Samhain Publishing

A funny thing happened when I finally achieved success as a romance novelist–my hubby became the center of attention. It’s a little ego-busting after all those years of writing the books, I’ve got to say. And sort of hilarious because my hubby is a manly-man who doesn’t read romance novels.

Everyone wants to know if:

 A) He was the model on the cover of Soul Stealer, (See left)

and B) He was the inspiration for my books.

Okay, first off, my hubby is drop-dead handsome (no, I won’t post his photo, you’ll just have to take my word for it) but he doesn’t model for covers. So the answer to A above is “no”. Also, I don’t know who the model is on the cover so I can’t “hook you up” as some of my friends have asked.

As to the second question about my inspiration, I have a mixed-bag answer.

My first response when asked was to clutch my sides with laughter because of the whole manly-man thing and what my hubby would say if readers thought of him as a lust object. Yeah, that sort of cracks me up even now.

When this question came up two, three, and four times later, I started to get annoyed. It’s as if my abilities as a writer were being questioned. As if I don’t have an imagination or a mind of my own.

So in honor of Valentine's Day, I decided to post a list of what DOES inspire me in a hero.

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When you imagine a romance author hard at work, do you picture a person bent over the computer, pounding on those keys like Schroeder (the kid who plays the piano in the "Charlie Brown" comics)?

Well, that is true…sometimes.

Other times–if the author is me–she is out walking the streets creating stories in her head, or solving the world's problems (also in her head). I can't sit in front of my computer all day, or my body seizes up like rigor mortis. I've got to move and keep loose. One way I do this is to take some time out from writing, lace up my walking shoes and hit the road.

Wondering how far I actually walk on any given day, I downloaded an App for my phone to track my walking mileage. I was stunned with the results.

For the three months of summer I walked…get ready…this blew me away…

138 Miles!

Seriously.

The great part about it? It wasn't hard. 138 miles equates to 11.5 miles per week. That's only 1.6 miles per day. Not that much really.

Did I lose weight doing this? Sadly, no. Possibly because I rewarded myself with a scone, or other yummy pastry, at the end of my journeys. Not the best weight loss program, I admit, however, the other benefits were amazing.

Well, there were those yummy scones I mentioned (bad girl), my jeans fit pretty nicely, I got a new pair of shoes (see picture above), breathed a whole bunch of fresh air, luxuriated in the pure form of vitamin D, smelled the flowers, worked out those writing kinks, and enjoyed myself.

Also, I moved away from my computer monitor and let my stories breathe. It was all good.

What do you do to stay fit?

Kimberley Troutte

Author Info

I was coming up short for topics to discuss today, so I turned to my eleven-year-old son and said, “Any ideas for my blog?”

He gave me his infamous smirk-face. “Why don’t you do the cupcake thing?”

I had to laugh. At the start of the school year, I suggested that he edit one of his short stories. Big mistake. Like most kids (and probably quite a few adults), he hates to revise his work. I mean passionate, stomp-the-feet, slam-stuff-around, would-rather-clean-his-room HATE! 

I spoke to his teacher and she confirmed that she was having a tough time getting her students to revise their papers. She asked if I could speak to the class about the importance of editing. Maybe the kids would listen to a published author.

When I walked into the classroom, my son rolled his eyes, latched onto my elbow with a death grip and whispered to me, “Please…not the cupcake story.”

He’s a little dramatic.

I smiled–in the way that only mothers can before they embarrass their kids–and told the class: Read More

Next week Americans will celebrate one of my favorite holidays—Thanksgiving. It’s the day we hug our loved ones tighter and say aloud what we are thankful for (while stuffing our bellies full of turkey and pumpkin pie).

I’d like to get a jump on the holiday by saying, “Thank you!” to the amazing people who work behind the scenes at Samhain Publishing. The editors, the cover artists, and those in marketing work hard to produce amazing, beautiful books. I am grateful for all that you do.

Two years ago, I submitted Soul Stealer to be considered for the “Tickle My Fantasy Anthology”. I’d never written a story quite like this one, but I loved it and crossed my body parts that the editors at Samhain would love it too. I was in for a surprise. Laurie Rauch, did not select my story for the anthology, BUT, she liked it and forwarded it to Deborah Nemeth for consideration. Yay!

