't worry, Mr. Cain. We'll take care of Critter."

"You've always been such a good girl." He patted her hand. A split second later, he began to

snore.

Wealthy, indomitable Nathan Cain, the Howard Hughes of Rivermist, was sleeping it off in her car. Her heart turned over as she absorbed his deteriorated condition.

It was an unwritten rule that she and her father never discussed the Cain family, not after her parent's final falling out with Nathan only a few months after Neal's conviction. And she hadn't exactly pushed the issue since moving home for the first time since she'd run away at seventeen. She and her dad had enough to deal with, just trying to learn to live together again. They didn't interact with or discuss the Comptons either, except for the odd run-ins she kept having with Bobby's younger brother, Jeremy.

All that avoiding took a butt load of work in a town this size. Only in Mr. Cain's case, it had been easy. He'd been holed up in his empty mansion for years, she'd heard, grieving his son, angry at the world. But nowhere near as angry, she knew from personal experience, as he probably was at himself.

And she of all people hadn't even bothered to stop by and check on him. She glanced at the bum beside her. Panic attacked as swiftly as the rush shame. She couldn't look at Nathan Cain, she realized, even in his current condition, and not see Neal.

Cut it out! Give the smelly man a ride home, and be done with it.

Squaring her shoulders, sliding the heat lever to high, she checked for oncoming traffic and made a U-turn across the center line. The Cain place was at the other end of town, amidst the avenue of antebellum homes that had been built before the Civil War, yet somehow survived its destruction.

No doubt her dad would still be up, keeping track of her comings and goings as carefully as he had her last year at home as a teenager--the year she'd been hell-bent on destroying her and her parent's lives. The year before she'd ditched the memories and the nightmares, and everyone who came along with them.

He would want to know why she was home late. There'd be no point in dodging his questions. By morning, Rivermist would be abuzz about her giving the town pariah a ride home. Heaven knew how the news would spread at this late hour, but it would. And Reverend Gardner was going to freak.

But easing Mr. Cain's mind about a long-dead cat was the least she could do for this man she'd run from the longest. A man who'd lost everything, and like she had for too long had chosen to give up.