Hazardous to the Touch has a cover. Yes, Robert did it again. HTTT is now available for pre-order and will be live on September 1 at Amazon, iBook, B&N, Kobo and other eBook venues.

This book developed differently than my others and I want to honor that process. Monthly I get together with six other writers that live here, and we critique 10 or so pages of each other’s WIP. We call it Writer-to-Writer. This is the first book I put through that process and it is much enhanced because of it. These women –  Laura, Laurel, Leslie, Lynn, Cyn, and Jane – have my undying thanks for their help, insight and honesty.

Excerpt –

Letting himself out of the house, Sal took a deep breath and ran his hand through his thick dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He needed air. He’d been a cop for nearly eight years, a detective for three, but he’d never seen anything to compare to this level of viciousness. God, this guy brutalized the woman. The amount of overkill was frightening. The walls of the room were covered in blood, which meant she’d been alive . . .

Looking up at the bright blue June sky, he noted a couple of cotton ball clouds to the west. It really was a beautiful day, and he had always loved driving through this neighborhood, especially when the Christmas decorations took over the area. He’d grown up here in Carlton City, though the city was a lot more developed now than when he was a boy.

The homes in this part of town were older—many built back in the 1920’s, full brick with large windows. Flowers and shrubs were at the front of every home and all of the yards were small but neat. There were mature trees in the yards, none of those spindly pear trees that developers insisted on lining up in new developments. At least a few of these trees were here before the houses were constructed and they meandered down the street where they wanted to be, not cultivated by designers.

What was in that bedroom, however, did not fit with this sedate, upper middle-class neighborhood. Would he ever be able to drive through here again without seeing what was inside that house?

He stiffened his spine and took a deep breath of the fresher air. The forensic team was in there now and needed him out of the way. He’d seized the chance to escape for a little while. For something productive to do, he scanned the crowd on the other side of the police tape. Gawkers, he hated them, even as part of him understood. Most of them had some real excuse to be out, like the man with his dog. The dog was much more interested in the mature tree closest to him. These people were quiet at least, probably neighbors. They weren’t pressing to get closer, only murmuring their questions to each other, concern on their faces, but not demanding answers of him. If they’d seen the bedroom, they’d be racing to get as far away as possible. Of course, there was always the possibility that the perp was watching to see people’s reaction, gloating over being on the inside even while anonymous. But he wasn’t seeing anything that set off his spidey sense that way.

His eyes fell on a woman standing slightly apart from the others. She was on the short side, maybe five foot two, well below the six foot one he claimed. Okay, he was six foot and three quarters—damn, he really was trying to separate himself from what he’d seen for a little while.

She wasn’t pressing to get closer, standing at the far edge of the sidewalk. She wasn’t talking to the others, holding herself apart. The clothes she wore were too big, and a color that caused her to fade into the background, as though hiding something. The large gray sweater was baggy, shapeless, and unnecessary in this weather. Her arms were wrapped around her waist, as though trying to protect herself from everything. Her hair was dark and down around her face, again hiding, but he could see the escaped tear that ran down her face. She wore no make-up and was pale. It struck him then—she was staring at the window of the bedroom. All of the others were watching the front door, waiting for some gruesome thing to emerge.

He found himself moving in her direction. When he stood in front of her, she looked up, clearly startled. “You a friend of the family?” he asked in a conversational tone. She wasn’t a suspect. Not to be sexist, but most women probably wouldn’t have the physical strength to accomplish what this perp had done. At least this one couldn’t. He was just marking time. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, turning her face down to examine the sidewalk.

“Uh, no.” She shook her head and the arms she wrapped around herself tightened.

“Neighbor?”

She shook her head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Detective Capello.”

She didn’t speak and ignored his hand.

“You are?”

“Mary, Mary B-bridges.”

“Why are you here, Mary Bridges?” He kept his polite detective smile in place but was watching her closely now. He let his hand fall back to his side when she ignored the gesture.

“I . . . I heard . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here, it’s disrespect—Excuse me.” She turned away then and hurried toward a nondescript navy Honda. He glanced down at the license, and quickly scribbled the number on the back of his hand as she pulled away. He had no concrete reason, she didn’t feel like a suspect in this, but it seemed the thing to do. Something about her had caught his attention, and he paid heed to that. He pulled out his notebook and wrote her name and license number in the top corner of a page and drew a box around the information.

He needed to get back inside.

Prince Janos Rackoszi, Viceroy of Transylvania made the commitment to marry Baron Szechenyi’s daughter as a last-ditch offer to encourage the man to stop his gambling, and attend to his estate and family before he lost everything to creditors. He never thought the man would take his own life immediately after their agreement, or he would have found another means of encouragement rather than offering to bind himself to a woman he would never love, and have to protect himself from a mother-in-law who thought he was a revenant.

Amazon

Excerpt –

The instant he awoke, the scent stunned him. Tuber rose, musk, and…horse? If the previous two fragrances had been sweat and leather, he’d bet the stable master was flirting, yet again, with the cook in the kitchen. He remained silent when his valet slipped quietly into the bedroom and opened the heavy drapes around the bed.

“The painter has arrived, your grace.” Akos proffered the prince’s usual breakfast beverage and continued. “Erzsebet assigned her the green bedroom in the south wing.”

With raised eyebrows, Prince Rackoszi inquired of his valet, “Green bedroom, south wing? Erzsebet does not approve of the painter?”

“I think the sentiment may be mutual, Your Grace.”

“Really? What contretemps could have occurred so soon?”

“The, er, Baroness arrived accompanied by Csikos, and Erzsebet assumed they were all seeking work in the stables, so she refused the main entrance.”

“Surely Erzsebet can tell a Baroness from a cowboy,” the Prince scoffed. He plumped his pillows behind his back, eager to learn the rest of the story.

