Jane Kindred - Waking The Serpent

The millionaire’s redemption...

When Sedona’s most eligible bachelor is accused of murdering a local psychic, medium Phoebe Carlisle finds herself drawn into the danger that surrounds him—by the meddling of the shades she channels and by his irresistible charms. A public defender and a gifted medium, Phoebe is devoted to justice—and not just for the living. Proving Rafe Diamante’s innocence means conjuring up two shades who were former lovers and now ignite the chemistry between their hosts.

Rafe can’t afford to lose control and act on his feelings for Phoebe. His unfulfilled sexual tension begins to stir something inside him—the legacy of Quetzalcoatl. But as these newfound abilities awaken a dormant power in Rafe, can he stop the real murderer in time to claim his true destiny?

The black ink spiraled over his left pectoral like a segment of conch shell sliced down the center.

Phoebe was having trouble focusing on the tattoo itself. The flesh beneath it was kind of spectacular. She tried not to drool. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s an ehecacozcatl. A wind jewel that belongs to the god. It’s sort of a family coat of arms.”

“Your family’s ancestry is Aztec?”

“Maybe. Probably not, but who knows? The Diamantes like to say so.” Rafe flashed another of those smiles that were beginning to do funny things to Phoebe’s stomach. Because stomach was the organ involved. Sure.

Rafe started to settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table.

“You’re keeping the pants on?” Phoebe had to resist rolling her eyes at herself. The words had just jumped out. “I mean—you said the fabric gets in the way.”

He answered as if she weren’t a complete loon. “I figured going fully skyclad would be a little presumptuous.”

About the Author

JANE KINDREDis the author of the Demons of Elysium series of M/M erotic fantasy romance, the Looking Glass Gods dark fantasy tetralogy and the gothic paranormal romance The Lost Coast. Jane spent her formative years ruining her eyes reading romance novels in the Tucson sun and watching Star Trek marathons in the dark. She now writes to the sound of San Francisco foghorns while two cats slowly but surely edge her off the side of the bed.

Waking the Serpent

Jane Kindred

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Hello vertigo and free-floating anxiety, my old friends. Phoebe let the familiar nausea-inducing miasma wash over her as the lights in her Sedona ranch house flickered and went out. The latter might be reasonably explained by the summer storm rolling over the desert, downed power lines, the fact that the old house had bad wiring, maybe—if it were anyone but Phoebe. But she’d driven around the bend of reasonable and onto the unimproved county road of completely certifiable a long time ago.

The dead and Phoebe had an uneasy truce. She’d given up trying to ignore them, because looking like the crazy lady who occasionally talked to herself was infinitely preferable to public outbursts worthy of an exorcist. She agreed to help them find justice, or closure, or peace—as long as they backed off when she told them to.

The electrical activity of a rainstorm actually brought them out. Or gave them energy to manifest, anyway. They’d been mumbling about her all day, the spectral aura of a migraine telling her somebody wanted in.

The shade trying to step in right now was new at it, making the room swim around Phoebe in gut-churning waves.

Phoebe stood over the couch with a death grip on the back of it, teeth clenched to keep from losing her lunch on the faux leather upholstery, trying to focus on the room through the dark bob of her ponytail swinging in front of her eyes. “For the love of Mike. Just step in already. The damn door’s open.”

As if in contradiction to her statement, the kitchen door slammed behind her, yanked by the air being sucked through the house in the wind tunnel created between the front entrance and the screen door opening onto the back porch. There was nothing better than the smell of petrichor stirred up by an oncoming storm. Phoebe had left the doors open to let it clean out the house and freshen things up. Given her housekeeping habits—and Puddleglum’s litter box habits—any little bit helped.

The storm-dark sky visible through the windows in front of her lit up for an instant with a horizontal bolt of lightning, and the answering crack of thunder came swiftly.

“I think he set me up.” The uncertain murmur had come from her own lips. The shade was in.

“It’s okay.” Phoebe spoke aloud, though it wasn’t necessary. Someone else talking through her was bad enough without answering in her head. She had some mental dignity left. “You can talk to me. You’re safe here.”

“Here?” The answering voice seemed youngish but Phoebe couldn’t get a handle on the gender. “Where’s here? I don’t know where I am.”

From experience, Phoebe knew it was better to prevaricate a bit. Especially with the newly dead. “You’re at the hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?”

Her heart began to hammer—the shade’s fear—as the answer came. “I was supposed to meet someone. But I... Something went wrong. Oh, God. Why is he here?”

Phoebe had to center the shade in the present before panic took over and it got stuck on a loop at the moment of its death. “Why don’t we start at the beginning, hon? Can you tell me your name?”

“I...I can’t... I think... I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. Don’t worry about that right now. Do you remember who you were meeting? Where were you supposed to meet?”

“I got a message, and I... He isn’t supposed to be here. Oh, my God. He set me up.”

Before Phoebe could bring the shade back to center, her throat began to tighten as though a pair of strong, gloved hands had closed around it. Fantastic. A violent murder and the shade was going to relive it inside her. There was no use fighting. She had to let the shade go through it—let it make Phoebe go through it—before it would release her.

Her lungs, however, were harder to convince. They fought like hell. Adrenaline shot through her bloodstream, a last-ditch, futile attempt at fight-or-flight, as Phoebe stumbled backward, hands convulsing at her throat. Before she could lose consciousness from the air being squeezed out of her, however, the back of her head hit the hardwood floor, beating it to the punch.