BLURB
Hotshot criminal attorney Tyson Williams has just won the case of his career. His client has been acquitted of murder, a victory that will propel Tyson to partnership and the corner office. Yet he’s not happy. Something is missing … until Sahara walks into his life one warm spring night.
Once a powerhouse of Atlanta’s social circle, Sahara Jenkins is now a fitness instructor at a retirement villa, living a quiet life. She has no interest in Tyson beyond a one-night stand, but that plan backfires. Things get even more complicated when her roommate is murdered. The suspect? Tyson’s client.
When danger creeps too close to home, the two are thrown together to solve a murder. He wants more than a one-night stand, but she can’t see past a bad marriage to give him a chance.
Can they find a middle ground before a killer decides their future?
AMAZON US / AMAZON CA / AMAZON UK
EXCERPT
Sahara was the only one on the narrow patio when Tyson stepped out to join her. He stood in the dark shadow and watched as she stepped out of her shoes, flexing one foot then the other. There was something about her … the way she stood lost in thought. She seemed almost unhappy, so unlike her friend. He wanted to change that.
The night air was still. It was the tail end of spring, getting ready for a hot summer. It wasn’t there yet, but it was comfortable already without a jacket. He fought the urge to slip his arm around her waist and pull her close as she stared off into space a million miles away. Then, as if sensing his presence, she turned around abruptly.
“Hi, I’m―”
“Tyson Williams,” she said. Her gazed settled briefly on him, then she looked away. She slipped into her shoes.
He’d moved out of the shadow into the light cast by lanterns that hung from the trellis around the patio, to introduce himself, but an introduction wasn’t required. Nor was his presence welcomed.
Turning her back to him, her eyes drifted toward a couple pressed against the wall, locked in each other’s embrace on the sidewalk.
“You are?”
“Not interested,” she said without turning around.
“No?” A smile played at his lips.
Any other man would have given up. Clearly, she was a tough one—a hostile witness, if you will. But he wasn’t just any other man. He loved a challenge, and he knew that anything this desirable would be a prize worth the chase.
He moved beside her—couldn’t help himself. The night was perfect, with the Latin sounds of Carlos Santana floating out onto the patio. Good wine, great music and a beautiful woman. What more could a man ask for?
Tyson was close enough to touch her, forcing her to make eye contact with him. As he rested her drink on the ledge in front of her, she stepped to the side, reclaiming her personal space, not even looking at the glass of wine. No, she was definitely not on board with any type of contact.
“If you were to get to know me, you would change your mind.” he said, and sipped his wine while watching her over the edge of the glass, liking the soft musk scent that floated from her on the soft night breeze.
“I know your type. I won’t change my mind.”
Tyson didn’t want her to escape, yet he didn’t want to frighten her either. She could make her escape if she chose, but she didn’t. On impulse he reached out and ran his forefinger along her arm, and she drew in a quick breath. Her skin felt like velvet, as he’d known it would. Their eyes locked and she quickly turned away, shrinking from his touch. Whatever had passed between them Tyson knew she felt it too but chose to ignore it. He didn’t—that wasn’t in his nature. He placed his wine glass next to hers on the ledge.
“What’s my type, Sahara?” he whispered.
Her head snapped up, making instant eye contact.
“The bartender told me,” Tyson said, answering her unasked question. “He knows your friend. I’m interested in knowing the type you think I am.”
“The type where money rules.” Her eyes slid from his face all the way down his body. “And the type to put a murderer back on the street.”
“A jury found him not guilty,” he said, shrugging off the comment. He had managed to push Braham Charleston and the shooting to the back of his mind until she brought it up. “I don’t want to talk about my job. I’m more interested in you.”
“And I’m still not interested.”
“I can change your mind.” He was feeling reckless. Leaving the jazz club without her was not an option. He wanted her and didn’t hide it. She, however, apparently pictured it differently.
“Excuse me.” Sahara stepped around him and walked quickly toward the door into the club, back stiffened.
“Sahara?”
She turned around, head held high, cold, dark brown eyes staring at him. Again he had the feeling she was looking right through him. He watched her as if he had all the time in the world.
“I always get what I want,” he said, “and I want you.”
The night air was still. It was the tail end of spring, getting ready for a hot summer. It wasn’t there yet, but it was comfortable already without a jacket. He fought the urge to slip his arm around her waist and pull her close as she stared off into space a million miles away. Then, as if sensing his presence, she turned around abruptly.