When I received that email from Deborah saying that she wanted to publish Soul Stealer as a stand-alone novella, I nearly fell through myself. Wowza! It was better than if Deborah had introduced herself as Ed McMahon and said that I’d won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. After years of dreaming, working, struggling, learning, I was finally going to be published! I had envisioned this moment for years. I thought I’d dance around the room, scream and shout, and pop some bubbly.

What did I really do when I got the news? I hit my knees, thanked God, and bawled like a baby. When I was able to talk, I called my dad and barely got the words out before I was crying again. Dad handed the phone to Mom and we girls had a real sobfest.

Still humming with excitement, I opened my front door and took my first deep breath as a soon-to-be-published author. That’s when I saw something shiny on my lawn. One of those silver helium balloons had floated down from the sky and landed in my yard.

“Happy Birthday!!!” It said.

And it was, a truly wonderful birthday. Thank you Samhain Publishing for making my dreams come true.

www.kimberleytroutte.com

Titles.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately. A friend of mine asked me to help her come up with a good title for her book. Might as well have asked me to name her unborn child. Let me tell you, titles are tough. A title is a bold, bright, snapshot of what’s inside the pages described with a few precious words.

And if that’s not daunting enough, a good title should also:
1) be witty, clever, sexy, or snappy,
2) be active not passive, exciting not dull,
3) relate to some element in the story. (How many times have you picked up a book and wondered what in the world the title had to do with anything?),
4) mean basically the same thing to everyone,
5) grab the reader—and I mean reach out and grab, as in don’t let the reader pass by the shelf without stopping to pick up the book,
6) convey the genre—is it a romance? A paranormal thriller? A little of both?
7) give a flavor of the tone—is it humorous, or rip your heart out scary? Poignant, deep, titillating?
show the setting if it is an unusual one
9) indicate the time-period—contemporary? Historical? A bit of both?
10) match the colors and picture of the cover. A dark, heart-stopping title most likely will not be placed on a bright pink cover.

See? Titles are tough. And so darn important. I am sure I have passed up some awesome books because the title didn’t grab me. That’s the nature of the beast.

My recent print book had several titles before I settled on Catch Me in Castile.
Here are a few of them:
Entwined —I liked it because my book is really two parallel stories set in the past and present that twine together. The title didn’t convey genre (romantic suspense/paranormal) and didn’t hint at the humor. It also didn’t tell the reader that the story is set in Spain.
Don’t Look Down —liked this one because it had the hip and humorous tone and gave a clue to the mystery in my story. I might have kept it until Jenny Crusie and Bob Mayer wrote a book with the same title. Yeah, stuff happens. Plus, it didn’t tell the reader that it was a paranormal set in two time periods in Spain.
Don’t Let Go —similar to the other title with the tone, but didn’t convey the parallel stories, or that it takes place in Spain.
Catch Me in Castile —loved this one because the first person is contemporary and most likely humorous. A chick lit sort of tone. The reader knows where the story is taking place. And hints that the heroine is on the run from…something. Or maybe the hint relates to falling into the hero’s arms. Plus, the double C’s sound good together. The title looks awesome against the dark red and golden colors on the cover. The Spanish castle and the attractive couple look hot together. It’s perfect!

Next time you go into to a book store, look at the titles. What catches your eye? What makes you want to pick up the book?

www.kimberleytroutte.com

I can’t stop grinning. Catch Me in Castile is out in print. Man, oh, man, I can actually hold my dream in my hands, flip through the pages, smell it, and kiss it. Isn’t it pretty? All sparkly and shiny. So many people helped me to get to this kissing-my-book place. You all know who you are and I love you bunches, but today on Father’s Day, I want to honor my dad.

Without Dad, I wouldn’t be here as an author.

Dad is the guy who gave me a BIG LOVE for reading. Never mind the censorship, forget about the sugar-coating, Dad let me read whatever I wanted. If he liked a book, so did I. My tastes expanded to include grown-up authors such as James Clavell, Leon Uris, James Michener, Ken Follett, and Pearl S. Buck. Anya Seton’s Green Darkness weaved the past into the present and planted the Catch Me in Castile seed in my young brain.

