A Peek at Carnal, Wind Dancer Book Three!

It’s difficult for an author to admit that she has a favorite hero or heroine. It’s kind of like admitting you have a favorite child.

That said—I’m totally gaga for Harrison Indiana Ford, whose mother named him after the actor. I had to give him the middle name Indiana, because Indiana Jones (the first one) is one of my all-time favorite movies.

Of course that also means that I adore the actor—Harrison Ford. I’ve loved him in almost every role. But, I prefer his quirky, cynical roles best—him as Hans Solo in Stars Wars and Indiana Jones make me swoon like an adolescent with a HUGE crush. And that crush transference happened with the hero of Carnal. So today, here’s a sneak preview of Harrison Indiana Ford and Martine Bellamy’s romance.



Money, power, and women, all come easy to Harrison Indiana Ford. Yet he wants more -to ensure his daddy’s oil fortune goes to him – not Delora – the stepmother who seduced him as a teenager. If Harry doesn’t marry a virgin and produce an heir before he turns thirty-two, Delora inherits it all. D-day and unpredictable circumstances force Harry to hire a matchmaker and marry a stranger.

Martine’s survived the streets of Haiti’s capital with her virginity intact, but she’s no innocent. Fleeing persecution, she stows away on a cargo ship, and enters France illegally. Desperate for the million Euro Harry offers so she can bring her ailing grandmother to France, she signs the pre-nuptial contract using forged documents.

Delora’s not about to let a billion dollars slip through her hands. There are too many ways to sabotage a relationship, prevent a pregnancy. And it’s so easy to foster suspicion and hatred where there’s no trust. What Delora doesn’t count on is the explosive sexual relationship that develops between Harry and Martine.

As lust morphs into caring, Delora’s detectives search for Martine’s hidden secrets. How did Martine get from Haiti to France?


Excerpt from Carnal:


They took a taxi to the yacht, and Harry had them in his quarters before Martine could blink.

She did a graceful pirouette, arms flung wide, spinning on one foot and lifting her face to his. “Merci, Harry. Thank you. Thank you. Never have I had such a wonderful meal.” She hugged herself. “I will treasure this night always.”

“So will I.” And he meant every word. “Come with me, Mrs. Ford.” He crooked a finger.

She took two steps forward, set her palms on his chest, and their gazes fastened. “Is it now that we play your Blind Man’s game?”

He almost fell over his own feet he laughed so hard. “Have you been thinking about it all evening?” He  swiped the moisture from his cheek.

“Austen explained you bluff in poker. I did not know this term. But it is like a dare, non?” She’d taken a seat on the mattress and shed her sandals. Her big toe traced the curves of the paisley pattern in the rug by the bed. “But where do we find the blind man? And who is nekkid?”

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he didn’t want to shatter their fragile camaraderie, so he worked up a smile to soften his words. “I’d lay Powerball odds you’re an orphan.”

“I can prove you wrong,” she declared.

Harry mirth disappeared when she imitated Delora’s voice, accent, and intonation perfectly. Probably a fluke. “Do that again.”

A smile played with the corners of her lips. She shot him a sideswipe.

“Don’t for a second think smashing my cell… I have plenty of backups of that picture,” she said, all in Delora’s voice.

That sniper-in-the-vicinity dread raked the hairs on his forearms. “Jesus. I never know what to expect from you.”

He strode to the bed and sat next to her, choking back the sourness filling his mouth. “Can you do other voices?”

“You are angry with me.” She shrank away, shuffling her feet in the direction of the headboard.

Harry changed his tactics. “I take it you’ve never played Blind Man’s Bluff?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry explained the game to her between kisses and stripping off her skirt, thong, and bra, leaving her blouse on but loosened to bare her breasts. When they were both hot and bothered, he retrieved a tie from the closet and wrapped the red strip of silk around her palm.

“Tie it around my eyes,” he instructed.

When she had him good and truly trussed, he swung into a horizontal position, rested his head in his hands, and elucidated, “Rule number one. You get to do anything you want. Have anything you want. Stop anytime you want. It’s all about you. The goal of the game is to identify whatever you’re holding or touching or kissing.”

Harry made a mental note to remember to tell Austen the new rules of the game.

“And rule number two?”

“I get a turn after you.”


Martine couldn’t remember ever feeling like this—giddy and delirious, alive and free. All during dinner she went over his every word on the bench—the promise of a house, money each month, security.

Do you mean this, Harrison Indiana Ford?

A miniscule part of her yearned to forget all the lessons she’d learned about men, to erase the past and believe in him. The other part, the part that ruled, called her the worst sort of idiot.

She sat on her haunches, all too conscious of Harry naked on the bed, of her nudity, and the ugly scars on her back.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Martine.” Harry  turned his head on the pillow, easily pinpointing her direction despite the blindfold. “Tell me what you want.”

Working up the courage to answer, she inhaled the aromas of the candles, a cleansing ginseng fragrance, and on her exhale she skittered closer and brushed her lips on the cusp of his shoulder. Admiring his bulging muscles, the sharp indentation midarm to his elbow, she ran her fingers down his warm flesh. The nuns avoided all mention of body parts and workings, and she’d reached adulthood vaguely aware of how coupling occurred.

“What is this muscle, Harry?” She squeezed the thickest part of his arm.

For a few seconds he didn’t answer, and her stomach went all jittery.

“That’s the deltoid. Feels good when you do that.”

“You have beautiful shoulders, strong, and I can see where each muscle begins and ends.” She bent to kiss a taut spot near the crook of his neck. “And this?”

Her exhale sifted a lock of warm brown hair curling around a vein that went all the way to his ear. Unable to resist, she traced the throbbing vessel, nuzzling the damp flesh cording his throat.

“Trapezius,” he elucidated, his voice low and husky.

“I know these.” She  placed her palms flat on his chest. “Pectorals. Men are so different here from women.”

“Praise the Lord almighty,” Harry muttered.

“So strong,” she murmured, fingering a ridged groove of flesh extending from the middle of his torso. “This is the six-pack, non? Three here and three on the other side. This one lower than its mate.”

On impulse she leaned over and used the tip of her tongue to trace each grove. Harry intoxicated her senses. She grew drunk on his now familiar Harry fragrance—soap, the CK aftershave she’d discovered in the bathroom, and a spiciness all his own. Her ears filled with his each rasped inhale, each muffled grunt, and the occasional hiss when she hit a sensitive spot.

Her tongue absorbed the slight musk and salt in the taste of him, and she closed her eyes to savor his flavor and smell, hoping she’d always be able to conjure the aroma after their year ended. She laid her cheek to his belly and ran a finger around the rim of his navel. A film of sweat coated his skin there, making the ridges outlining his taut belly glisten.


Hope you enjoyed!

Have a Marvelous Monday!


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