“Blondie,” I said, a little firmer this time and peeled her off my chest. “What’s the matter with you?”

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout and then wobbled.

It wrecked me.

The vulnerability she was projecting fucking took me down.

She reached for me again and I let her in, drawing her close and allowing her to burrow in as close to me as she could.

I rocked us both back and forth, a slight movement, but a comforting one. Clearly she needed comfort. Maybe that’s the reason Rim had been driving.

“Did something happen today?” I asked, hoarse.

Whose ass do I need to beat? The possessive bastard in me demanded.

“Promise me something,” she said suddenly, pulling back and blinking the snow from her face.

“Anything.”

Her eyes cleared and she shook her head. “No. No promises. Just tell me I’ll never lose you.”

Relief filled my limbs and made them heavy. I wanted to laugh.

I must have smiled because she scowled. “Why is that funny?”

“It’s not funny. It’s just the easiest promise I will ever make.”

“It’s not easy. It won’t be.”

What the f**k was she talking about?

“Ivy.” A hard note creeped into my tone. “Listen to me and listen good.”

Her eyes bounced between mine, like she was searching for something… but I didn’t know what. I’d give it to her, f**k I’d give her anything if I only knew what it was she needed.

“You listening?” I demanded.

Really, I was stalling for time.

I had to pull out some words right now. We all know how very little I liked words.

She nodded.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into that beautiful head of yours today and honestly it doesn’t really matter. Not for this. I’m not going anywhere. Never. Hell, I should be the one asking you to make that promise.”

She snorted. Clearly she’d spent the afternoon with my sister.

“Its ridiculous, right?” I asked.

She nodded, but then I saw the doubt creep into her eyes.

I took her face in my hands, noting how cold her skin felt. “It’s just as easy for me to make that promise as it is for you. You have to trust me, baby. You have to trust that I mean it when I say I’m yours and it’s not going to change.”

Why, why was she suddenly being so… so… chick-like?

Hell, we made it through Missy, our mutual attempt to push each other away, rape, Zach… the list went on. Why was she suddenly needing to hear that I wasn’t going to leave her?

“I trust you,” there was no doubt in her voice. “More than anyone.”

It didn’t really matter. The reason. If she needed to hear it then I’d say it.

I tucked her into my side to shelter her from the cold and turned us toward the house. “Come on, Blondie, you’re sexy ass is gonna freeze.”

Inside the garage we passed the Hellcat and Ivy looked up. “I’m sorry, you totally don’t need my emotional baggage right now. Today isn’t about me. It’s about you and I’m dying to know how the meeting went with Anthony.”

I hit the button on the wall so the door could lower. As it moved, the garage dimmed with the lost sunlight. I stopped short of opening the door leading into the house and leaned back against the wood.

She fit between my legs perfectly and I clutched the lapels of her red coat and tugged her close. “My very existence is about you, baby. Everything else is just details.”

Her face softened. “I think that might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said. Besides of course I love you.”

Words for the win!

“Give me some sugar,” I ordered.

She obliged and kissed me.

Cambria Hebert is an award winning, bestselling novelist of more than twenty books. She went to college for a bachelor’s degree, couldn’t pick a major, and ended up with a degree in cosmetology. So rest assured her characters will always have good hair.
Besides writing, Cambria loves a caramel latte, staying up late, sleeping in, and watching movies. She considers math human torture and has an irrational fear of chickens (yes, chickens). You can often find her running on the treadmill (she’d rather be eating a donut), painting her toenails (because she bites her fingernails), or walking her chorkie (the real boss of the house).
Cambria has written within the young adult and new adult genres, penning many paranormal and contemporary titles. Her favorite genre to read and write is romantic suspense. A few of her most recognized titles are: The Hashtag Series, Text, Torch, and Tattoo.
Cambria Hebert owns and operates Cambria Hebert Books, LLC.
You can find out more about Cambria and her titles by visiting her website: http://www.cambriahebert.com.

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“Incumbent…the title alone would not have grabbed my attention had the cover not blown my mind 😉 WOW!!! Then I opened the book and DAAAAAMN, Joanne Schwehm grabbed me from the first chapter and kept me clean through to the last page!!” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ ~ Amazon Reviewer

“First I need to say, I was the first person to have the pleasure of meeting Senator Drake Prescott, and it’s a good thing I claimed him before anyone else. I devoured this book, and often threatened the author for more as I beta read every page the moment it was sent to my Kindle.” ~ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Author A.M. Madden

“I vote for Incumbent! Joanne Schwehm has yet to disappoint me. Her writing is effortless and the story is amazing. I can’t wait for everyone to meet Drake Prescott. SWOON!!!” ~ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Author Trudy Stiles

Joanne Schwehm is a wife, mother and romance author who loves to write and read romance. She loves to create stories that readers can get lost in. Her desire is to have readers want to get to know her characters and be a part of their lives.She loves the NY Yankees and the Dallas Cowboys and also enjoys playing golf (and the cute outfits that she gets to buy to wear on the course). Her motto is, “If you can’t play well, then look good trying.”

