Hello Readers, Friends and Fans!

About a year ago, I heard someone mention that you can do anything on the internet. You can even pay to have yourself abducted just to experience the "thrill" of it. The idea for my next Bullet Catcher book was born that instant. And today, that book arrives in stores everywhere!

Take Me Tonight is the story of Sage Valentine, an investigative reporter who wants answers when her roommate mysteriously dies after getting "kidnapped" through a web site called www.takemetonite.com. Johnny Christiano is the Bullet Catcher secretly assigned to protect Sage when she arranges her own abduction. Wrapped in a web of secrets and lies, Johnny and Sage are forced to dig for the truth, and the more they learn about the fantasy kidnappings, the closer they get to danger...until death is only a double click away.

If you’ve read any of my recent releases, you know that a "bullet catcher" is a common term for a bodyguard...but there’s nothing common about The Bullet Catchers. They are an elite cadre of fearless, sexy, protective and provocative security specialists who will take you on a thrill ride of danger, romance and intrigue.

Every Bullet Catcher book stands alone and can be read in any order. For the next three days, look for this note in your email box, and enjoy a brief taste of Sage and Johnny from the pages of Take Me Tonight. Or stop by my web site at www.roxannestclaire.com to see the video trailers, read reviews, meet all the Bullet Catchers and win an autographed book.

Enjoy...and get taken tonight!
Roxanne St. Claire

Take Me Tonight

Excerpt One

Earbuds to obliterate any warning of approaching danger. Check.

Long flowing ponytail for an easy take down. Check.

Low slung running shorts to give even the clumsiest rapist easy entry. Check.

A midnight jog, an abandoned park, not so much as a key in hand for self-defense. Check. Check. Check.

Didn’t this woman have a mother who taught her common sense?

Hey. Not his problem. Johnny slipped deeper into the shadows of the Public Garden and waited for her to make her next pass.

She approached at an impressive clip and Johnny sank further into a hedge thick with sickeningly sweet yellow flowers, gauging exactly how long it would take until Hot Legs got herself snatched. He’d figured on four more minutes, but the first time she’d passed him he realized she was stupid, reckless, irresponsible and fast. So, maybe three minutes. Following her at a safe distance, he matched her rhythm.

She rounded the pond, veered into the dim beam of a decorative lamp, then slowed her step. Changing her mind? Rethinking her foolish plan? Or maybe just buying time? Johnny held back, waiting. She looked toward the footbridge to her right and the Charles Street gate to her left. Johnny crouched under a low willow branch to watch her sports bra rise and fall with slow, even breaths. Fast, and not even winded.

A beam of headlights cut through the park and she whipped around, her eyes narrowed, her posture suddenly transformed from clueless to alert. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, fiddled with her iPod and started into an easy jog.

He stayed about fifty feet behind her, just close enough to get hypnotized by the pendulum swing of her ponytail and mesmerized by the hip-hugging shorts that barely covered a marathon-toned ass. It would have been nice if Lucy had told him she was a runner; he might have planned this differently. But his boss had been short on particulars and long on demands. He only knew what to do, no clue why.

One minute.

How hard up could a woman be for a cheap thrill? Well, not so cheap. The cost of a plain vanilla fantasy kidnapping and quick release was a thousand bucks. Fifteen hundred for a simple rescue. Two G’s for something called the "deluxe" which he assumed included stud service from your white knight.

Evidently, male strippers were so last millennium for today’s fun-loving girls.

Not his problem, man. He’d just do the job Lucy gave him. That’s what Bullet Catchers do. No judgment on the shortcomings of the principal.

She neared the gate and adjusted her earbuds, clearly back in her home state of oblivion. She ambled now, much slower, bopping her head to the tunes, tightening her ponytail. Then she stopped, silhouetted against the pale beam that illuminated the half dozen swan-shaped row boats moored in the pond. She bent over, stretched to touch her toes, long, blond hair grazing the ground. On an exhale, she flattened her hands on the pavement, her body curled as gracefully as the swan boats behind her.

With a sudden jerk, she straightened, squared her shoulders, clenched her fists and continued directly to the open iron gate that led to Charles Street. Directly to her pre-destined appointment with a kidnapper. Which either took the cake for stupidity, or proved that somewhere in those sexy curves, she hid a set of titanium balls.

She lingered near the gate as a few cars passed the Beacon intersection, two blocks to the north. Along Charles, a white Audi zipped along the far *** across the one-way street; otherwise the street was as deserted as most of Boston’s roads at midnight on a Monday. She walked slowly, drumming her fingers against her bare thigh.

Johnny waited just behind the open gate, stealthy and quiet, but he wasn’t worried she’d spot him. Her focus was on the road. The muscles in her back tensed, even though she was trying to act relaxed and unprepared. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a car approaching. Scratch that. A van. Dark, older model. Parking lights only.

Show time, baby doll.

She stepped to the curb, slowing near the crosswalk. Johnny waited, counted to five, then broke into a light jog, wind singing through his ears. The van veered into the left ***, dropped to about three miles per hour, then stopped just two feet from her.

She froze for a second, then broke into a light run, just fast enough to seem real. But Johnny knew better. He kicked it up just as the van’s back door opened. "C’mere, honey," a man called. "I need some help."

She hesitated for a moment.

"C’mere," he repeated.

She took one step closer, then Johnny swooped in, grabbed her by the waist and lifted her right off the ground, never missing a beat of his stride.

"Hey!" She squirmed in his arms and pounded him with one solid swat. "Not yet!"

He hoisted her higher and the man barked from the van. She whacked him again. "I haven’t been kidnapped yet!" She punctuated that with a knee that barely missed his own set of titanium.

"Come on, princess," he growled as he charged toward the Camry he’d parked hours earlier. "This is how it works."