CONTEST! Win a Copy of Fox’s Folly

Just comment below, between now and July 18, for a chance to win a copy of Fox’s Folly. It’s that simple. Just remember to leave me a way to reach you.

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“I think we’re here for the same reason. Does the name Randolph-Macon McNeil mean anything to you?”

“One of the five people who’ve died under mysterious circumstances lately at the Excalibur. Sixty-two, professional gambler, fox dual…” He spoke dispassionately, as if reciting facts from a report. Then he paused, and a look of horror crossed Paul’s face “Was he family, Tag? I’m so sorry…”

“My uncle. I’m here to find out who the fuck killed him and take him down hard.”

“No, you won’t. We will.” Paul’s voice was soft and professorial, but something in his tone made the words ring in the air with the force of an oath before the gods.

“Really? Do you mean that?” Tag tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but that wasn’t the fox way. He was tough, tougher than most, but he’d loved his uncle.

And he hated to admit it, but he needed all the help he could get. He’d gotten into this figuring he’d find the killer and then call in reinforcements, but if Uncle Randolph was the fifth victim, and a fae had asked for help dealing with it, Tag needed magic, not just muscle. “Really?” he repeated, feebly aware he should be saying something wittier but unable to make his brain work at proper speed.

“Really. I got drafted to do this. For you, it’s personal. Hearth, heart and home fuel magic. We’ll be stronger together than we are alone. And you look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

The next thing Tag knew, Paul’s arms were around him.

Damn, Paul could kiss, and his hands, even when they weren’t touching anywhere Tag would normally consider an erogenous zone, sent heat through Tag’s body. Maybe it was magic, or maybe the guy was just that talented. At this point, Tag didn’t care. All he really cared about was seeing how long they could go without thinking about dead people and just focusing on sex, or at least the yummy preliminaries to sex.

Tag was fumbling with the buttons on Paul’s dress shirt—too formal by comparison to what everyone else seemed to wear in Las Vegas, almost silky under his hands although it was cotton—when someone knocked at the door. “Housekeeping always shows up at the worst times,” Paul muttered before throwing himself into kissing Tag so thoroughly that Tag forgot not only the persistent knock on the door but the day of the week and the reason he was in Las Vegas. He was working up to forgetting his name when the door opened, and a man walked into the room.