Dad strengthened my backbone by telling me that I could be anything I wanted to be. He warned I might have to fight harder than guys to achieve my goals, but that was okay because girls are smarter than boys (he’d say this with a wink). I set my sights on becoming an author and trusted in my heart that I’d get there because Dad said I could do it. And so I did.

My dad is my hero. When I was four years old, I was playing in the snow and accidentally fell over the edge of a hill. It was a big drop-off. I slid on my belly trying to grasp chunks of snow to stop myself, falling faster and faster, screaming with all my might. Barely a blink later, Dad dove over the edge and came careening by me. He grabbed me onto his lap and dug his heels into the snow. We came to a jerky stop about fifty feet down. His pants were torn to shreds and he had bumps and bruises all over him. Me? Not a scratch.

Dad is also the only gentleman in a family of girls, which meant that on a daily basis he gave up: his seat, his jacket, his food (if you are a picky little girl who turns her nose up when the waiter brings a plate that “looks funny” or “smells stinky”), and his health (if you are a sick little girl with a raging temperature and need a daddy to hold you). His pocketbook was always open for a good education, travel, ice cream cones, the vast amount of clothing a girl requires, and any emergencies that might arise. He taught me to drive and then gave me the keys.

But that’s hardly all. Dad taught me about loyalty and honor. It’s not good enough to be a man on this planet. You’ve got to be a brother—someone who protects those who cannot defend themselves, stands up for justice when everyone else sits on their hands, and who is always there with wide shoulders, and a good joke. Dad has never let me down.

And love? Let me tell you that Dad has adored my mother for the past 50 years of marriage. Their love is the stuff good romances are made of. For that I am eternally grateful. I wouldn’t be able to write about heroes who are generous, loyal, honorable and lovable if I didn’t have the perfect model.

Thanks, Dad.
XO

Catch Me in Castile Blurb:

Seeing dead people is bad enough. Loving him could make her one of them.

When the mother of all panic attacks prompts Erin Carter’s boss to pass her over for promotion, her mind doesn’t just crack. It explodes like an egg in a microwave, shattering her career along with the company car she crashes into the office building.

The death grip she’s kept on her sanity slipping, she takes a friend’s advice and flees to Spain. There she finds comfort in the healing arms of surgeon Santiago Botello—until a fifteenth-century ghost warns her that being with Santiago is dangerous, possibly even lethal.

Santiago has his hands full protecting his sister from a dark curse and his family from a very modern-day psychotic killer. The last thing he needs added to his plate is a neurotic American. Yet something about Erin tugs at his heart so hard he wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. No matter the risk.

Erin’s attraction to Santiago makes her the killer’s next target. Survival means she must face her greatest fear, solve an ancient murder mystery—and hang on tight to the one man she’s fallen crazy in love with.

Warning: This book contains a woman willing to lose her mind for love, a hot Spaniard with hands a girl could die for, deadly family curses, a ghost with memory disorder, and a really mad killer.

This month brought me sad news: my editor, Deborah Nemeth, left Samhain Publishing. She accepted a marvelous opportunity to work for another publishing house.

I am excited for her, but of course, a little sad for me.

Deborah was the first editor who said “Yes!” to me and then said “Yes!”again. She taught me how to dig deeper to get to the emotional core of my stories. Through the rewrites (and there were many, trust me), Deb reminded me exactly why she bought my books in the first place—because she loved them. I learned to get my authorself out of the way in order to stretch and improve my writing. We became the Deb and Kimberley team—two professionals passionate about making stories come alive.

What happens now?

I am thrilled to say that I have a new editor—the super fabulous Lindsey Faber. (Plug your ears, I’m going to squeal here) I met Lindsey at the RWA Nationals conference in San Francisco and loved her. She is an energetic, enthusiastic, hardworking editor. The best part? She loves my books too. I can’t wait to see how my new stories will take shape and breathe in Lindsey’s hands. We’ll become a great Lindsey and Kimberley team. I just know it.

So I’m a little sad, but I’m excited for me too. I’m looking forward to a wonderful 2010 at Samhain.

Have you ever “lost” and editor and “found” a new one?

