Epiphany
by
Christina Jean Michaels
Publication date: July, 2013
Genre: NA/17+ Romantic Suspense
Where to buy: Amazon
Synopsis:
“I had my first psychic dream when I was nine. Psychic implied power, and powerful wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. I couldn’t foretell the future or conjure visions at will, but I couldn’t think of a more fitting word to describe what I sometimes saw in my dreams.”
For 23-year-old Mackenzie Hill, tossing her life down the garbage disposal is easy after a painful incident shatters her life. Her heart is bleeding, and moving to Watcher’s Point is a chance to start anew, only she isn’t prepared for the guy who walks out of her dreams and into the flesh. Literally . . . because she’s been dreaming about this sexy stranger for years.
Mackenzie is even less prepared to face the dark nature of her dreams. They’ve turned disturbingly gruesome, full of blood and murder, and when they begin to coincide with the media’s headlines, she and Aidan realize her visions might be the key to stopping a madman from killing again.
Only Aidan has painful secrets of his own, and perhaps the biggest danger of all is falling for him.
For 23-year-old Mackenzie Hill, tossing her life down the garbage disposal is easy after a painful incident shatters her life. Her heart is bleeding, and moving to Watcher’s Point is a chance to start anew, only she isn’t prepared for the guy who walks out of her dreams and into the flesh. Literally . . . because she’s been dreaming about this sexy stranger for years.
Mackenzie is even less prepared to face the dark nature of her dreams. They’ve turned disturbingly gruesome, full of blood and murder, and when they begin to coincide with the media’s headlines, she and Aidan realize her visions might be the key to stopping a madman from killing again.
Only Aidan has painful secrets of his own, and perhaps the biggest danger of all is falling for him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christina Jean Michaels was born in Paradise, California, but she has found the true home of her heart in Eugene, Oregon where she finds plenty of inspiration for storytelling.
When she was young, her mother said she hated words. Now she can't imagine not writing. She became an avid reader when she was thirteen and discovered the world of Sweet Valley High. About a year later she realized she could play God and write about her own characters. She has been writing in some form ever since.
She lives with her husband and their four children—three rambunctious UFC/wrestling-
LINKS:
Something
inside me cracked right along with Aidan’s expression. Everything
he’d been hiding spilled from his eyes.
“Aidan .
. .”
“I need
a drink.” He strode away, leaving me glued to the spot where he’d
trapped me. A crash resounded from the kitchen, followed by
splintering glass. I willed my feet to move, ignoring the little
voice of reason pointing out that maybe I should leave him be for
now.
He was
sweeping broken glass into a dustpan when I walked in. “Are you
okay?” Instantly, I wished I could cast a net and pull back the
stupid, inconsiderate question. Of course he wasn’t okay. “I’m
sorry. I know you’re not . . . okay.”
“Don’t
worry about it. I know what you meant.” He emptied the dustpan into
the trashcan and then opened a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, all the
while refusing to meet my eyes.
“Mind
sharing?” I asked. If there was ever a time for drinking, it was
now.
“I
thought you were beyond corruptible.”
I recalled
how he’d said something similar on Halloween. “You remember more
about that night than you let on, don’t you?”
He pulled
two tumblers from a dark cherry wood cabinet. “I remember you.”
Amber liquid sloshed into both glasses as he poured, and a moment
later he closed the distance between us. “Straight up?” The
question sounded like a challenge.
“Sure.”
I gulped down the whiskey and ignored the burn as it slid down my
throat. Heat ignited low in my belly, though whether from the alcohol
or Aidan’s scrutiny, I wasn’t sure.
He leaned
against the kitchen sink and finished off his own drink before
pouring another. “I’m sorry I blew up on you. I didn’t come
here to make friends . . . to complicate things.”
“I’m a
complication?”
His
laughter was empty, cold as a morgue. “You’re about as
complicated as they come.”
I stared
at the bottom of my glass. “Why’s that?”
“You
look at me as if you see right through me. It’s unsettling.”
“I don’t
mean to unsettle you.”
“Consider
me unsettled. Problem is, I think you’re using more than eyesight.”
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