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Passionate Thirst: A Novel

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Overview

JUST ANOTHER NIGHT IN SIN CITY

Candace Steele is as tough as she is alluring. For her, killing vampires isn't just a job-it's personal: She's still haunted by erotic memories of an all-consuming affair with Ash, a seductive vampire who thrilled her-and then nearly destroyed her. Now, working undercover in a Las Vegas casino, she seduces the most powerful undead-right before she drives a stake through their unbeating hearts.

When hot-ticket singer Temptation McCoy sweeps into town for a major concert, Candace is tapped for security. But after meeting Temptation, Candace feels the cold, tingling sensation that can mean only one thing: There's a vampire in the diva's entourage. To complicate matters, Ash suddenly appears in Sin City, vowing to do anything and everything to draw Candace back into his arms. Overwhelmed by desire and suspicion, she lets down her guard . . . a move that could cost Candace her life.


From the Paperback edition.

Editorial Reviews

In her debut paranormal romance, Dean strives for a mix of sensuality and action a la Laurell K. Hamilton, but the result more closely resembles a grown-up Buffy clone. That's not to say that her tale isn't entertaining. Indeed, Dean's silver stake-wielding vampire killer, Candace Steele, has chutzpah, a smart mouth and a major chip on her shoulder. As the reader learns through lengthy flashbacks, Candace fell hard for a sexy vamp named Ash. But after a too-hot encounter almost killed her, Candace vowed to shake off her vampire lover and reinvent herself in Vegas as a security guard with a dangerous hobby--beating bloodsuckers at their own game. She finds herself in over her head, however, when she's assigned to protect her casino's big-ticket draw, pop sensation Temptation McCoy. Guarding Temptation wouldn't be so bad--if she didn't have a powerful vampire for a manager. When headless bodies turn up, indicating a larger plot at play, Candace finds herself relying on Ash for help, and their sexual pyrotechnics--not the vamp-killing action, of which there is little--will quench the thirst of readers seeking steamy, albeit conventional paranormal fare. (Nov.)
Copyright (c) Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
-- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of Cameron Dean

A graduate of Norman High School, Norman, Oklahoma. Read for the part of Mike Damone in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982). Studied with Ron Burrus and at the Loft Studio, both in Los Angeles. Is a hard-core Libertarian Will be appearing at the Libertarian National Convention in Atlanta, Georgia in May, 2004 [Libertarian Party News Online, October 24, 2003] Plays bass for Hollywood Ca. band, The Thornbirds. Former roommates with Eric Stolz in the early 80s. Cameron drove Stolz to the auditions for Fast Times at Ridgemont High (the film version). Studied under the same acting coach, Peggy Feury, as both Sean Penn and Eric Stolz. When she was killed in a car accident in 1985, Cameron and Penn both spoke at her funeral service. Is the inventor of the Bill of Rights: Security Edition cards, which are study, playing card size, pocket-sized sheets of metal with the first Ten Amendments to the Constitution printed on them. These cards are for those who are frequent fliers on commercial airliners, considering that they can set off the airport metal detectors. The idea is that, if federal inspectors and workers find these cards, one will have to give up his Bill of Rights when searched before boarding a plane. With the exception of the Fourth Amendment which is printed in red, all the other nine amendments are printed in black.

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Additional Info

Imprint

Spectra

Filesize

646.77 KB

Number of Pages

336

eBook ISBN

9780345495235

Excerpt from: Passionate Thirst by Cameron Dean

Three months later

I was on fire.

Blood pounded in my ears. My breath came in shallow gasps, panting in and out. Hands were racing across my bare skin, rough and gentle all at once. I let my body arch to meet them. Up, I thought. Take me up. Drive me to the brink and send me straight over the edge.

He knew how. I knew that much.

Blindly, my fingers sought his face, and brought his mouth to mine. The kiss was sure and deep, potent as a drug. I let my fingers roam down his body and felt his urgency increase. Now, I thought. I want you inside me now. Don't wait. Don't stop.

A strange, wild keening filled the room. I heard my lover give a grunt. He lifted his head, shaking it as if to clear it. The sound continued, piercing as a siren. Which, as it happens, is exactly what it was. Just my luck. I was in bed with the only guy in Las Vegas who downloads police sirens as ring tones for his cell phone. His most recent acquisition: one that sounded like those sirens you hear in French films. High low. High low. High low.

Very sexy on the screen. Not so sexy in real life--particularly when sex was the thing that was getting interrupted.

"Dammit!" Detective Carl Hagen said. He drove his fist against the wall behind my head with more than a little force. He looked down at me, his dark eyes narrowed. "Hold that thought. In fact, hold that position. Move so much as an inch and I'll be forced to cuff you."

In spite of the way my entire body was screaming in protest, I managed a laugh. "Promises, promises."

He gave a snort of what might have been amusement, then rolled toward the edge of the bed, reaching for the still wailing phone. As he sat up I saw him wince as he flexed the fingers of his right hand.

"Ow."

"That's what you get for resorting to violence," I remarked.

"Keep it up, Steele," he said over his shoulder. "See what it gets you." He flipped the phone open and the siren cut off. "Hagen," he rapped out.

I watched in silence as the transformation took place. One moment, I had been in bed with a man. Now, I was in bed with a cop. Carl's entire body went on alert, seemed to listen, as if he could absorb information through the pores of his skin. When he tucked the phone against his shoulder and reached for the pen and pad of paper on the bedside table, I sat up. I know serious business when I see it. Homicide detectives don't get all that many happy calls in the middle of the night.

"Give me the address," he said, and began to write. As always, his movements were economical, precise. I don't think I've ever known anyone quite as spare, as direct, as Carl. Absolutely no effort is wasted. Though he can circle around it if he has to, he always has the point in sight. It's what makes him so good at his job, to say nothing of certain other things.

I pulled my knees up and rested my chin against them, watching him work. We were an unusual couple, no two ways about it. Detective Carl Hagen and I became acquainted several months ago, under less than romantic circumstances, when I was questioned in the disappearance of a man named Nathan Lawlor. Though the homicide division was called in, they bowed out in the end, mostly because nobody could actually produce any evidence of foul play, let alone a body.

Nate Lawlor had simply vanished into thin air, which is essentially what happens when a vam- pire gets staked. The police, backtracking Lawlor's steps, discovered that he had spent his last evening at the Scheherazade. A number of staff members had been questioned, including Marlene and me. When my turn came, I told as much of the truth as possible. Yes, I had waited on Nate, known he had big winnings. Yes, I had found him attractive, so much so that I broke my own personal rule and let him take me home.