Trailer, Blurb, and Excerpt - Shadowkeeper by Debra Glass

My second book in the Phantom Lovers series will be an August, 2008 release from Ellora's Cave http://www.ellorascave.com/.

Shadowkeeper
By Debra Glass

Amy Drew was once a damn good psychic. Not now. Catastrophic events in her life have stripped her of her psychic powers so she has moved to a quaint, quiet southern town to help her brother restore a decaying plantation house. Amy quickly realizes the house is hauntingly familiar, and when the skeleton of a Native American is discovered behind a false wall in the cellar Amy senses danger—and much more.

From her very first meeting with the ghost of William Red Feather, Amy sizzles with desire for the sexy spirit but mysterious past‑life secrets separate them.

Sex with the beguiling spirit is out of this world and she just might be falling in love but as more past life secrets become known to Amy, she realizes mysterious deaths at the plantation all point to William. Can she trust this beguiling spirit with her life the way she does with her pleasure? Or will giving him her heart result in her death—all over again?

Excerpt:

Amy checked her watch. It was 3:30. The museum would close in half an hour. She’d had to forego that much needed double espresso in order to make it to the Tavern in time. Still trembling, she parked the van, wrenched up the parking brake and flew through the wrought iron gate, up the uneven flagstone path and into the entrance of the Pope’s Tavern Museum.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins in energizing bursts that dispelled the need for that espresso. She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. But once she’d entered the shadowy central hall of the museum, time seemed to stand still.

The slightly sweet smell of old things and even older wood filled her nostrils. Amy’s heart thumped audibly in her ears, along with the sonorous ticking of a clock in a distant room.

A shiny hotel bell sat on a table in the center of the small hall along with a handwritten note that read “ring for tour guide”. Amy popped her palm down on the button and the bell chimed.

“Hello, hello!” a friendly female voice called from the other end of the tavern. The sound of heels echoing on the wood floor hastily came closer and closer.

Amy paced, willing the guide to hurry. She had to see that portrait. She had to know if it was true. And she had to see it now. She shook with nervous tension.

A petite, red-haired woman floated into the hallway. She smiled as she caught her breath. “Hello. Are you here for a tour?” Her nametag read “Jo”.

Amy, who stood nearly a head taller than Jo, forced a smile. She was in no mood to be cordial but this woman had no sense of her urgency—and would hardly understand if Amy made an attempt at an explanation. Excuse me, ma’am but I’m in a hurry because a ghost who made me come time after time last night may have killed my stepbrother’s Bush Hog operator. No. That wouldn’t work at all. “Not really,” Amy replied. “I’m Reed Severin’s sister,” she added bluntly.
Thankfully, that was all the explanation she needed because Jo’s friendly smile faded into a look of utter surprise. Her red lips parted. “I read that article in the paper this morning. You’re here about the skeleton.” She motioned for Amy to follow her back the way she’d come. “I think I know who it is.”

Amy’s hemp sandals echoed in unison with Jo’s burnt orange pumps as she followed her across the polished wood floor into a large room dominated by a massive oak table.

A musket hung over the mantle of a fireplace in one side of the room. Several multisized portraits in various antique frames lined each wall. Amy’s pulse sped up and her gaze raced frantically. Where was the painting of Sarah Winston?

But Jo didn’t stop. She led her through the left wing of the tavern and into a smaller room which featured a rope bed. A cracked gilt frame held a portrait that dangled from a black ribbon on the equally cracked plaster wall.

Amy’s gaze immediately flew to the man depicted in the dark, dark oils.

His black hair was swept back off his face, revealing a perfectly straight hairline. Equally black eyebrows arched like raven’s wings above even blacker eyes. The expression was intense. Severe. Dark olive skin, a firm jaw line and a slightly crooked nose revealed his unmistakable Indian heritage.

He was timeless in appearance—and absolutely gorgeous.

Amy flushed.

She tried to swallow but her mouth was suddenly bone dry. Her insides tightened, sending a rush of wetness into her panties.

This was the man who’d been chained behind the wall at Belle Ruisseau.

This was the man whose spirit she’d seen soaring through the cellar when Reed had knocked a hole in the wall.

She couldn’t believe he was the man who killed Eddie.