Kimberley Troutte
Samhain Author Page
My Website

Okay, I’m just going to admit it: I don’t hate snakes. I know, sounds weird coming from a girlie-girl, but I actually find them intriguing, sometimes even beautiful. I will hold a non-venomous snake provided some know-what-he’s-doing male has a nice strong grip on the snake’s business-end. But do I love snakes? Um, no. Do I have a healthy fear of them? Darn tootin’.

Here’s the thing, I married the kind of man who rescues all creatures from harm’s way. It’s one of the many things I love about him. But it does keep me guessing—is he going to bring home an injured falcon? Or a tarantula that was crossing the road? Between the man and our two sons I had to expect that there would one day be a reptile aquarium in my house. Do I like it? Not really, but again, I’m okay with the snakes as long as I don’t have to reach my hand inside their cage. Especially since one of the gopher snakes is cranky, hissy and strikes at anything that goes near the glass.

A few weeks ago, while I was in the Samhain Café celebrating the release of my second book, my eldest yelled, “Come quick! One of the snakes laid eggs!”

Come to find out we had a mating pair of gopher snakes. Who knew? Sure enough, the female was coiled around a clutch of eggs. (The female—go figure—is the cranky, hissy, wanting-to-bite-everything snake.)

My husband found instructions on the internet about how to hatch gopher snake eggs. He told me that once the hardware store opened we had to buy a container for an incubator, a heating pad and some stuff called vermiculite. We had to move fast. The aquarium wasn’t warm enough or humid enough. Those eggs had to be put into the incubator STAT!

I nodded my head, agreeing with everything until I heard the next part. “And you’ll have to be careful to keep the eggs in the exact position in which they were laid. They can’t turn at all.”

Wait…what? He couldn’t be serious. I had to reach my hand inside the cage? Me, the girlie-girl steal eggs from a mother snake? Gulp. “You just fed her, right?” I asked.

“No. She wouldn’t eat. Makes sense. She can’t constrict her prey with eggs in her belly,” he explained.

“So she’s mean, protective, recovering from labor, and STARVING?”

“Get to the store as soon as it opens.” He kissed me and on his way out the door. “And don’t jostle the eggs when you take them out.”

With my trembling hands? Was he serious?

It was right about then that I realized something about myself—I may not hate snakes, but I was terrified of this one. There was no way in the universe I was going to put my hand inside that cage. No way. No how.

But something stronger than fear burned in my chest—the mother instinct. My hands shook, sweat collected above my lip, and my heart pounded, but if I didn’t get those babies to the proper temperature and humidity, they would die. It was as simple as that.

So I swallowed my fear and stole six eggs right from under the mean mother snake. She didn’t bite me. Maybe she knew I was trying to save her babies. Maybe. And I learned a little about my fears and courage in the process. I’m stronger than I knew. Who knew? And those eggs are incubating in my kitchen, right next to the stove. If all goes well, I’ll have half a dozen baby snakes slithering around on my linoleum.

Um, can I come live with you?

www.kimberleytroutte.com
SOUL STEALER, Out now
CATCH ME IN CASTILE, Out now

Catch Me in Castile, is released today.

Twenty years ago my husband and I were love-struck newlyweds joyfully sightseeing in Spain. As we wandered around inside one of the amazing Castilian castles, a guide told us the horrifying legend of a nursemaid who dropped (accidentally?) a baby out the tower window and then jumped to her death.

The legend stuck with me long after we returned home.

My writer’s mind turned the story over and created a “what if?” scenario. What if for five hundred years people believed a nursemaid jumped to her death, but in truth, she didn’t go willingly. And it was no accident. (Play menacing music here) Would she still haunt the tower searching for someone to solve her mysterious death? And what if the only person who can see her is an American woman suffering a nervous breakdown and about to become a murder victim herself? Add to the mix a yummy Spanish doctor with ghosts in his own closet and…voila! Catch Me In Castile is born.

I hope you enjoy it!

Here is the blurb:
Seeing dead people is bad enough. Loving him could make her one of them.

When the mother of all panic attacks prompts Erin Carter’s boss to pass her over for promotion, her mind doesn’t just crack. It explodes like an egg in a microwave, shattering her career along with the company car she crashes into the office building.

