Becky Flade, Author

  Lexi woke slowly. The familiar feel of her bed, the comforting smell of her laundry detergent lingering in the sheet pressed against her face, reassured her. I’m home. I made it home. Head pounding, mouth dry and tasting like a barroom floor–or how she imagined a barroom floor would taste–and with seven-hour old whiskey roiling in her stomach threatening to reappear, Lexi opened her eyes. A man lay snoring beside her, his head down by her feet and his well-toned, hairy body sprawled on top of the sheets. They’d lost the duvet while tangling over it in the pre-dawn hours. Lexi remembered without embarrassment picking him up at the bar and bringing him home with her, the vigorous sex she’d semi-enjoyed but couldn’t remember his name. Bending a leg, she planted a foot in his cute behind and shoved him out of bed. “Time to go, Romeo.” Lexi stifled a laugh at the distinctively female yelp as he tumbled to the floor. The sheet puddled around her lap as she sat, but she didn’t bother wit

#MFRWHooks “She's a train wreck.” #MFRWAuthor #99cents #OneClick It was an order. One Xavier briefly considered disregarding, but he hadn’t seen Sharon in over a year. “The way you reacted when I took that job with Internal Affairs in Boston, I would’ve bet my left nut you’d never follow suit.” Xavier grinned. “But here you are Divisional Commander of Internal Affairs.” “It was, is, a smart career move.” Jack stood and opened the door wide. Xavier followed him inside. The interior was charming. He recognized furniture, photos, and knick-knacks from their old home in Baltimore mixed among newer pieces. It felt both familiar and foreign. The story of my life. He hadn’t had a home, not a real one, in years. He didn’t know why, didn’t want to know why. That fact made him melancholy. Xavier chose the solitary, nearly vagabond lifestyle intentionally. Moving from city to city, police department to police department, no friends, no roots, no obligations - like the one that had brough

Paige Fleming lives her life as though every day would be her last – because it may be. It all starts here with Book One in the Covert Passions Series... Goddess of the Hunt Codename: Diana CIA field agent Paige Fleming hides a cunning intelligence and lethal skill behind a mask of golden beauty. It serves her well as she moves from one undercover assignment to the next. Current Mission Retrieve a stolen United States military defense program from a terrorist cell in Dublin, Ireland, before they trade it to Islamic extremists in exchange for munitions. Her only back up on this time-sensitive mission is a deeply embedded MI-6 operative. Her Asset Eoin Fitzpatrick has sacrificed everyone he holds dear to bring these terrorists to justice. He’ll sacrifice Diana, too, if she threatens to compromise his mission or his cover. He has orders to do just that – his agency is only doing hers a favor. Compromised or Comprising? Paige expects danger, but welcomes passion - taking

The day job has adopted a hybrid work week (one of the only truly great things to come out of the pandemic) and yesterday was my on-site day. I get home, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I don't want to write, I just want to veg on the couch. I turn the television on and it's the pilot episode of Castle. And was reminded of how Nathan Fillion's Twitter, and a case of the flu, led to my first full length book finding a publisher.  Nathan Fillion Sunglass GIF from Nathan Fillion GIFs My brother recommended Twitter.  We’re both fans of Nathan Fillion and he follows the actor on Twitter.  Being not just brother but also a friend, he knows my sense of humor, probably better than anyone else having been subjected to it for longer than anyone else on this big blue orb, and he figured I’d get a laugh out of the actor IRL.  It didn’t take long for me to start playing with it.  Twitter, not Nathan Fillion.  Which I think is the point or it’s just me following Nathan Fillion whic

I love to read and I’m not picky about what I read. Other than L’Amour-esque westerns (snore) and non-fiction (kill me now!), I’ll read just about everything. I’ve got some good old fashioned bodice rippers on the same shelf with John Grisham, Stephen King, Agatha Christie, Shakespeare, John Steinbeck, Nora Roberts, Douglas Adams, Mary Higgins Clark, Frances Hodgson Burnett, David Gemmell and Margaret Mitchell. My collection and my tastes are eclectic. But when I write, I prefer to write romance. I love ‘em. And one of the things I love best about them is you can take every single genre of fiction imaginable and merge them with romance. Political thriller and romance? That works. And so does everything else: suspense, western, sci-fi, horror, paranormal, historical, you name it. Then there are the characters. You have to have at least three: a heroine, a hero and a villain. For the record, I’ve never been a fan of damsels that can’t help themselves (even as a small child I ne