“No, Your Grace, not when the Baroness herself was also dressed as one. In all fairness, the Baroness did not immediately reveal her status until Erzsebet refused her entre’.”

The unusual sound of his valet’s mirth startled him. “And how much outraged shrieking did that engender, Akos?”

“None, Your Grace. The Baroness simply lifted Erzsebet off her feet and carried her inside and kicked the door shut behind herself. I think, for once, Erzsebet was incapable of speech.”

“By the ancient gods, I would’ve enjoyed witnessing such a scene. The Baroness sounds like a veritable Valkyrie.”

“Indeed, sir, strong and tall, and most unusual. She insisted on grooming her horse herself before settling into her room. The stable master was quite taken with her knowledge of horses.”

“Well then, I best complete my ablutions and arrange to meet the Baroness. Come, Akos, choose something for me to wear. Oh, and tell cook I’ll be joining the Baroness for dinner so she’s to prepare something interesting to the palate.”

The valet froze in mid-reach for the empty goblet. “You…” A distinct croak came from Akos’s throat as he continued, “You’ll be joining the Baroness for dinner?”

Flinging the linens away, Prince Szigismond Emre Janos Rackoszi, prepared to meet the day with unaccustomed eagerness. “Yes, I will. I think my appetite is returning. Perhaps some fruit to tide me until dinner, what do you think, Akos?”

The valet snapped to attention when a royal finger closed his gaping mouth. “At once, Your Grace. I’ll have a maid bring you an assortment. Ah, I will draw your bath now.”

Bio  

 C. L. Hadyn aka Cyn Hadyn, a career historian with Hungarian/Viking nomadic roots, loads up the gypsy wagon for the last time (hopefully) and heads to Greensboro, North Carolina, to follow her delusion of becoming a New York Times best-selling author. Yeah, sounds silly but it’s true. I’m a transplanted Yankee living way south of the Mason-Dixon Line despite its lack of decent Italian food. Uh, concerning the Italian food, I’d still sacrifice a small digit for authentic Italian cuisine a la Philly, Trenton, or New York.

Before settling down to write full time in the land of ‘bless your heart, and y’all’, I was a Special Operations (US Army and US Marines) military historian/archivist. Now I collect a retirement check and write paranormal, and historical romance. I guess my service with Army and Marine Special Operations left an indelible impression on my writing, because my characters, both male and female, are distinctly Spec Ops in their outlook.  They leave no man behind, color outside the lines, and are very, very lethal. I’ve also pushed the envelope a little by including Erotica and BDSM and M/M romance. Which brings me to my latest books: Golden Hours Book 1: Fall Back; Off Track; The Danegeld, and Guarded Hearts, published by Decadent Publishing under the pseudonym C. L. Hadyn.

If you have a taste for the paranormal, historical romance, or something more outre’, I would love to hear from you via Facebook.com/Cyn Hadyn or C. L. Hadyn.

Other books by C. L. Hadyn –

Yes, I love writing about real heroes. They come in all shapes and sizes, but the ones from the military are the easiest because there’s little fiction there. These guys (and girls) ARE heroes.

My warriors are usually at least a little wounded – physically and emotionally – how could they not be after what they’ve seen and been through. I remember Daddy telling me how hard it was to go outside without a weapon when he returned to the States after WWII. He went cold turkey on it because he knew he had to. He told us about some of his experiences, but never the parts that haunted him – those he kept inside. The first time I ever saw him cry was watching a movie and Taps was played. Can’t tell you how that scared me at the time. Then they played it at his funeral and handed me the flag, since I was the oldest in the family.

Here’s a picture of my Aunt Mada on the Korean War Memorial Wall in DC –

I’ll continue to write these heroes, there’s so much inspiration to explore. Here’s some of mine –

Dance Partner, Small Changes, Mac’s Family, Christmas with Family, Red Shoes, Wraith’s Heart

I got the rights back, so I re-edited, expanded and got a new cover!

Upon the death of her grandmother, Ashley returns to clean out and sell the family home. There she discovers Matt comfortably ensconced in the guest house, taking care of the family estate.

Matt’s love for the architecture and past grandeur of the old mansion tempers Ashley’s memories of neglect and abuse at the hands of the matriarch, and the town. As she and Matt work together, they begin to get the place, and their lives, back in shape.

Amazon, iBooks, B&N, Kobo, Amazon-AU

It’s available for pre-order now and will go live June 1. For the first month it will be $.99!

Excerpt – 

Ashley Winsted pulled her Prius into the driveway and stopped. She made no move to exit the car, shoving her russet colored hair back. She was in no hurry to get out and face what was before her. Just being back in this town made her chest tighten.

She had forgotten the sheer size of the house. Or she’d made herself forget. The structure had always dominated this block, hell the whole town. But it hadn’t been kept up for years. Now it only looked tired.

She scanned the yard, bushes overgrown, but not too shaggy yet. In any case, Mattie Winsted would be appalled. The outside wasn’t perfect. The inside didn’t matter, but what one could see should always be perfect, completely in order. Nothing was more important to Mattie than appearance. Nothing.

The house desperately needed paint and the bushes at least a trim if not removal, though the lawn had been freshly mowed. A Victorian house always needed painting, didn’t it? Ashley sighed and forced herself to open the car door. She stepped out and stretched. It had been a long drive, but at least she should have some privacy and quiet here to work. Her eyes immediately went to the cupola room over the large wrap-around porch. She’d coveted that room for more years than she wanted to admit. Still did, if truth be known. Why did it continue to hurt after all this time?

Coming here was difficult. It had been nearly ten years since she’d left. And the time away had been good. No longer that skinny, shy girl without a father, she hadn’t missed this place for ten seconds.