The death grip she’s kept on her sanity slipping, she takes a friend’s advice and flees to Spain. There she finds comfort in the healing arms of surgeon Santiago Botello—until a fifteenth-century ghost warns her that being with Santiago is dangerous, possibly even lethal.

Santiago has his hands full protecting his sister from a dark curse and his family from a very modern-day psychotic killer. The last thing he needs added to his plate is a neurotic American. Yet something about Erin tugs at his heart so hard he wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. No matter the risk.

Erin’s attraction to Santiago makes her the killer’s next target. Survival means she must face her greatest fear, solve an ancient murder mystery—and hang on tight to the one man she’s fallen crazy in love with.

Warning: This book contains a woman willing to lose her mind for love, a hot Spaniard with hands a girl could die for, deadly family curses, a ghost with memory disorder, and a really mad killer.

Excerpt:

What’s the matter with me?

My pulse raced, thinking about those amazing green eyes, his jet-black hair, the way he moved in those charcoal colored pants… Oh Lordy.

Tossing clothes out of my suitcase, I searched for my nicest blouse while frantically, hand-pressing the wrinkles out of the black skirt.

It may have been a little soon after the Jack fiasco to fantasize about Santiago. But in a way, it felt healthy. Normal. Santiago came with no boost-me-up-the-ladder fringe benefits. It was simple girl-thinks-boy-is-yummy attraction.

This trip was about the normalization of Erin. If the healing process involved a hot studly Spaniard, all the better. I didn’t need a man to clean up my life, or lack of life. No, I knew that responsibility rested solely on my shoulders. But Maria was right. Being a goddess, even for a few weeks, had a nice sound to it.

I rummaged through my carry-on and pulled out the blue notebook. Under Get a Life I wrote a second goal: 2) Relax. Flirt. Enjoy a man, just because. Become a goddess.

“Goddess,” I said to my reflection. The dark circles had faded to light smudges, but my eyes were still tired, my complexion too pale. “Yeah, right.”

Straightening my back, lifting my shoulders, I swiped a little pink lip gloss on my lips. Fingers of excitement tingled down my back and twisted my stomach in knots.

Get a hold of yourself, Erin, I chided myself. It’s just dinner.

I took a big breath and turned out the light.

When she walked into the room, Santiago’s heart did a painful miss-beat against his breastplate, as if it stopped dead in his chest only to start again with her smile.

He’d been sitting on the edge of the sofa impatiently waiting for Maria’s friend to show herself. He wanted to speak with her alone, while Maria showered, to determine the woman’s mental state. She had acted so oddly at the airport. His sister had hinted at some sort of breakdown and he could not, in good conscience, leave a fragile female in this house. It was far too dangerous.

He had enough trouble taking care of his mother and shielding his sister from the darkness. How in the hell could he protect another woman? He couldn’t. He’d insist she move out.

But when he saw her…

Sweet Mother, when he saw her all rational thought ended.

“Hello again.” Her voice was as smooth and promising as satin sheets.

His gaze traveled across her curves. She didn’t look fragile. No, she looked good enough to eat. She lifted an eyebrow, shooting him a look loaded with hunger. Need coursed through his own veins. Her smile produced a punch of heat to his groin.

Mierda, he was in trouble.

“Buenos tardes. Did you have a nice rest?” He asked.

“Yes, and, I um—” she moved closer, her cheeks flushed, “—need to apologize for earlier at the airport. I made a perfect ass of myself.”

She came around the couch to sit and he noted how perfect her ass was. His gut twisted. “No apologies necessary.” He forced himself to study her clinically, searching for grounds to throw her out of the mansion. It didn’t take a Chief of Medicine to notice her pale skin and dark-rimmed eyes. “Are you feeling all right?”

Her crooked smile told him she knew she was being examined. “Well, doctor, I’ve had better years.” Her laughter was husky and rich. “But I’m determined to get a life. No time like the present, right?”

He was mesmerized by what sparked from her tired eyes. She was determined and more—she was courageous. Something horrible had happened to her. He could see she hadn’t slept well in days, maybe weeks, and yet she smiled. How had she accomplished that? He longed to dig deeper, to know her secrets. The muscles and nerves in his cheeks rarely turned upwards anymore. Laughter was a thing of the past.

