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(If you missed last week’s post on the true adventures of erotic historical romance author Ms. Delilah Marvelle, click here.)

Vegas in June translates to oppressive heat during the day, even though my hair seemed to love it. That night I went searching for my research-seeking roommate, Delilah Marvelle, half the population of Vegas must’ve been walking The Strip, the collective body heat reminding us we were in the desert, no matter how pretty the lights looked.

But I digress.

As I emerged from the hotel into the thick crowd to cross the street, I dialed up Delilah’s phone. No answer.

The writing muse who lives in my head perked up. (She would be the same one who doesn’t come around when I’m desperate for inspiration. *Biotch*)

What if, at that very moment, some nasty dude was hitting on Delilah?

Thank you, La Muse. Not.

I called Delilah again. Nothing.

What if she’d been kidnapped by big, nasty, mustached dudes who were going to use her as a sex slave?

Holy crap. What if? I mean, we were in Vegas, after all. Anything was possible. Well, there was only one thing to do. I figured if I hurried, I’d catch the bastards in the act, kick them in the balls, grab Delilah, and make a run for it.

Yep, that’s what gal pals did for each other, right?

I sent a text: “I’m coming to get you.”
Just in case the goons had her phone.

Impatiently, I dodged around gawking tourists until finally, finally I reached the bar she’d mentioned. P1170601The one that served the evil absinthe. The one that had caused me to wander into the night looking for my friend. The one that was also . . . closed.

Closed. As in, no Delilah anywhere.

If I were Jessica Adams, the heroine in my debut book, MERGER OF THE HEART, what started out as a one bag of Peanut M&M night, quickly escalated to three bags.

Good thing she wasn’t the one searching for Delilah.

I’ll see you back here next Tuesday, because the evening wasn’t quite over. . ..