“Hi, I’m―”
“Tyson Williams,” she said. Her gazed settled briefly on him, then she looked away. She slipped into her shoes.
He’d moved out of the shadow into the light cast by lanterns that hung from the trellis around the patio, to introduce himself, but an introduction wasn’t required. Nor was his presence welcomed.
Turning her back to him, her eyes drifted toward a couple pressed against the wall, locked in each other’s embrace on the sidewalk.
“You are?”
“Not interested,” she said without turning around.
“No?” A smile played at his lips.
Any other man would have given up. Clearly, she was a tough one—a hostile witness, if you will. But he wasn’t just any other man. He loved a challenge, and he knew that anything this desirable would be a prize worth the chase.
He moved beside her—couldn’t help himself. The night was perfect, with the Latin sounds of Carlos Santana floating out onto the patio. Good wine, great music and a beautiful woman. What more could a man ask for?
Tyson was close enough to touch her, forcing her to make eye contact with him. As he rested her drink on the ledge in front of her, she stepped to the side, reclaiming her personal space, not even looking at the glass of wine. No, she was definitely not on board with any type of contact.
“If you were to get to know me, you would change your mind.” he said, and sipped his wine while watching her over the edge of the glass, liking the soft musk scent that floated from her on the soft night breeze.
“I know your type. I won’t change my mind.”
Tyson didn’t want her to escape, yet he didn’t want to frighten her either. She could make her escape if she chose, but she didn’t. On impulse he reached out and ran his forefinger along her arm, and she drew in a quick breath. Her skin felt like velvet, as he’d known it would. Their eyes locked and she quickly turned away, shrinking from his touch. Whatever had passed between them Tyson knew she felt it too but chose to ignore it. He didn’t—that wasn’t in his nature. He placed his wine glass next to hers on the ledge.
“What’s my type, Sahara?” he whispered.
Her head snapped up, making instant eye contact.
“The bartender told me,” Tyson said, answering her unasked question. “He knows your friend. I’m interested in knowing the type you think I am.”
“The type where money rules.” Her eyes slid from his face all the way down his body. “And the type to put a murderer back on the street.”
“A jury found him not guilty,” he said, shrugging off the comment. He had managed to push Braham Charleston and the shooting to the back of his mind until she brought it up. “I don’t want to talk about my job. I’m more interested in you.”
“And I’m still not interested.”
“I can change your mind.” He was feeling reckless. Leaving the jazz club without her was not an option. He wanted her and didn’t hide it. She, however, apparently pictured it differently.
“Excuse me.” Sahara stepped around him and walked quickly toward the door into the club, back stiffened.
“Sahara?”
She turned around, head held high, cold, dark brown eyes staring at him. Again he had the feeling she was looking right through him. He watched her as if he had all the time in the world.
“I always get what I want,” he said, “and I want you.”
AUTHOR INFO
With an overactive imagination from an early age, Yvonne created vivid stories in her mind in which she was the lead character. It wasn't long before she decided to take these stories from her mind and pen them to paper.
A romantic at heart, Yvonne writes primarily about relationships and loves a happy ending.
Yvonne has written two collections of short stories, The Wedding and Other Short Romantic Stories and The Invitation and Other Short Stories. One of those short stories, "The Wedding" was published in Today's BlackWoman magazine. Her short story, "The Colour of Love" won first prize in The Awaken the Mind Short Story Contest presented by Knowledge Book Store and PoeticSoul.
She has written three top selling romantic suspense novels: Hide'N Seek, Cat 'N Mouse and Hit 'N Run.
When she's not writing, she loves to travel. She enjoys classic films and fine chocolates.
A romantic at heart, Yvonne writes primarily about relationships and loves a happy ending.
Yvonne has written two collections of short stories, The Wedding and Other Short Romantic Stories and The Invitation and Other Short Stories. One of those short stories, "The Wedding" was published in Today's BlackWoman magazine. Her short story, "The Colour of Love" won first prize in The Awaken the Mind Short Story Contest presented by Knowledge Book Store and PoeticSoul.
She has written three top selling romantic suspense novels: Hide'N Seek, Cat 'N Mouse and Hit 'N Run.
When she's not writing, she loves to travel. She enjoys classic films and fine chocolates.
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