On Sale: March 11, 2014
ISBN: 0062314114 EAN: 9780062314116 Kindle: B00DB3FWIS Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
NEW RELEASE SPECIAL PRICE
Practicing physician Carey Baldwin relies on her
knowledge as a former clinical psychologist to deliver a
riveting psychological thriller that pits psychiatrist
against serial killer in
By Carey Baldwin
from Harper Collins/Witness Impulse
SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY PRICE $1.99
For fans of Allison Brennan and Karen Rose comes Carey
Baldwin, a daring new name in suspense, with the story of a
serial killer out for blood—and the only woman who can
stop his reign of terror.
They say the Santa Fe Saint comes to save your
soul—by taking your life.
Newly minted psychiatrist Faith Clancy gets the shock of
her life when her first patient confesses to the grisly
Saint murders. By law Faith's compelled to notify the
authorities, but is her patient really the Saint?
Faith is going to need all her wits and the help of a
powerful adversary, Luke Jericho, if she's to unravel the
truth. Will Luke prove to be a safe harbor or a dangerous
enemy, and can Faith unravel the truth in time to stop the
Saint—or will she become his next victim?
About the Author:
Carey Baldwin is a mild-mannered doctor by day and an
award-winning author of edgy suspense by night. She holds
two doctoral degrees, one in medicine and one in psychology.
She loves reading and writing stories that keep you off
balance and on the edge of your seat.
Luke Jericho halted mid-stride, and the
sophisticated chatter around him dimmed to an indistinct
buzz. Customers jamming the art gallery had turned the air
hot, and the aromas of perfume and perspiration clashed. His
gaze sketched the cut muscles of the woman's shoulders
before swerving to the tantalizing V of her low-back dress.
There, slick fabric met soft skin just in time to hide the
thong she must be wearing. His fingers found the cold silk
knot of his tie and worked it loose. He let his glance dot
down the line of her spine, then swoop over the arc of her
ass. It was the shimmer of Mediterranean-blue satin,
illuminated beneath art lights, that had first drawn his
eye, her seductive shape that had pulled him up short, but
it was her stance—her pose—that had his blood
expanding like hot mercury under glass.
Head tilted, front foot cocked back on its
stiletto, the woman studied one of Luke's favorite
pieces—his brother Dante's mixed-media. A piece Luke
had hand-selected and quietly inserted into this show of
local artists in the hopes a positive response might bolster
his brother's beleaguered self-esteem.
The woman couldn't take her eyes off the piece,
and he couldn't take his eyes off the woman. Her right arm
floated, as if she were battling the urge to reach out and
touch the multi-textured painting. Though her back was to
him, he could picture her face, pensive, enraptured. Her
lips would be parted and sensual. He savored the swell of
her bottom beneath the blue dress. Given the way the fabric
clung to her curves, he'd obviously guessed right about the
thong. She smoothed the satin with her hand, and he rubbed
the back of his neck with his palm. Ha. Any minute now she'd
turn and ruin his fantasy with what was sure to turn out to
be the most ordinary mug in the room.
And then she did turn, and damned if her mug
wasn't ordinary at all, but she didn't appear enraptured.
Inquisitive eyes, with a distinct undercurrent of
melancholy, searched the room and found him. Then, delicate
brows raised high, her mouth firmed into a hard
line—even thinned, her blood-red lips were temptation
itself—she jerked to a rigid posture and marched,
yeah, marched, straight at him.
Hot ass. Great mouth. Damn lot of
"I could feel your stare," she said.
"Kind of full of yourself, honey."
A flush of scarlet flared across her chest,
leading his attention to her lovely, natural breasts,
mostly, but not entirely, concealed by a classic neckline.
With effort, he raised his eyes to meet hers. Green. Skin,
porcelain. Hair, fiery—like her cheeks—and
flowing. She looked like a mermaid. Not the soft kind, the
kind with teeth.
"I don't like to be ogled." Apparently she
intended to stand her ground.
He decided to stand his as well. That low-back
number she had on might be considered relatively tame in a
room with more breasts on display than a Picasso exhibit,
but there was something about the way she wore it. "Then you
shouldn't have worn that dress, darlin'."