To put it simply, Joanne believes everyone should have romance in their lives. She hopes her books bring joy and happiness to readers who enjoy modern day fairy tales and breathless moments.

“While this is the first book I’ve read by this author, it will not be the last. I’ve added her to my must read authors’ list. This one is a must read for romantic suspense fans.” ~ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Star Review from Goodreads Reviewer

“Such a good read!! 100% recommend!! Definitely different than any other contemporary romance novel I have read to date, but so so worth it!!” ~ ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Star Review from Goodreads reviewer

“Bridge is muuuuuuy sexy and that whole alpha vibe he has going just plain works!” ~ ⭐⭐⭐⭐ Star Review from Goodreads Reviewer

Where the hell had he come from?

Pasadena Police Detective Sergeant Russell Bridger straightened and peered through his binoculars in annoyance at the young bicycle patrolman who came wheeling into the alley where Bridge’s vice squad team had set up today’s sting—the culmination of two months of risky undercover work and careful planning. This was not good. The targeted meth dealer was due to turn up any second now, along with the buyer, complete with heavily armed entourages. According to the team’s CI, today’s meet was supposed to be a major buy. And both parties had nasty reputations for shooting first and asking questions never.

This kid was going to get in the way.

Shit.

“Who the f**k is that?” Jose’s growl came over Bridge’s earbud, along with the colorful curses of four other team members.

Jesus, could he look any more out of place in this rough neighborhood, with his new bike, shiny badge, and summer uniform of neat navy-blue shorts, crisp short-sleeved shirt, and APD baseball cap? Hell, he barely looked old enough to shave. Had he graduated from the academy last week, or what?

“Hold your positions,” Bridge murmured into his com. “Hopefully the kid’s just taking a shortcut.”

Or not.

Bridge gave a mental groan when the rookie glided to a stop, dismounted his bike, and approached a homeless guy sleeping against the dirty brick wall. A homeless guy who was actually Chen, one of the team.

Right about that same time, a trio of trailer trash ninjas appeared in the mouth of the alley. The one in the middle was carrying an incongruously nice aluminum briefcase, filled with money no doubt, and the two flanking him were armed to the teeth.

F**k.

“We got movement, Sarge,” Flip reported from his position on the roof. “Target’s vehicle approaching from the east.

Holy hell. “Chen, get that kid out of here, now,” Bridge ordered. “Light a goddamn fire.”

There was another round of curses in his ear as a sleek white Mercedes halted at the other end of the alley, blocking it off. Three bad guys emerged from the car with noticeable bulges under their fancy suits.

Effectively making the kid a bicycle rookie sandwich from hell.

F**king damn it.

Bridge didn’t even stop to think. He threw the binoculars at Jones, touched the Glock 21 tucked under his ratty, oversized T-shirt, and stumbled from his concealed doorway out into the alley, singing a loud, wheeling, drunken version of O Danny Boy. It was the first tune that popped into his mind. Possibly from too many gleefully boisterous renditions by his dad upon every single solitary festive occasion in his whole damned life.

Bridge almost smiled. But that would have blown his cover.

Chen said something sharply to the rookie, who proceeded to frown, then look up and down the alley like a f**king navy-blue neon sign that screamed Hey bad guys! Police set-up!

A feeling of absolute impending disaster swept over Bridge nanoseconds before the hail of bullets started flying. He started to run.

And lunged for the kid.

Mary Alice Cathryn Flannery did not make mad, passionate love to men on the hood of her car.

Didn’t matter how hunky the guy from the road construction site down the street from her Sierra Madre Canyon cottage was. She had no plans to ask him out on a date when he stopped her vehicle on the way to work—or even flirt with him—and she definitely would not be having monkey sex with him on the hood of her SUV.

Which made it somewhat mortifying that he’d invaded her dreams all night, doing just that.

She, who hadn’t so much as looked at a man in three years, was suddenly having erotic dreams about the muscle-bound brain trust holding up a freaking stop sign on a road crew.

She was losing it. No doubt about it.

She bent down and swooped up the shards of her favorite coffee mug, flinging them into the kitchen rubbish bin—right on top of the remains of the half dozen eggs she’d splattered across the floor a few minutes earlier.

Seriously. They should make him put on a shirt. Every single female driver had her eyes glued to that ripped, tanned, hair-sprinkled chest. The man could cause an accident.

Sure, he was handsome enough to stir any woman’s blood—yeah, even hers. His body was hard and lean without an ounce to spare under those loose-hipped jeans. And the come-hither way he crooked his finger at her when he spun his sign from stop to slow, motioning her through the pitted construction site? Well, no wonder he induced snooze-button abusing dreams.

Still. It didn’t matter how provocative the sight of the man’s bare, muscular torso. Or how sexy the hint of spicy cologne, honest sweat, and canyon dust that drifted off that wide expanse of male flesh when he stood next to her open car window. Though granted, it was pretty darn sexy.

It was ironic, really. The first guy to get her engine going in three years, and his job was to hold up a stop sign.

