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Someone is methodically killing past members of The Consortium, a defunct group of ruthless businessmen who made their fortunes buying and selling prime Las Vegas real estate during the era that saw the beginnings of the mega casino and luxury hotels. Homicide Detective, Kennedy O’Brien, and her temporary partner, Reno Homicide Detective Hunt, race to stop a deranged predator who claims a new victim every forty-eight hours. The killer drugs his victims, slashes their wrists, and leaves a playing card with the body. As the clock continues to tick, the search for clues seems easy—too easy Kennedy suspects.
While chasing the killer, Kennedy must also try to control hotheaded Detective Hunt, who is hell-bent on finding out who killed the first victim—his best friend’s father. At the same time, she has to deal with a jealous Nick Campenelli, whom she may or may not be in a relationship with. Nick is unhappy with Kennedy spending so much time in close contact with the very smitten, Detective Hunt. Tossed into the mix are her retired cop grandfather, her self-appointed personal domestic slave, Elvis, and a boss who is demanding answers.
Is it any wonder that Kennedy doesn’t do relationships?
Enjoy an excerpt:
Nick’s touch was tender. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I had no idea. Let me get a clean dressing.”
The anger in his eyes turned to concern. Something inside her warmed.
Nick disappeared into the bathroom. The man was beginning to spend more time in there than she did. Cabinet doors creaked and slammed. He returned with enough first-aid crap to fix an Army platoon after a major battle. Carefully, he began cutting away the bloodied bandage.
Kennedy winced. "Son of a fucking bitch!" She sucked in a lungful of air.
“Sorry. I’m trying to be gentle.” The bandage was off and Nick inspected her arm closely. “Puckered wounds, one front and one back. They’re swollen, purple, and oozing blood. That can’t be good.”
“You think?”
“Christ. What did the guy shoot you with? A cannon?”
“A little pea shooter.”
“Looks like about…” He counted out loud. “Nineteen stitches total, front and back. You taking anything for the pain? This has got to hurt.”
No shit. “There’s no pain. Unless some big oaf man-handles me.”
“I said I was sorry,” Nick whispered.
He wiped away the fresh blood. With a feather-like touch, he cleaned the stitches with peroxide and applied a clean dressing. His face filled with remorse. Every time she flinched, he flinched more. When she moaned, Nick moaned louder. When tears pooled in her eyes, his jaws locked as if he were fighting back his own.
This was hurting him more than her. “It’s not bad. Really. There’s enough numbing shit in my arm to last a month.”
About the Author:
Now she spends her days turning her ideas into books. She lives in Marietta, GA with her husband.
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