Dani pointed to the far wall of cages, oblivious to his disgruntlement. “Those are all the dogs whose time here expires. Feel free to take them out into the holding room”—she indicated a white door that had a sign reading holding room— “and do whatever you gotta do.” Turning her back on him, she squatted down in front of a large cage and opened it. Tyler bent down to see a massive gray dog with black spots and stripes. The dog lifted his head slightly, his floppy ears pricking as she cooed. “Hey, Fugly, how you doing, bud?” Dani’s hand glided over the dog’s head and neck, and he relaxed back on his side with a whimper. “What happened to him?” Tyler asked. “Someone hit him with their car. A yard crew behind them stopped and picked him up, brought him here, but there’s only so much I can do. The X-rays show he needs leg surgery, but my regular doctor is off today, and the prick subbing for him won’t do a damn thing to help.” Tyler came closer, squatting behind her. The dog lifted his head and met Tyler’s gaze with soft green-gray eyes. Rex’s eyes had been…
There is a contradiction at the heart of the HEAT series, and in particular A LOVE TO KILL FOR. Sex, violence, wry humour, conspiracy and intrigue – and love. The whole theme – the whole point – of Heat is that Liam Murdoch, the quintessential male archetype, is fighting against love to preserve his most valued possession. His independence. Liam Murdoch is your mother’s worst nightmare. He has a degree in calculating the odds, and a major in lock picking, from the University of the Mean Streets of LA. He owes nothing to anybody, and when he sees something – or somebody – he wants, he plays the odds and takes it – or her. He is unattached and likes it that way. His one passion is his freedom and playing the odds in life. In his book, all women are bad news, and the one thing he does not need, is love. He is the hunter, the predator. Love is a weakness, and he is anything but weak. And then he meets Catherine Howard, the ultimate, archetypal woman, embodying every contradiction under the sun. She is cold as ice, calculating and ruthless, yet at the same time she is…
That is a common question I’m asked when I introduce myself to someone as an author. And, although it sounds vague when I answer “everywhere,” that is the truth of the matter. I started making up stories in my head when I was a young girl. Long road trips (no iPads, iPhones, or portable DVD players in those days) were the perfect place to imagine myself in all sorts of interesting situations. I also used that same method when I was falling asleep at night. I would climb into bed and refresh my memory on where the story stopped the previous night, then pick it up from there. Much to my parents’ amazement, some nights I was anxious to go to bed, just so I could continue my story. Years later, when I worked in Manhattan, I took a train from my home in New Jersey, and most times the same people would be on the train each day. To amuse myself, I made up stories about them. I had a lengthy story going one time that covered weeks, concerning the woman next to me, who had a husband—sitting on my other side, who was cheating on her, with the…