Friday, August 31, 2007
Lonnie Heats Up by Sloane Taylor
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I'm Sloane Taylor, an average woman who lives more in a dream world then reality. Images pop into my head, like watching silent movies, on a regular basis. I have to write them down or lose my mind.
I was born and raised in Chicago then lived in Houston with my first husband. A second marriage brought me back to the Midwest to be close to my grandchildren. Life happened and my husband died. Years later I met my mate for the remainder of my time here. Now I have the best of everything, a great family, Studly and writing.
Visit her website at: www.sloanetaylor.com
Sign her guestbook at: http://www.sloanetaylor.com/guestbook
Questions? Email Sloane at
ABOUT THE BOOK:
Lost in the Austrian Alps, psychologist Lonnie Copley is forced to accept help from a Hell’s Angel wannabe. She never expected to be trapped alone with the Aryan god in deserted Castle Flophouse.
Disgusted with cleaning up his client’s dirty lives, attorney Wolfe Deider is in major career throes. He doesn’t need some insolent woman mucking up his mind, even if she does have a mouth made for kissing.
“What the…” Wolfe ducked as slush spewed against the back of his helmet and ice slithered beneath his collar, along his neck. He had pulled onto the wide shoulder, to rest after the long day’s drive, staring across the Alps in deep thought, when an approaching vehicle broke the silence he craved. The crunch of ice and screeching tires ricocheted in his ears.
“ScheiBe.” Shit. The car seemed to be spinning out of control as it slid closer to the edge of the mountain. No one drove at that kind of speed in heavy, wet snow. The guy drove like a Dummkopf and whatever happened was just what he deserved.
Then the world moved in slow motion, all the action exaggerated. The car swung left then right, in what seemed to take an hour. The brakes screeched, metal grinding against metal, before the dilapidated sedan glided across the shoulder. It coughed, like an old man who smoked too much, and died, its nose too close to the rim.
“Hey, Kamerad.” He pushed off the old tree trunk, waving his arms to catch the driver’s attention, and fell with all his weight onto one knee. The sharp pain clouded his mind for only a second before he regained his footing.
He waved and hollered again, hoping the man would look up. Then he did; only it was a she, with fear pasted on her face.
He stumbled again then slid closer to the door handle and yanked.
“Open it.” The cold air poured into his lungs. “Open the door,” he yelled again.
If the previous time passed in slow motion, her action was like a movie in rewind. She mouthed a few words. With a shake of his head, he tapped on the glass and pointed to the lock. This was getting them no where.
He jerked on the handle, careful not to rock the car any more than necessary. She seemed to finally get her senses back and edged her hand to the armrest controls.
The lock clicked and in a quick movement he flung the door open, flipped the key off, then grabbed her. He yanked with all his strength, but she would not budge. Damn, she still had on the harness.
He leaned across to release the seatbelt. She fought him, flailing, and the car shifted.
“Hey, Fraulein, do not move.” She inhaled deep and briefly nodded her head. “We have to get you out of the car and keep it on the shoulder. The cows below won’t produce good milk tonight if you squash them.” Obviously humor was not working, because when she glanced up, her eyes were filled with tears.
He grabbed her arm and pulled. Ripping cloth and cracking ice echoed in his head. He hooked his hands under both of her armpits and tugged until he thought he would get a hernia. The damned steering wheel trapped her knees. With a grunt and a vigorous yank, she flew out of the car, knocking the wind out of him as he landed ass to frozen ground.
“A sinfully delicious read that will leave you begging for more.”
~ Sarah Grimm, author of Not Without Risk
Offered as an ebook from Triskelion Publishing. Check Sloane Taylor's website for updates!