Melting Shadows—a romantic suspense with a fantasy twist—is now available!
To celebrate, ALL my books will be on sale for $0.99 this weekend (March 4-6).
I’m
also running a newsletter drawing for three print copies, so be sure to
subscribe if you haven’t already (just scroll down and follow the
instructions at the bottom of the page). The drawing ends midnight
Saturday, March 5th, so don’t dally :>).
When fantasy and reality collide, only love can be believed.
Shattered by a brutal attack and forced to flee, painfully withdrawn Dr. Prudence Marsh buries her emotions under numbing logic. For years, her escapes to a fantasy world created to survive her hellish past have been
nothing more than a guilty pleasure. But when the host of the safe
house turns out to be a dead ringer for her dream warrior, she fears
she’s lost her precious mind along with everything else.
Ex-SEAL
Max Delaney has been known to dabble in a hot, delicious mess—or two,
or three. He has no idea how to handle a cold, sour one. Blackmailed
into babysitting Dr. Marsh in his hidden bunker while she finishes a
top-secret project sucks. Until he falls for her. Then it blows. Every
clue Max unravels buys him more questions. Every step forward lands him
two steps back, flat on his ass.
Demons past, present, and future haunt Max and Prudence as they stumble along the twisting path to love. Merciless enemies and shifting alliances drive both to desperate measures, tumbling them over the border between shadow and substance—where each must choose what, and whom, to believe.
Excerpt
Preoccupied with the effort of facing the day and shoring up her defenses, she didn’t see him until it was too late.
He
stood at the sink in the kitchenette, wearing only a pair of denims.
Thick, tousled, black locks curled at his neck. The overhead light
glistened on his damp skin, defining the well-developed muscles of his
shoulders and back. She gulped as her gaze fell lower, taking in the way
the tight, worn jeans that hugged his equally muscular posterior and
thighs. Delane. She squeaked, and he turned toward her.
One
good look at his bare torso sent her screaming back into the bedroom as
fast as her long, clumsy legs would carry her. She slammed the door and
leaned on it, fighting to remain standing. Brutus jumped off the bed,
barking fiercely.
“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong? Dr. Marsh?” She could barely hear him over the din.
Her heart thudded and skittered. Oh, gods of OtherWhere, he really was Delane, every stunning inch of him—including the wide, jagged scar low on his abdomen.
“Dr. Marsh?”
Prudence counted out a deep inhalation, then an equally long exhalation.
Better. She couldn’t possibly be in OtherWhere;
it didn’t exist. Any resemblance had to be purely coincidental or
imaginary. She didn’t have her glasses on. The stress of the last three
days had affected her mental stability. Yes, that must be it.
Blessed,
cool logic seeped in, enabling her to collect enough composure to raise
her voice to a volume sufficient to penetrate the door. “I am fine. I
was simply unprepared to encounter a half-naked man on my way to the
washroom. While I am perfectly willing to make some concessions in light
of the imposition of my presence, such displays are wholly
unacceptable. Kindly finish attiring yourself and notify me when you
have done so. I shall thank you to confine your nudity to your private
quarters for the duration of my stay.”
A
rolling chuckle leaked through to her ears, and she understood he not
only found her ugly, but laughable as well. The thought burned her
carefully built wall to ashes in seconds. Tears came; the wherewithal to
stop them had already been spent. Managing to strangle a sob offered a
small satisfaction.
She
slid down and rested her back against the door with her knees pulled up
to her chin. Brutus licked her face and whined. She hushed him with a
hug. He curled up with her there on the floor, an anchor in her storm of
grief.
The
inner weight lightened as the tears ran their course, lending a degree
of relief—until she caught a glimpse of her red, puffy eyes in the
mirror over the chest of drawers. She was as helpless in the wave of
terror gripping her body as she’d been to prevent the tears. That the
fear was irrational, a vestige of her childhood; that there would be no
punishment, didn’t make it any less real or more manageable.
No
matter. A display of vulnerability was as dangerous now as it had ever
been. Among her earliest lessons had been those that taught her not to
supply ammunition to be used against her later.
Thankfully,
cool water would aid in effacing the evidence, as would her glasses,
provided she could reach the washroom undisturbed. Rather than honor her
request, Mr. Delaney may have chosen to further amuse himself at her
expense.
The
prospect of additional humiliation galled to a greater degree than it
ought to. After all, Esmeralda’s desire for Prince Delane’s regard
belonged in OtherWhere, with the prince who desired her in return, not here with Dr. Prudence Marsh for a man who considered her a freak.
Bio
Award-winning
author Rhea Rhodan resides in Minnetonka, Minnesota. She’s been telling
herself stories since long before she learned to write. She attended
the University of Minnesota with a focus on Journalism, then Brown
Institute for Broadcast Journalism. After many adventures,
misadventures, and a couple of short marriages, she found the love of
her life in Regensburg, Germany, and has been living happily ever after
since.
She
journaled those adventures extensively (some might say rabidly)
beginning in middle school, but didn't combine her writing and
story-telling until several years ago, when one of the stories grabbed
her by the throat and shook her like a rag doll until she gave in and
wrote it. Having tasted freedom, her muse refuses to return to the
confines of her head, and has successfully turned the tables, keeping
her at the keyboard to appease it.
She welcomes feedback and fan mail :>) (rhea(at)rhearhodan(dot)com).
You can join her on Facebook and Goodreads, too. Rhea is always happy to meet new friends.
For (very) occasional updates with great contests, subscribe to Rhea's newsletter: rhea-subscribetonewsletter(at)rhearhodan(dot)com with the word "newsletter" in the subject line
—Rhea