“Hey guys. Glad you two are getting to know each other,” Maria called from the hallway.

He jumped to his feet and met his sister halfway across the room. “Wonderful to have you home, sis.”

Maria hugged him. “I can’t tell you how it feels to be here. Staying for dinner?”

He cast a look over his shoulder towards Erin, feeling the hunger rumble in his bones. He had to get away from her, fast. “No, I’m meeting Helena tonight.”

“Helena?” Maria asked.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Erin when he said, “She’s a volunteer at the hospital. A friend. We’re discussing an intern program over dinner.”

“I see,” Maria said.

“Nice to speak with you, Ms. Carter.” He willed his legs to walk him right out the door. Instead, he found himself standing before her, his hand outstretched. She rose and placed her hand in his. They didn’t shake. Instead, their eyes locked and he bent and placed a kiss on her cheek.

“You too.” Her eyes were on his lips. “See you soon?”

He was still holding her hand. No woman had captivated him so quickly, so completely. She was trouble. Big trouble. He had to get out of there. “Soon.”

Finally, somehow, he made it to the front door.

Maria’s voice carried all the way from the living room and bounced off the entry walls. “Surprise of surprises. My brother has a girlfriend. Hospital Helena. Great, huh?”

“Um, yeah, great.” Erin’s voice floated to him like a breeze.

Frowning, he turned the knob and left.

click for link to author page
click for Kimberley Troutte’s website

Happy St. Patty’s Day.

I’m feeling the luck of the Irish. I went to bed last night as Kim, mother of two, wife of one, housecleaner (cough sometimes cough), pet caretaker, laundress, cook…

This morning I rolled out of bed and fell into a pot of gold. After twenty odd years of chasing my rainbow, I’m Kimberley Troutte, the published author. Man, that has a nice ring to it.

Soul Stealer, my debut novella hits the cyber-streets today. And me? Well, the sometimes housecleaner is putting her feet up, sipping a mocha java and savoring her bliss. Those darn dishes can wait.

click for link to author page

Soul Stealer: When Death falls in love with a saint, there’s holy hell to pay.

Sara Lane expects to die young, but when the time comes, she’s not ready. She needs two more weeks to finish a homeless shelter before winter sets in and people die on the streets. Who does a girl have to sleep with to live a few extra days?

How about the sexiest, most dangerous of all bad boys—Death himself?

Cain’s job as a designated death dealer is clear. Kill and move on. Don’t get attached. Don’t feel. But when Sara pleads to cut a deal for more time, Cain is tempted by an unexpected craving for this beautiful, courageous woman. As their lips meet, her life force shakes him to his bones, seals the bargain—and breaks all the rules.

Keeping Sara alive is a dangerous proposition. The Powers That Be are furious and unleash bloodthirsty demons to steal Sara’s soul from Death—the one man who’s hell-bent on saving her life.

Warning: This book contains the sexiest of all bad boys, a woman desperate to get what she wants, deadly soul-sucking demons, surprise visits by Biblical characters, frog grenades, very bad dogs, sacrifice, redemption and eternal love.

Excerpt: Soul Stealer
The sun disappeared behind buildings that had seen better days. It was the seedy side of town and she was hurrying to make one more trip before the streets turned dangerous. She was alone, a perfect target.

Watching from the shadows, he noticed how easy it would be to pick her out of a crowd. She wore a yellow T-shirt that reminded him of Easter, blue jeans that flared over her pink tennis shoes, and carried an armful of donated clothing. But all that color and the awkward bent-back way she balanced the clothes weren’t what made her stand out. No, it was her face. It had been ages since he had seen such a sparkling face, full of hope, life.

He planned to take it all away.

She could not see him, or know his intentions, but her legs picked up speed as if trying to outrun him. He shook his head. If she hoped to make it to safety, she was sadly mistaken. She would never be safe again. The woman he followed was a hairsbreadth away from Death. She just didn’t want to believe it yet.

He knew the truth. The discomfort pinching beneath her breastbone was not heartburn from the chili-cheese dog she’d eaten for lunch. And the occasional twinge in her left arm related less to the load she was carrying than to the ticking bomb that was moments from exploding.