But one thing was certain. He was definitely the man who’d been in her bed last night.

The clock seemed to tick louder and louder. Amy’s knees shook, setting the tinkling beads on the hem of her skirt in motion. She wanted to collapse but didn’t think Jo would appreciate her plopping down on the rickety-looking rope bed.

“He was a renowned artist Uriah Winston brought to Belle Ruisseau to paint portraits of his family and his slaves. It was a fairly common practice in those days.” Jo folded her arms over her chest. “This was a self-portrait.” Her gaze never left the painting. “He was half Native American. His mother was a Cherokee princess.”

Jo continued. “His father was Jeddah Ryan, who was Scotch‑Irish. Ryan was the builder of Belle Ruisseau but legend has it he lost the plantation gambling with Uriah Winston.”

“Hmm.” Realization seeped in. There was already bad blood between the Ryans and the Winstons.

Amy paled because although she listened to Jo, all she could think was this man made me come over and over again last night. She was shocked the idea of it did not repulse her in any way. Instead, she was intrigued. Captivated.

The man was beautiful.

Mysterious.

Dangerous.

She’d forgotten all about the portrait of Sarah Winston.

“W-what was his name?”

“William Ryan.” Even as Jo uttered the name, the words resounded in Amy’s head. It wasn’t Jo’s Alabama drawl, however, but rather a quiet, raspy male voice.

Amy tensed. A sweltering wave of heat traversed her spine followed by a violent shudder of recognition.

I know him. I’ve always known him.

But how?

Jo continued. “But he went by his Indian name—William Red Feather.”

Amy froze. Red Feather? An image of the two red feathers on her pillowslip rose in her mind. Her cheeks heated with a heady combination of realization and memory. She gaped at the portrait. Why had that house awakened her senses and why had this man—this soul—chosen her?

She suddenly felt as if she were in a tunnel, spiraling, falling, her thoughts drawn to one single moment from her past where she sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor with her hands on a Ouija board planchette. Change your fate or the red feather cannot return.

The Ouija had spelled B—E—N for Jillian and just last year, she’d married a man named Benton.
Red Feather.

But what did it mean? Change your fate or the red feather cannot return…

She gnawed her bottom lip.

Jo guided her by the elbow back into the main room of the tavern. Amy twisted her head to steal one more look at William Red Feather’s portrait before she rounded the corner.

“Uriah Winston claimed Red Feather killed his wife, Sarah.”

Amy whirled to face Joe but instead her gaze found the portrait she’d come here to see.
Stunned, she sucked in a breath.

Now, it was obvious why he called her Sarah—and why he urged her to remember.

This was the portrait Amy had seen rendered in grainy black and white photocopy at the library but this time, it was in full, lifelike color—and it was like looking in a mirror.

Although the oil had cracked with time, bright blue eyes stared boldly at the artist. The hint of a secret smile curled one corner of the blushed pink lips. A rose-colored sash draped so loosely around the woman’s shoulders the portrait was almost indecent. Blossoming cleavage and the hint of a taut nipple showed through the fabric. The complexion had been portrayed the color of cream. One perfect pale-strawberry-blonde curl had escaped its chignon and wound seductively around an alabaster neck.

Amy was in shock. Although the skin was paler and the breasts were larger, those were her blue eyes. Her lips.

Jo took a step back. Her gaze darted to Amy and then back to the portrait. “Well, I declare! I thought you looked familiar. You are the spitting image of Sarah Winston!”

Amy shrank. A false-sounding laugh erupted from her chest. She couldn’t wrest her gaze from the portrait but she knew she couldn’t stand here and gawk. A knowing sort of quickening wriggled into her consciousness and dragged her gaze down to the signature flourished in small red letters at the bottom caught her attention.

Wm. Red Feather.

He’d painted this. She’d known that, of course, but seeing his signature slammed her with a sense of recognition she couldn’t explain.

Her intuition hadn’t lied. She had known him. But as Sarah Winston?

As if drawn by some unseen force, her hand lifted, her fingers outstretched toward the portrait. She couldn’t not touch it. She couldn’t not know.

And before Jo could stop her, her fingers made contact and once more, Amy was swirling into an abyss…

Watch the trailer!