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It won’t be long now until Vengeful Vows releases. The third in my Sins of the Flesh series, I find that I am just as nervous as I was with my first book. After all, these books are my children I’ve birth from infancy to bookhood. From thoughts in my head to words on a paper, they’ve grown. Check out the trailer here. But not only have they grown, I’ve grown as well. I think with each book, as you look at constructive criticism and start to learn more and more about the craft, your writing changes. I remember something the Queen of Mystery, Mary Higgins Clark, said in an interview once. She mentioned that a writer’s life changes over time because of life experiences and that is infused with your writing.

Vengeful Vows is a book I recognize that helped me to grow. During the time period of writing this book, I was deliberately disobedient to God in several areas of my life. My personal life had gotten into a mess, I’d had a serious car accident, lost several close relationships, and had doubts of faith. For the first time in my life, writing was more than just storytelling — it was the gift God gave me to keep my sanity. I NEEDED to write in order to mentally survive. I escaped to this book, pouring out all my negativity, my pain, my anger, and frustration. Right now, the book is still with the editors at the publisher’s house. If you want to catch up, make sure you check out Many Strange Women and The Other Man. Enjoy this sneak peek of Vengeful Vows

BLACKMAILED GROOM Daffodil’s eyes roamed over the colonial-style house. The afternoon sun cascaded its light upon it as if presenting a gift. The roof shed the cloying layers of melted snow. The slush dribbled down the gutters, swallowed by softened earth. Melting icicles lined the overhang like an upside-down tiara, dripping water on the wet pathway that led to the door. The winter thaw unwrapped the home slowly. It teased her with glimpses of an almond-brown finish trimmed by swathes of creamy white. She alighted from the car and gingerly stepped onto the spongy ground. The dirt swallowed the heels of her boots. Last spring’s grasses lay matted like the nap of cheap carpet. With a determined lift of her chin, she tugged her boots from the squishy grip of the earth and made her way across the lawn and onto the pavement. Once there, Daffodil inhaled the cleansing, chilly air of the first blush of spring. Her lips curled upward and she rubbed her gloved hands together in anticipation. She patted her left pocket, reassured by the bulk there. With her shoulders thrust back, she marched up to the door. The doorbell chimed, and she clasped her hands to wait. In varying degrees, the houses shed their winter coats. They reminded her of partially wrapped gifts. The quiet neighborhood echoed the distinct sing-song sound of melting snow and water. It didn’t matter how cold it had been the past several months. Gentle spring uncurled winter’s harsh grasp with lady-like dexterity. She intended to do the same with the owner of the house. The wind picked up and flowed around her. It lifted goose bumps along her arms. How receptive would he be of her? Her brow creased as the concern made itself visible, but then she dismissed it with a flick at a loose dark blond curl on her forehead. No matter. The owner would do whatever she told him to do, and gladly. A subtle movement along the corner of her eye drew her attention to the overhang. The wind brushed the

threads of an intricately woven spider web. Delicate strands glistened under the waning light of the afternoon sun. A dark, grayish spider tiptoed along its silk trellis. “We’re alike, you and I,” Daffodil whispered to the little one. “We both have webs to weave.” The door creaked open and she returned her attention back to the matter at hand. A dark face showed itself through the thin slot. A deep voice asked, “May I help you?” More than you know. “Hi. Vincent Miller?” The eye twitched and then narrowed. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a reporter ‘cause you can—” “I assure you I’m not a reporter. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.” A long drawn-out sigh. “What can I do for you?” “I’d rather discuss this inside. Out of the cold.” She made a point to shiver. “Oh yeah, sorry.” The door swung open and introduced her to Vincent Miller in the flesh. Before her stood a towering frame of a man with coal-black skin. He had an aura of power about him. He was dressed casually in a forest green buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, long arms roped with prominent veins and compact muscles stretching the smooth skin. Blunt, tapered fingers rested against the white surface of the door in stark contrast. Stonewashed blue jeans hugged his lower body, and accentuated the hard, sinewy thighs. “Would you stop staring and get on with whatever you have to say?” Daffodil beamed, far from embarrassed. She appreciated his directness. A sure sign she’d chosen well. Now we spin the web. To read more of the excerpt, click here.

About the Author:

Parker J. Cole is a writer and radio show host who spends most of her time reading, knitting, writing, cooking, and concocting new ideas for stories. Her first novel, Dark Cherub, won Best of Spring Reading 2013 from eMediaCampaigns. She lives in Michigan with her husband and beloved dog Sarah.

Visit her site at http://www.ParkerJCole.com