Excerpt from Chapter One

The front door was flung open. Boot heels rang out against the wood floor. Spurs jingled an angry tune.

Angel stopped in shock, looking up from her book and over the heads of her audience.

A sea of hats swiveled as the ladies turned to see who had the nerve to interrupt the quiet Sunday afternoon. Gasps of surprise filled the store.

"You may call yourself Angelica, but you're sure as hell no angel," the stranger said in a deep voice with the lilting cadence of a Northman.

Heads turned from the intruder back toward the author. Embarrassed titters filled the room as the ladies pressed white handkerchiefs to their lips as if to hold in their excitement.

Angel felt her breath catch in her throat. Her greatest fear had just stepped through the doorway. She'd never expected to see Rune Wulfsson again, not after what she'd done to him. If he was here, he'd been released from jail and hunted her down for one reason and one reason only. Revenge.

She felt her blood run cold. He was a formidable opponent. He knew too much. He hated her too much. She must be smart, think fast, and save the explosive situation. From schoolmarm to dancehall slattern was not her idea of a successful future.

"Right on time." She pasted on a smile, although her jaw ached with the effort. "Ladies, may I present the Viking."

Hats whipped back around as the women took a better gander at the tall–as–a–tree man with blue eyes the color of a storm–tossed sky. Mad. Angry. Furious. None was a strong enough word for the blaze in his eyes as he clenched fists.

Angel plunged onward, hoping to avert the next words out of his mouth. "I asked him to join us so you could see an example of how authors draw from real life to write their books."

The ladies oohed and took the opportunity, maybe a once in a lifetime event, to ogle a surefire, handsome hero.

Belatedly, obviously remembering his manners, the Viking whipped off his white, six–gallon hat, revealing close–cropped sandy hair, and gave a slight bow. Good manners didn't extend to his scowl, straight brows meeting over hooded eyes. One long–fingered hand dropped near the pearl–handled Colt .45 he wore in a fancy tooled gun–belt that emphasized his narrow hips and muscular thighs clad in form–fitting Levi's. A blue plaid shirt strained across his broad chest.

Angel sighed. Last time she'd seen him, he'd worn a fringed leather vest, tight leather trousers, and an eagle feather in long hair bleached almost white by the sun. Cowboy gear suited him just as well. Even if he appeared thinner and a little pale, he couldn't have looked more delectable if he'd tried.

And that was exactly what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.