He was there for her, but not to pick up the pieces. His job was more about lighting the fuse. As she came toward him, concentrating on balancing the stack in her arms and not where she placed her feet, he grinned. This was going to be easy.

Get it done and get gone was one of his better mottos.

“Hello, Sara.” He stepped into her path.

“Oh.” She stopped quickly and a jacket slipped off the top of the pile. “Do I know you?” With her eyes on him, she squatted, trying to retrieve the fallen article without dropping the rest.

“Allow me.” He shook the dirt off the jacket with a loud crack and replaced it on top of the pile.

She cocked her head, squinting at him. “I sometimes forget faces, but yours…I’m sure I’d remember if we’d met.”

He didn’t smile. It went without saying that women found him attractive. His father was made in God’s image, after all.

He moved closer, blocking the sun from her eyes, and let her see him for who he was. “How about now?”

She peered into his face and her eyes widened. “My gosh, it’s you!”

“Ah, you remember after all.”

“You…“she gulped.”…were in my brother’s hospital room, five years ago, just before he—

All the clothes fell out of her arms. The acidic heartburn bloomed into breath-stealing pain. Clutching her chest, she pressed down hard against the invisible hand that squeezed her heart like a stress-releasing ball. She rocked forward in misery.

“Do not fight it. In a few minutes it will be over,” he said softly.

“Oh no, please, no!”

He shook his head. “Or, you can fight me, as you are doing now. Believe me, it’s worse this way, but I will win either way.”

Her mouth fell open and she panted for air. He knew she was experiencing the most intense agony of her life. It was only going to get worse.

“Please…a minute…to talk,” she ground out through clenched teeth. A fine sheen of perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Her bright blue eyes were ringed with darkness, and yet, she seemed determined to speak her mind.

He gave her the minute.

The pain subsided completely. She bent at the waist, as athletes do after a great race, and took deep breaths, exhaling each one slowly, fearing it would be her last. Finally, she stood straight and looked him in the eye. “That’s better.”

She had been ignoring the pain for so long that the absence of it must have felt like rebirth. “Don’t get used to it. I’ve given you one minute. Say what you must.”

“I…I knew you would come. Not you, exactly, but, you know, The End.” Words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush. “My family is cursed with this genetic heart defect. Very rare, always deadly. My brothers, mother, aunts, all of them died young. I guess I’ve got it too. I never got tested. I mean, who wants to pay two grand to see those lab results?” She tried to laugh, a bitter puff of air came out instead. “So now that you’re here…for me…you can’t be.” Her hands flew up and she cried out, “I’m not ready.”

He growled with disgust. “Lady, no one ever is.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not going.” She stamped her tennis shoe against the sidewalk. “I need more time.”

He smiled. She was a feisty one, all right. Normally the lively ones perturbed him because they made his job difficult, but he found Sara Lane intriguing. Naïve, but intriguing.

“Death is the price to pay for life. There’s always a price. You are going, Sara.”

She blinked and tears clung to her dark eyelashes. When her pretty young face contorted with the deepest expression of sorrow he had witnessed in a long time, something stirred within him. Pity? No, he wouldn’t allow it.

Never let them get to you was another one of his hard-fast rules. A flash of anger overtook the pity and squelched it with one fiery blast.

“No offense, but what can I say to make you go away? Pleeease?” She lifted prayer hands before his face.

“Here it comes.” He rolled his eyes. “The begging.”

It was always the same. Kings, paupers, saints, villains—his victims never surprised him. She was no different.

“I just need more time. City hall has given me to the end of the month to finish the shelter. If I…” She couldn’t say the words. “…am not around, hundreds of people will be sleeping on the streets again this winter. If only you could see how hard I’ve fought for this.”

And suddenly he could. Damn it! He hated this part of the job. One of the punishments for his crimes was to stand sentry each time a soul sheared from its body. He was forced to watch a replay of childhood, birthdays, first kisses, humiliations and fears. Fragments of the dying person’s lifetime would swirl before his eyes like a film spliced together by a lunatic. He’d learned to shrug it away.

Until he met Sara Lane…

Copyright © 2009 Kimberley Troutte
Samhain Publishing, ltd.