Good morning, readers.  It's Tuesday again -- you know what that means.  For those who might be just joining in, I'm previewing the first few chapters of my upcoming release, Immortal Surrender.

Want to catch up?

Immortal Surrender, Prologue
Immortal Surrender, Chapter One
Immortal Surrender, Chapter Two, Part I

Jumping in today with a short scene from Chapter Two!

Immortal Surrender
The Curse of the Templars, Book II
September 25, 2012

Farran de Clare, loyal member of the cursed Knights Templar, wants nothing to do with predestined mates. Even the Almighty won’t turn him into a fool again—he’d rather sacrifice his soul. Yet in the scientist Noelle Keane, a devout atheist, Farran meets the seraph designed for him.

Ordered by the archangel Gabriel to protect Noelle, the possessor of a sacred relic that could give Azazel incredible power, Farran swears to do his duty—but in name only. Fighting an attraction that grows with each day, he’s determined that he’ll never pledge himself to her.

As they war over her future, their mutual passion ignites a conflict far more damning. But before Noelle will agree to eternity with him, she demands the ultimate sacrifice – his heart.

(Chapter Two Continued)

Noelle squeezed a liberal amount of shower gel onto the torc around her arm. Gnawing on her lower lip, she worked the slippery liquid around the three coils, slid her finger under, and saturated her skin. Then she shoved her wrist between her knees and pushed on the bangle with all her might.

The torc refused to budge.

“Damn it,” she mumbled. Straightening, she twisted her arm to inspect for swelling. Strangely, the only evidence that she’d managed to get an ancient antiquity lodged onto her arm came from the red marks where her nails had scraped into her skin. The thing looked loose. For that matter, she couldn’t even really feel a squeeze around her bicep. Yet two attempts with the shower gel and it still hadn’t shifted a bit.

She edged her body away from the spray of tepid water and eyed the conditioner. She’d never get a brush through her hair without it. But the idea of stuffing her head back under the last dregs of cool water from her hot water heater made her shudder. Hot showers she could do. Cold—ugh.

On the other hand, she’d rather die than look like Broom Hilda with Farran around.

She grabbed the bottle and quickly conditioned. With a deep breath, she braved the even colder water. A gasp wrenched free as what amounted to buckets of ice dumped on her head. She rinsed as fast as her fingers would go, then whipped the faucet off. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her body. Towel. Where’d she put the towel?

Through the glass door, a flash of pink near the sink answered the quandary. She lunged out of the stall and quickly toweled off. She’d wasted precious time trying to get that stupid torc off, and now she’d be lucky if she had an hour to make it to her flight. Rushing into her bedroom, she glanced at the clock and confirmed her suspicions. They’d have to hurry, not a good thing given the conditions of the roads after last night’s snowfall.

She yanked on a pair of clean jeans, stuffed her feet into comfortable heeled boots, and rummaged through her closet for a top. Planes always made her hot, no matter the time of year. Still, she needed to look presentable. Her first task involved delivering the Sudarium, which would likely lead to dinner with Father Phanuel. Much as she’d prefer to wear a T-shirt, she couldn’t.

She eased into a long-sleeved sweater, lightweight enough to keep her cool on the flight. As she passed her mirror, she combed her fingers through her hair. The torc glinted in the late afternoon sunlight, and she lowered her arm, admiring the piece. It really was pretty. And even if it looked a little out of place, the subtle sheen of color complemented her fair skin.

Grabbing her glasses, she pushed them back onto the bridge of her nose and hurried out of her bedroom. “Okay. Sorry about that. I’m ready, if you are.”

Farran eased to his feet, all six foot something of him. He’d loosened his coat, giving her a remarkable view of a dark green jersey pulled tight across his broad chest. Her stomach did a flip-flop. Man he was yummy. Some days she’d give anything to be blond and perfect. Men didn’t scowl at Barbies.

Only, as she lifted her eyes to his face, this time Farran wasn’t scowling at all.


Come back next week for the conclusion of Chapter Two!

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"Victorians used the term 'limbs' as a euphenism for legs, which were thought to be so sexually exciting to a man, even a glimpse of a table leg could incite him to sexual frenzy. Table skirts were invented to prevent any unnatural unions between men and furniture."
(History Channel International)



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