AT LONG LAST!! Here's an excerpt from ANGEL IN DISGUISE

Chapter 1

"There ya go, darlin'," the thick southern-accented voice coaxed. "Wake up and let me see those baby blues."

Frank Cabrini did not want to open his eyes. No matter how gentle and enticing that voice sounded. If he did, the light would just set off another set of drums to join the tympani already pounding a rhythm in his brain.

A gentle hand smoothed through his hair, sliding down to pat his cheek. The faint scent of vanilla surrounded him. His eyelids flickered against his will.

"Are you sure he's going to be okay?" Another woman's voice registered in his fuzzy brain.

"Sure. Thanks for your help." The first voice again, this time without the southern inflections. "Go ahead and take off. I can handle things from here."

Frank fought the fog muffling his awareness. Something was wrong. Way wrong. He didn't recognize either voice. The last thing he could remember was sipping a tonic water at the shabby CC Club bar and being chatted up by a woman who looked better suited to lunch at Chino-Latino, the trendy Minneapolis uptown restaurant.

That was how long ago?

Now, he laid stretched out on a bed that wasn't his. He could tell because it was too short for his six-foot-four frame and the pillow under his head was flat as Nebraska.

Somewhere to his left a door clicked shut. He wanted to ask what was going on but his mouth felt like the morning after cleaning out the liquor cabinet.

Vanilla surrounded him again as his head was lifted and something pressed against his lips. Water, cool and unflavored dribbled into his mouth.

"Thanks." His voice cracked on the single word. The bed shifted and the vanilla scent faded. He turned his head and tried opening his eyes. He knew better than to leave himself vulnerable like this. In his line of work it could get you dead real fast.

Whatever drug he'd been slipped was wearing off. The water helped clear his head, but his arms and legs still felt weighed down with lead.

He pried his eyes open a slit, just enough to let in a little light. Not that the heavily curtained windows allowed much to filter into the room. What he could see was mostly shadows.

The bed dipped again, creaking with the movement. The woman leaned over him to brush the hair away from his face with one hand. Her other hand slid down his arm, pausing a moment to test his biceps before continuing down to his hand. He watched with a detachment he blamed on the drug as she raised his arm above his head.

Something cool and hard pressed against his wrist, accompanied by the sound of metal sliding through a ratchet. Handcuffs. A surge of adrenaline cleared the last of the drug from his system and his eyes snapped open.

The first thing he saw was the cold gray barrel of a gun. Second were the colder gray eyes of the woman holding him at gunpoint. Instinct had him jerking his arm, trying to get free.

"Don't bother." She spoke with the non-accent of a network newscaster now.

Holy hell, he was in some sort of trouble. "Your accent slipped."

"Well, like, duh," she said, snapping an imaginary wad of chewing gum as she slid into Valley Girl. "As if I'd give you a clue."

The bed squeaked as she stood. Frank followed the lines of her lean body as she straightened, the gun held steady and pointed right at him.

She was tall. He flicked a glance down but couldn't see if shoes augmented the impressive height. He doubted it. From the way she carried herself, he didn't see anything artificial or out of balance in her posture.

Her clothes were nothing special - worn blue jeans and a too big navy blue T-shirt. A wide black leather belt wrapped around her waist, held in place with a wicked looking flattened spike. Dark hair pulled away from her face. No jewelry, not even a watch, interrupted the clean lines of her hands and arms. If she wore make-up, it was minimal and unnoticeable.

A memory wavered into being. He recognized her from the bar. She'd been sitting alone at a corner booth. "You were following me?"

She raised one straight eyebrow, but didn't answer. Instead, she squatted beside the bed. She worked her free hand beneath him, wriggled her fingers into his left back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

Relief eased the tension in his muscles. Seemed like a lot of work to go through just to rob him, but this trouble he could manage. At least his cover wasn't blown.

His jailer settled into the straight-back chair next to the bed. She laid the snub-nosed revolver in her lap and began to rifle through the contents of his wallet. It wouldn't take long.

I don't carry credit cards. You're welcome to what cash there is, but it sure don't seem worth all this effort." She pulled out the driver's license. The bogus name, Frank Boylen, went with his cover story and would lead to a fabricated history if she tried to dig.

She tossed the wallet onto the mattress beside him, but kept the license. Holding it between two fingers, she tilted it from side to side, then inspected the back before flipping it to land neatly on top of the wallet. She picked up her gun and pointed it back at him. "So. Frank Cabrini, anything you want to tell me before I haul your butt in and collect my bounty?"

Bounty? Oh, hell.

Three facts registered as new tension threaded cold fingers along his spine.

His captor was a bounty hunter.

She knew his real name.

He was in a world of trouble.