Part of Series
She thought her tormenter was dead… Find out why New York Times bestseller Maya Banks hails McKenna’s books as “A non-stop thrill ride...” He couldn’t forget her... Famous bad boy DJ Anton Trask stays the hell out of other people’s business. He learned that lesson long ago and paid for it in blood. But when the gorgeous, prickly Fiona Garrett shows up at one of his nightclubs asking for his help, he can’t say no, and it throws his inner world into chaos. He and Fiona grew up together at GodsAcre, a remote doomsday cult in the mountains. She was only fifteen when he helped her escape that hellhole, but she’s all grown up now. Anton hates to lose control, but Fiona’s direct gray gaze, her soft red lips and her gorgeous body make his heart race and his temperature rise. Pursued by a ghost… Fiona Garrett is on the run. Brutal killers are looking for her, and she doesn’t understand why. All she knows it that it must tie back to GodsAcre and the people who died there years ago. She hates asking Anton for protection once again—she owes him her life already—but he’s the only person who might believe her. Still, Fiona is not prepared for the effect that Anton has on her senses. His big muscular body, the hypnotic glitter of his silvery eyes, the controlled, masterful power he exudes…it sparks a desire inside her that she’d never imagined—and she can’t control the blaze. Anton just wants to leave GodsAcre and its painful memories in the past, but they have to face it down to save Fiona—and as danger ignites all around them, all he can do is keep her close. And the closer she gets, the less he ever wants to let her go…
Author
Also wrote five category romances under the penname Shannon Anderson ::From The Author's Website:: HOW IT ALL BEGAN I started writing my first romance novel in secret. I was working a temp job in an insurance office in Manhattan at the time, and the office manager had made it clear that even if there was nothing to do, I still had to look busy—never one of my big talents. I felt bad about the wasted time, though, and I needed something to round out my other chosen career, which was singing. Yeah, that's right. Most artists choose a more practical Plan B to back up their improbable Plan A. Me? No way. "Long Shot" is my middle name. So I sneakily set up a Document 1 and a Document 2 with a spreadsheet on it. If my Boss du Jour walked by I could quick-like-a-bunny switch screens, and whenever the coast was clear, I went back to my story. Not that I was slacking, mind you. If there was work to be done, I did it. The sneakiness felt familiar, though, because I've been teased about reading romances since I was a kid. I think the day I finally grew up was the day I stopped trying to cover up what I was reading on the bus, train or subway. Let people think whatever they like. It wasn't until I moved to Italy (details of that Long Shot provided later on) that I got serious about writing, though. I found myself with many long, quiet days alone with nothing to do, so I slogged my way bravely to the end of the manuscript and sent it out. Everybody rejected it-except for Kensington. I wrote for them for a few years, and then made a bid for an erotic novella for the new Brava imprint, and oh joy, they accepted it. Then I wrote BEHIND CLOSED DOORS. And so on, and so forth. That's how I started. I can't think of anything I'd rather do. I never knew it would be so scary, and so hard . . . all that solitude and silence, a blank computer screen, and no one to blame. But still. It's worth it. It's great.