Gawd. Was the universe trying to tell her something?

She yanked her flannel robe tighter over her breasts and groaned. The plastic noses of her Snoopy slippers clicked furiously on the hardwood floor as she marched to the bedroom and flung open the closet door. When she pulled a neat cotton blouse off its hanger, the top button sailed across the room, ricocheted off the vanity mirror, and landed smack in the middle of the unmade brass bed. She allowed one succinct expletive to escape.

Enough, already!

Gritting her teeth, she glanced at the clock. With the long trail of distracted disasters this morning, she was running super late. Quickly, she shrugged on a loose, shapeless T-shirt dress over an equally shapeless sports bra—her usual garb for her job as a nursery school teacher. Frumpy? Maybe. But it was comfortable and bleachable. That’s what counted.

She hurriedly ran a comb through her long red hair. Lord, it just got redder and redder every summer. Only May, and already the sun had turned it bright enough to stop traffic. With a grimace, she gave it a final swipe and wound it into a twist.

There was nothing about her appearance that would attract the attention of a certain broad-shouldered Adonis. Definitely nothing to make him pin her to the hood of a car, lift her skirt, and—

Good lord.

How on earth would she ever face him this morning—the raven-haired man who’d had the starring role in dreams that even now left her knees weak and her body aching?

She gave herself a stern mental shake, slipped her feet into clogs, and clattered down the hall. She grabbed the oversized canvas bag that doubled as her purse on workdays and sailed out the front door. When she reached the SUV, she squeezed her eyes shut, barely resisting the urge to lay a hand on the hood.

“Hey there, Mary Alice!”

Her eyes sprang open and she spotted her neighbor, Charlie Watson, waving to her. His huge contemporary home towered over her miniature craftsman cottage. Charlie stood on the edge of his beloved water lily pond pulling out dead leaves and fussing with the buds and blooms, as he did every morning before leaving for work. For a bachelor, the man was a bit obsessive about his water lilies. Of course, she didn’t blame him. She was the same way about her treasured roses.

“Hi, Charlie.”

“Looks like it’s going to be another hot one,” he called over in a friendly voice.

She looked up at the sky, barely seeing it. She smiled and waved back. “Nice breeze, though.”

Charlie was a good neighbor—always keeping a protective eye out for her. His frequent parties were first class, if somewhat disorderly. And it was fun teasing him about his silly water lilies. He actually thought they were prettier than her roses.

With another wave, she turned back to her car. And frowned. There was a folded piece of paper fluttering under the windshield wiper. She pulled it out then gave a small gasp as she noticed the time on her watch. She’d barely make it to school before the kids got there at eight-thirty. Even worse than keeping the kids and parents waiting, she’d be forced to endure one of her boss Lucinda’s lectures on the virtues of punctuality.

Cramming the paper hastily into her pocket, she slid into the car, adjusted the seat-back straight up, and reversed out of the driveway, praying the stupid road construction wouldn’t delay her. Maybe they—meaning he—would be taking the day off.

The way her day was going? She should be so lucky.

A woman with a varied and checkered past…

I guess that’s how I’d describe myself.

By profession, I’m really an archaeologist (an Egyptologist) but I’ve worked all kinds of jobs, from real estate to a fabric store clerk to a student counselor at the Fulbright Commission in Stockholm, Sweden. My favorite was a work-study job in grad school (go Maroons!), reorganizing the ancient Egyptian pottery at the University of Chicago’s famous Oriental Institute. The pay was lousy, but holding ceramic jars actually touched by Ramses II and King Tut was awe-inspiring and unbelievably exciting.

I’ve lived all over the USA, and even spent six years in Europe. I love to travel. Maybe because my great-grandfather was an Hungarian gypsy–my only ancestor who was not Danish. A few years back, my family and I moved to Charleston, South Carolina, which has also been a wonderful adventure. It’s amazing here.

I love archaeology, but doing fieldwork in The Sudan, Africa (my area of specialty within Egyptology) was getting dangerous. So when I thought about what I’d like to do instead, I set out to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a writer. Now I have my adventures through my characters. I can give my heroines the thrills and excitement all women dream of having, but I never have to change out of my jammies to do it. My kind of job! Becoming a New York Times Bestselling author is literally a dream come true. It doesn’t get any better than this!

I think much of the appeal of the romance genre is the seductive fantasy it allows women to indulge in safely. A woman whose days are filled with diapers or spreadsheets, PTA or sales meetings, wants to be swept away in a romantic fantasy for a few hours, into a world where she can quench her thirst for love and romantic adventure, and fulfill her dreams of a man who instinctively satisfies her deepest yearnings. I love writing about feisty heroines who do things I would never dare to do in real life. My heroes are dark and dangerous men who ooze sensuality–but who know how to treat a lady. 

After more than 35 books, I’m still loving the adventure. For me, there is just nothing more satisfying than creating a heart-tugging love story alongside a thrill-ride adventure. I hope you agree!

Please, drop me a line! 

I love to hear from readers. Good reading!

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